Some way, try as I may, I cannot forget her---I cannot forget those strange, dark eyes that glowed at times with a half-wild light as she told me of the horror, the blind terror and the shame of it all. The mass of inky black hair, the finely chiselled features,

that rare ivory complexion---all spoke of a beauty that might have been an artist's dream were it not for that indefinable, elusive marring. Before me sat Cecilia. Beyond that (her convent name) let her be nameless here evermore. Why? Because Cecelia is no myth, no figment of the imagination, I pass her on the streets here every day or two, and then I look carefully straight ahead. In this city but a few years ago---Ah! so few!---she was a tiny girl, here it was that the iron hand of Rome clutched her, then here it was that the garish lights shone on her by night---a Magdalene! And here it was that God sent to her a noble woman, one who had been with the Christ and who had learned of Him, one whose own suffering had given her a supreme, motherly love and a sisterly understanding of the sorrows of even the Soiled Sisterhood----a social worker who just put her arms in silence around Cecelia and the battle for the redemption of a life was on!

And it was through this Christ-like woman that I learned all about Cecelia, she it was that first told me the pitiful, the awful story of just another of the myriad thousands of girl-lives marred and exploited, wrecked and ruined by Rome in her countless "Houses of the Good Shepherd." And when she had finished there was hardly a detail missing from the unspeakably sad story of Cecelia's life---and most pitiful of all to me seemed the bitter story of the yellow silk kimono---how, that after having been "committed" to Price Hill "Sweatshop of the She-Slavers" Cecelia, dirty, filthy, vermin-infested and near to death from neglect, nameless cruelties and overwork was sent to a hospital and afterwards gathering the little strength left in her emaciated girl-body by a supreme effort, escaped. How she finally went to the only girl friend she had in this great city, an inmate of a house of the scarlet light on Georgia street. And

how that here her one friend, the Magdalene, shared her own dinner with the starving Cecelia and afterwards threw around her wasted form a gorgeous yellow silk kimono that had been flung over a chair, to hide her rags. How that then in answer to her question as to how she could live and escape her relentless Roman task-masters, the soiled sister could only suggest that she remain her guest till she had recovered health and strength, and then that Cecelia continue to wear the yellow silk kimono---the garb of sinful shame where the only blushes are painted ones and hollow laughter and ribald song drown the bells of conscience.

How that Cecelia, gripped in the terrible hands of Want and Hunger and Fear, stayed! Then the world-old story of nameless disease and dissipation unthinkable until sick unto death, weary of life---wanting, yes, longing to die---she found herself one night close-held in the strong arms of this sweet, tactful friend, who, understanding and weeping with her, yet shrank not away as Cecelia sobbed out the story of her pitiful, exploited, bizarre life. And, radiant with heavenly hope and sacred joy the beautiful part of the story just here told of Cecelia's long sojourn in the home of her rescuer, while life and strength in some measure returned to the wasted, tempest-tossed body. "I was a stranger and ye took me in!" And how one Sunday evening, in one of the great churches of this city, Cecelia heard that wonderous story of the Prodigal, and during the invitation at the close whispered brokenly through her tears the question to her benefactress; "Do you think he means me, even me---Oh, can there be any hope for such a sinner as I am?" And that evening of blessed memory, to her the gentle Man of Galilee came to be the dream of her life. Then soon after she was baptized into the fold of that great church of the simple faith,

All this passed through my mind in rapid review as we sat in the private office of my friend, the doctor, as I waited in silence for her reply to my question. "And so, Cecelia, you have really come to tell me---almost a stranger---the story of your life?" And I gazed curiously, if kindly, at her as she sat there before me---I can see her again as I write, clad in a trim, tailored suit of dark blue, rather slender of build, only nineteen years old, yet having suffered, Ah! so supremely!

There was a pause---then she answered rather hesitatingly in a low tone, "Yes, sir---that is, I understood from what you said the other day that you were more especially interested in my experiences in the 'House of the Good Shepherd,' as they call it, on Price Hill." As I answered I was thinking of the beauty of her voice---a voice pitched low and of a curiously compelling, contralto tone. "Yes," I said, "tell me about that first. I know the rest of your sad life. And now to help you I will ask you a few questions so you can tell me just the things The Menace readers want to know. I have been through this Price Hill convent, you know, so I will understand most of what you tell me. How old were you when you were sent there?"

