When Augustine, Columba and Aidan converted the English in the sixth and seventh centuries, their devoted labours profoundly affected the national literature. Despite the hazy general belief that English History and Literature set off together in 1066 on their long march, England from before the time of Alfred had had a great tradition of prose and verse. Indeed, in the ninth century, she had a considerable body of prose hterature when other languages had hardly even begun verse.

English poetry from the seventh century onwards gives abundant proof of the ardour with which the Teutonic conquerors of Britain embraced the religion of Christ; and in less than a century these once pagan invaders had made their adopted land into a splendid home of Christianity. The Church's influence on the English way of life was deep and wide. Churches were built, monasteries established, and schools founded; no mean accomplishment in such war-like days.

One of the actions which signifies the presence of a Catholic Christian is making the sign of the cross. The result would startle us if we counted up the number of times we make it during one day or during one celebration of Holy Mass. This sign becomes an automatic part of our lives, to sign the sign of the cross can be almost a reflex action; and surely non-Catholics may be forgiven if they suppose it to be just another bit of external ritual, enforced habit or even superstition. Perhaps at any one moment it may in the concrete be only one of these things, but this sign has an almost infinite richness in itself ot which it may be worth while to attempt a brief exploration.

In a famous picture of the Crucifixion the Cross is depicted soaring against a dark background of cloud, over the quiet waters of Genesareth—it recalls that moment when the Lord awakened from slumber in the heart of the storm and spoke the words … ‘peace, be still’ … and immediately there was a great calm.

It may have happened to many of you, as it happened to the disciples on Peter's ship, to undergo a moment of great physical distress, to be lost in the cloud or the desert, to have the sea raging about you, to see no way out from a lingering disease. Such moments of physical imprisonment are paralleled by spiritual distress, the soul in a state of utter loneliness and desolation … ‘My God, why hast thou forsaken me?’ There is no harbour visible, no landmark, no sense of direction; only barren snow or solitary sand, indifferent glances, the howling of air or sea.

In the Epistle to the Hebrews, the Christian life is seen in terms of the biblical theme of exodus or migration. It is a theme recalling the life of the patriarchs and the generation contemporary with Moses in the desert. The spirituality of the Psalms is steeped in it. The life of the pious Jew is an upward movement towards him who is pre-eminently ‘the Holy One', ‘the Holy One of Israel'. The first stage in this upward movement is marked by God's revelation of himself. This gives rise to faith, the initial movement towards the Most High. Faith calls for faithfulness, which is impossible without renunciation and which will improve in quality and merit with resistance to trials. The man who is not put out or discouraged by these will be confirmed in his faith and faithfulness.

You who fear God and hold the Faith should be of a ready spirit for all things. Though your portion be the loss of wealth, or this unceasing ravage and agony of disease; though your wife be taken from you, or your children or your friends, yet shall such pain, such separation and such gloom be unto you not an offence but a combat. Let them not break your faith, O Christian, but shew forth your valour in the struggle, since the hurt of present ills shall be taken lightly in the confidence of the good things to come. When victory is attained, the crown is won; but without combat there can be no conquest. For the pilot is discerned in the storm, and the soldier proved in the field: and a trial of endurance is no trial when there is no danger, the combat real only when the foe is real.

Several articles have appeared recently in English publications about Padre Pio, the Italian Franciscan friar who for the last thirty-four years has borne ‘stigmata’ in hands and feet and side, resembling the traditional wounds of our Lord on the Cross.

Stigmata—in these days the word itself is apt to cause some raising of scientific eyebrows; it conjures up pictures of hysterical and neurotic girls inflicting wounds on themselves so as to be thought holy. Pious folk are too often over-credulous; and another instance, also in a person living today, has been under much discussion. It is necessary, therefore, to get at the facts.

Others have written of Padre Pio's life in its setting, of his extraordinary influence over the crowds who flock to S. Giovanni Rotondo to see him, of his apostolate of the confessional, of the village, almost, that has sprung up round his monastery, and the big modern hospital, now almost completed, that has been built through his inspiration and encouragement.