Dr. Balfe was not an orator; he never attempted the imaginative, or rhetorical in his sermon, but he rather dealt with his text, (in humble country churches, where he had congregations of poor people), as he would have treated it in his class in theology. No matter how simply he might start to explain the subject of his discourse, it would be but few minutes before he entered into its depths, and the listeners would hardly understand the discourse. One of our city clergymen in Philadelphia, related to the writer, that on one occasion when in a country parish, Dr. Balfe was preaching on the Immaculate Conception, he began easily enough in explaining the miracle, then started to prove it in a logical way, then by quoting a host of writers in proof, and finally closed by offering all the objections generally made by the opponents of the dogma, leaving his audience with these objections fresh in their minds, since most of them were wholly unable to follow him through his lengthy affirmative argument. The doctor could never adapt himself to his audience when preaching; he was at home only among his equals in learning, and among them alone was his deep reasoning appreciated. Although eminently charitable, and filled with anxiety as to the spiritual welfare of his flock, he was not one with whom persons could easily become intimate. He always seemed to be of a pre-occupied mind. He rarely visited and had no taste for small talk. He was always sedate and serious in manner. I was his altar boy at all his Masses during his stay in Columbia, Pa., and he never failed to say his Mass at six o'clock every morning save Sundays. After his week-day Masses I often used to spend an hour or so with him in his room, or at breakfast-especially in winter-thawing out the effects of a freeze in that cold church of his, which, however, he never seemed to feel. At these times he seemed to relax his cares, and we were wont to chat freely together, he sometimes rallying me on my chilled condition, and assuring me that I should have a cassock made out his overcoat. The friendship formed with the Doctor during these happy hours was never broken, and I am proud to-day, that I always was a welcome visitor to good Dr. Balfe, even until the end.

He was truly a good priest, his principles were carried out to their fullest, by a firm discriminating mind, and a most strict adherence to the duties of the holy office he so adorned. From childhood many of us were taught to look upon his life as one richly worthy of imitation. He was so conscious of the high trust given him, and the great responsibility of aiding by his own example in the formation of the character of those over whom he had charge. His whole life was passed in this way, and he held the fervent love of those who were blessed with his friendship. He was unyielding, sometimes even stern in this duty which he owed to religion, yet he had so many gentle and endearing qualities, which are pre-eminently the attributes of a good Christian priest; he was so warm-hearted and generous, that he possessed as it were, a secret power over those with whom he came in contact, with the result that acquaintance with him was very apt to develop one's own best qualities.

The Doctor was a great snuff-taker, and lover of a particular brand, (Demuth's of Lancaster,) of which he used quantities in the years he served the diocese, and old Father Keenan, of Lancaster, used to say that he infected all who came in contact with him, with the practice, and that "even the floor took snuff." I remember well that his study table at Columbia, used to be strewn with it. He was never without his snuffbox, which he always offered to any one that might be present. It is related that in his theology class at the Seminary, where he used to offer his box to the students, one day when a student of philosophy reached out his fingers to take a pinch, the Doctor playfully said, "Oh, you're not yet up to snuff.”

His manner was retiring; he never indulged in even common amusements; was always plain in his dress, adopting a strictly clerical cut in his clothing; nor ever wore a coat when at home or in church; but winter and summer used to don the one cassock he had. The father of the writer, who for many years made all Dr. Balfe's clothing and cassocks, spoke to him once about having the body of the cassock lined warmly for winter use; but he would have none of it. In the confessional in the cold church at Columbia, he would sit for hours,

at times, too, when his penitents would be shivering in their heavy clothing. So little regard had the Doctor for his personal comforts, that he sacrificed them all, rather than use more of the income of the parish than was absolutely necessary. His sister, Mary, who was then his housekeeper, assured the writer, in after years, that her brother always feared any expense that had to be paid out of money collected from his poor people. In fact he was a good shepherd, who looked

after his flock corporeally as well as spiritually.

Dr. Balfe was extremely charitable. I recall one occasion, a cold winter day, when a beggar rang the bell of the little pastoral house at Columbia, and begged the Doctor's sister, Mary, for some old clothes. She asked the Doctor if he had any to spare, and he told her to give the man the old suit which was hanging in his closet. In mistake she happened to give away the suit which the Doctor used to call his "best ;" and I recall his telling my father of the affair. When he was being measured for new clothing, he remarked as follows: "Oh! well, the poor fellow perhaps needed clothing more than I do." On another occasion a German priest came to Columbia to say Mass for the Germans, calling at St. Peter's early one morning for that purpose. Not having any cassock, he asked the loan of one. Dr. Balfe, who was a model of carefulness and discretion, requested first to see his papers, which not being forthcoming, he refused him a cassock-by the way, the Doctor had only one, which he himself had on. The priest, however, if I remember rightly, said Mass privately without the Doctor's knowledge in the Church, using his long frock coat as a cassock. He was doubtless an impostor.