"I do not remember exactly, I was only a little girl," answered reflectively, "perhaps I was twelve---not any older I am sure."

"And were your parents Catholic?"

"No, indeed," and as she spoke she leaned forward impulsively, "I was committed to that Hell-on-earth because I was just a homeless, half-starved waif of a girl, without any one to care! Why I---" but here I quietly interrupted. "Gently,---gently, now, Miss Cecelia, I know these memories are awful to you, but let me ask a question. You say that you were just a little girl---now these small school rooms I saw, are

they not where the little girls and the larger girls attend school?"

"No!" And the black eyes were shining now as Cecelia added, "Those are not really school rooms---that is where the little tots---girls too young to work---are taught the 'catechism' and some more Catholic bosh! Perhaps you don't understand that no matter how young a girl is when she is jailed there she never gets any education, if she has had no schooling when she goes in she has less when she comes out---that is, if she ever gets out. Why, they have many old women in that Price Hill convent that have been there all their lives in slavery just because there was nobody that cared or else their folks never knew where they were!"

"Tell me something about every day life and the food," I said, seeing that memory had thoroughly aroused her.

"I don't know why I am telling you all this or why it is that I want to, because I've always been afraid to talk about it, before, but I'm going to tell you all about it," she said, glancing toward the door, and continuing---"We were called at five o'clock in the morning and at half past five we must be dressed, have our beds made, and be ready to go down to breakfast, such as it was."

"And what did you have for breakfast, Cecelia?"

"Oatmeal with a little blue milk, but no sugar, two thin slices of stale bread and a cup of 'chicory' coffee! You see, everything is dished up in portions there and each girl gets her little portion, no more. Why, the girls that have been used to decent food nearly starve to death when they first go there, but finally they all have to get used to their prison fare!"

"Then I understand that after breakfast the girls all go to the chapel for worship---tell me something about the worship," I said suggestively.

"Worship!" And there were volumes of meaning in the tone in which she repeated the word---"Worship," she continued, "you mean 'mass,' at a quarter till six all the girls are marched into chapel to that terror called 'mass---' say, did you ever try kneeling a whole hour at a time? Well, that's what 'mass' meant to us poor girls, and every morning too!

"Then at seven o'clock we were marched through that long, long, dark, cement, underground tunnel to work in the 'Bank Street Laundry' or else on Rauh & Mack's machines in that sweatshop shirt factory or making overalls or jackets on those awful power machines or making shoulder braces, and there we worked like slaves till noon and then---" Cecelia's voice was growing sharper, in the black eyes that met mine with level glance there was a look not good to see.

"Yes, and then?" I asked softly, intent on watching a little bird perched in the sunshine on the cornice of the roof of the huge building across the street.

"Why then we were marched back to a dinner of 'stew' or 'slum' ('slum' is short for slumgullion),---now, Mr. Buss, this may not sound pretty but it's the truth, that slop is a mixture of scraps of refuse meat and 'come backs' from cheap hotels and restaurants that they gather by begging all over the city. You know they beg nearly all the stuff they feed these girl prisoners on.

"After 'dinner' we were taken up to the 'recreation room' after some more prayer we sat on the chairs there and were allowed to talk until one o'clock, then we were taken back to work."

"And when the day's work done, Cecelia?" I asked.

"Well, you see, each girl has a task or 'stent,' that is a certain amount of work that she must finish before quitting time, that is, six o'clock. And at half

past five o'clock every evening the 'sisters' in charge go around and inspect the girls' work to see if each has finished her task. And, on the piece work in the laundry and in the shirt room and in the overalls room the number of pieces each girl must do is so awfully large that no girl dares to stop to even look up. Why I know girls---"

"But Cecelia," I interrupted, "these 'sisters' all claim that they are not even allowed to touch the girls to punish them, then why should these girls toil and slave so hard at their tasks if no one is allowed to punish them?"

Suddenly she arose and began to pace the room nervously as she talked. "That's just what I was going to tell you about. I started to say that I know girls that those heartless, cruel old 'sisters' nearly beat to death!"

