it of human glory and human praise. He still
yearned after a mysterious something which he began to realize could
never be found amid the jarring discord and empty distractions of the
secular world. A new light irradiated the thick gloom by which he had
long been encompassed. Gradually the mist and shadow of doubt and
difficulty rolled away, disclosing at length the gray walls of a silent
monastery in spirit of unpretentious work and pious exercise, far
sequestered from the busy haunts of worldly men. Step by step he was
approaching the humble cell of recollection and prayer, in the religious
solitude of which he was to find true peace and lasting happiness. From
the cottage cradled on the Shannon's breast to his later home in the
poetic solitude of sweet Adare; from the three-cornered garret in the
London back street to the tables of the rich and the titled, he had
experienced every vicissitude between the antithetical extremes of joy
and sorrow. When, at length, the final step was taken, it was not the
rash or eccentric choice of momentary impulse, but the matured result of
wise and cautious deliberation. He prepared to enter the noble order of
the Christian Brothers, whose humble office it is to instruct the
children of the poor, and whose labors in the cause of Christian
education have been of incalculable benefit to the Irish race. One
morning previous to Gerald's final departure, an elder brother entered
his bedroom. He found him in a kneeling posture holding the last
fragment of a charred heap of manuscript over the blazing fire. He had
made the final sacrifice to God of all that could wed his heart to
future worldly honors. In the year 1838 he entered the Christian
Brothers at Cork, and after a short novitiate received the habit and the
vows by which these holy men consecrate themselves to the service of
their Maker and the spiritual welfare of their fellow men. But the
splendid genius of the new Brother was not destined to remain idle. It
was now to be exercised more energetically than ever, consecrated as it
had been to the service of religion and the glory of God. He had just
completed a small number of Catholic tales, written in his happiest
vein, when a fatal attack of malignant fever struck the pen from his
hand. Every remedy that the skill of great physicians could devise,
every attention that loving confreres could bestow was procured for him
during his last illness. But the invisible decree had gone forth