THE DEATH OF DR. BALFE'S MOTHER.

I have spoken of the resignation of the mother when her youngest daughter announced her intention to enter the religious state, how she was consoled with the hope that she would receive a blessing in her last hours in reward for the sacrifice of her children to the service of God. That daughter, the Helena of our earlier pages, had been sent by her superiors to a mission near Philadelphia, whither she came at night, urged,

it seemed, by some mysterious impulse, to hasten to her destination. Her mother, she knew, had been ill, but she was not aware of her condition being of any very serious nature. The fact was that the mother had been anointed several days before. As soon as Helena heard of her mother's state she took one of the children at the St. Joseph's Orphanage-this was the morning after her arrival in town-and hastened to her mother's home, where her sister Mary, noticing a religious at the door, said, "It is a Sister of Charity," and coming down to give her entrance, to her surprise, perceived the visitor was no one else but her own sister. Both now went to the bedside of their dying mother, where were kneeling their brothers Joseph and Thomas. The mother at this time being

in her agony, knew not her daughter till Helena going to the other side of the bed where the light fell on her face, the mother then gave a sign that she recognized her. The end came shortly after. Suddenly a rapturous expression lighted up the countenance of the dying mother, as of one whose attention is fixed on some entrancing vision, and clasping her hands, as was being pronounced the Holy Name of Jesus, she gave up her soul to God. Mrs. Balfe was buried in the family lot. Dr. O'Hara, who preached her funeral sermon, closed with the words, "She attained a high degree of sanctity by performing her ordinary duties with extraordinary perfection." And so died this pious mother, of so pious a family, on August 30, 1865.

CONCLUSION.

DR. BALFE AS A PROFESSOR.

The student of St. Charles Seminary, who passed from the hall of Philosophy to that of Theology, it is unlikely will ever forget the impressions formed in him by coming for the first time into relations with Doctor Balfe as a professor. To the seminarians in the departments lower than that of Theology, his personality was enshrouded in the mystery that veiled most of his life outside of the class-room. An occasional glimpse

of his tall, thin figure was caught by some of the students as he glided in the early morning along the corridor to the Sister's

chapel, where during the last two years of his life at Overbrook he said Mass daily in private. The little chapel was far "out of bounds" for the Seminarians, and none ever were privileged to assist the Doctor at the altar; but the traditions that passed from the parent institution at Eighteenth and Race, where it had been the duty of the students to serve his Mass, told of the great care, reverence and fervor with which he offered the Holy Sacrifice. Not infrequently, too, the vanishing form of the Doctor, clad in long frock-coat, and high silk hat, was seen slipping out by the rear court-yard door on his visits to his ageing sister Mary, who occupied a small cottage on "Sullivan's Farm," about a mile away from the Seminary. A somewhat closer contact fell occasionally to the lot of the younger students when the Doctor would suddenly burst from his hermitage on the second floor to investigate the origin of an unusually heavy footfall that woke the echoes of the corridor, as it passed his door, or the meaning of some boyish uproariousness that issuing from the Junior's Recreation Hall close by his room, disturbed the even flow of his meditations. If the offender chanced to be caught on these occasions,-which was not generally the case, such is the agility of youth,— Doctor Balfe was wont to express his opinion with particular emphasis, and this fact, it may here be whispered, contributed not a little toward insuring a repetition of the offence-so perverse is poor human nature-whilst it stimulated the selfprotective instinct of the culprit. Apart from these fitful visions, the Doctor was practically invisible to the students, for he never appeared at any general exercise of the community, it being his unvarying custom to take even his meals in private. This custom it should be added, was due not solely to his habits of retirement, which made him naturally shrink from appearing in public-a shrinking which he overcame nevertheless at the call of special conventionalities of community life—but to certain organic defects which to his sensitive consideration for others withheld him from manifesting in their presence. When, therefore, the youthful philosopher had developed into a theological aspirant, it was a unique experience to be brought into continuous relation for several hours a day, during three