Cecelia paused just before me and her face was very white as she went on, her voice low and tense. "One poor girl just refused to do the task they had set for her---the 'sisters' broke a broom handle across her back! Oh! No, 'they are not allowed to touch the girls!' Why sometimes at night I can hear the girls yell and groan yet! I just want to tell you of one whipping I got there, they whipped me with a rattan once until I was laid in bed so sore I could hardly move. Next day my mother came to see me.

"One of the 'sisters' came in and said, 'Cecelia, get up and dress, dear, and come down stairs with me. Your mother is waiting to see you. And listen, dear, if you tell your mother anything or show her one mark on your body, we will whip you again till you can't walk! Of course, mother never knew!

"Oh, Mr. Buss, you folks don't know the misery and Hell there is behind those walls! You told about how when you went through that laundry a few girls were sitting around reading and crocheting. I am

glad you were not deceived by these things they fixed up for you to see. But you don't know how hard nor how late those girls had to work to make up for the time they shut down for your visit, do you? And you don't know how cross and spiteful those 'sisters' were after you had left---how they slapped those poor girls around, or how many went to bed without any mush and milk (that's what we had for supper)---but I can guess; you see I've been through it all."

Cecelia sat down again, and leaning her head on her hand regarded me steadily. I noticed that though her eyes were tearless her lips were twitching. She seemed waiting for a reply. Finally I said, "Cecelia, if I tell The Menace readers and the world all these things I wonder if they will believe us?"

This went home. Leaning forward she said intensely, "Believe us? Why, it doesn't make any difference whether they believe us or not! They can know for themselves. Just let them tear down those high walls and fences, unbar those doors, tear all the locks off and have these places opened so people can go through any hour of the day or night and then they can see---and 'seeing is believing,' you know!"

Just here, gentle reader, we will leave untold the rest of her sad story, because I have so closely described Cecelia that I do not care to risk disclosing her identity to her Romish enemies who have already hounded her all over this city---there is much that I fain would tell---perhaps later, but not now.

On second thought, however, here is one more incident from her convent life indicative of the cruelty of these 'sweet sisters'---one wintry day coming out of the tunnel at noon from work Cecelia stole a ripe, red tomato from among the generous store of delicacies being prepared for the nun's tables. She was caught. She was taken upstairs to the bathroom undressed, plunged into a bathtub filled with icy water

and held there for nearly five minutes! This experience landed her in the hospital---nearly the grave.

Can you forgive Cecelia the wearing of the yellow silk kimono now?

Oh! the stories those dark, convent walls on Price Hill Could tell if only stones and bricks had tongues! From the lives of other "Cecelias" I have gleaned incidents grisly and ghastly with unnameable cruelty.

One eighteen-year-old girl from Georgia piteously begged for her freedom, her pleas were met with renewed cruelty. Goaded to desperation one evening about five o'clock she threw herself from a third story window to the cement walk below. Both ankles were broken. She was taken to a hospital here in the city. While there a horrified lady visitor exclaimed at her bedside, "Just think what you have done, child, you have crippled yourself for life---aren't you sorry now?"

What do you think her answer was? Listen: "No, indeed I am not sorry! Before I would go there for another six months I would have every bone in my body broken!"

There are countless thousands of men in Hamilton county who will recognize the Catholic secret instruction ballot for this county which The Menace reproduces herewith---but they are all Catholics. Rome guards her political secrets well. How many of our Cincinnati subscribers who are Non-Catholics ever saw one of these "democratic county tickets" before? And yet some years ago this instruction "ticket" was circulated by thousands among the Catholic faithful of Cincinnati!

This reproduction is from a photograph of the original "ticket" and is exactly the same size, and so faithful in this photograph that as it lies on my desk before me this morning I can plainly see the creases

The above is reproduced from a photograph of page 29 of The Catholic Monthly Magazine, published at Cincinnati, Ohio, for June, 1912. The pen lines around the two significant paragraphs are ours. Ohio free-born voters, let us suggest that you remember this four-fold combination in the silence of the voting booth---Longworth, Renner, Bourbon, Catholicism!

where the "ticket" has been folded. These, of course, do not appear in the engraving.

"But," I hear some reader say, "if the 'ticket' is years old, why reproduce it---what is the reason?"

Just to ask our reader of Cincinnati this question, "Shall it be Judge Otway J. Cosgrave?"

Now carefully scan this remarkable and much-crossed, secret, vest-pocket instruction "ticket"---turn it in every direction and especially read and weigh well all five of the very significant quotations given thereon. One fact will strike you with crushing force; each of these utterances is in the last analysis the deliberately treasonable threat of an oath-bound and traitorous enemy of this Republic.

To illustrate how closely Rome safe-guards her political intrigue and devious devices, let me say that it is my firm belief that only the guiding hand of the Supreme Architect placed the original of this engraving in my hands. I shall long remember the scene when this "ticket" was photographed the other day. The original was tacked upon the white screen, there was a sharp click, for a single instant the glassy eye of the camera glared---and now even as you read more than three hundred thousand copies are speeding Rome's hidden message to the four corners of this Republic! This is perhaps the greatest single feature that has ever appeared in The Menace, but many more just as significant will follow.

And now to connect the past with the living present. The proudest, most insistent tenet of Catholicism is that she is changeless. 'Semper eadem!' Her clarion call for ages has been, "Rome never changes." I am also reproducing Mr. Otway J. Cosgraves card as candidate for judge of the common pleas court---please not the date on this card. On the secret instruction "ticket" Mr. Cosgrave's name appears third in the list, decorated with the cross of Rome's approval

and stamped indelibly as one of the faithful then he was Rome's candidate for county solicitor---if Catholicism changes not, would you infer that today Mr. Cosgrave is the Romish candidate for this judgeship?

Understanding this, shall the Non-Catholic voters of patriotic fathers and loyal American big brothers place Mr. Cosgrove in a position to perhaps, commit countless other hapless little daughters and tiny sisters to the tender mercies of the "House of The Good Shepherd" on Price Hill or at Carthage?

That is the vital question. Let the voters of Hamilton county apply the acid test for Catholicism to every candidate for office in this coming election. Let the line be cleanly, clearly, distinctly drawn between Americanism and Catholicism!

Governor Harmon, of Ohio, on December 30th, 1912,

appointed Otway J. Cosgrave Judge of the Court of Common Pleas to fill the unexplored term of three years of Judge Harry M. Hoffheimer, who recently resigned at Cincinnati!

Otway J. Cosgrave will be remembered by our readers as the Roman Catholic candidate for nomination for this very office on the Democratic ticket and who was overwhelmingly relegated to the back-ground by the patriotic citizens of Cincinnati. He was not even successful in securing the nomination.

Otway J. Cosgrave is entirely a Cincinnati product, having been born and educated there. He graduated from St. Xavier's College in 1875 and has been practicing law ever since. In 1882 he was elected City Solicitor by the Romanists, which office he held during the "court-house" riot. When authorized by the state legislature to appoint an assistant, he appointed Moses F. Wilson! Cosgrave served his ecclesiastical masters well in the bitterly contested will case of the late Gregory Rossiter when associated with Dennis Cash, now Safety Director (?) of Cincinnati, and John Ledyard Lincoln. This Catholic trio succeeded in diverting the whole amount involved, $100,000.00, to "charities"---guess what kind?

Cosgrave is a bachelor, living at the Havlin Hotel in this city, and when told of his appointment, he vented his Catholic triumph thusly:---

"I am deeply moved and surprised at the news of my appointment. (!) It comes without solicitation (!) on my part, though I knew that many of my friends have been recommending me for the office. I wish to express my very deepest appreciation of the good feeling of the Governor that prompted this unsolicited appointment. Governor Harmon and myself have been very intimate friends for many years, and this is the most graceful compliment that the retiring executive of this state could pay me!"

...Sleeping Protestants and churchmen will perhaps find this disgraceful and defiant appointment of this "retiring" Governor of Ohio a quite potent spur to their evasive and indefinite opposition to Romish encroachments. While those who might have saved the day in this Ohio appointment slumbered and slept, the Romans were Jesuitically playing the game of practical politics, the trade was made, and Harmon was the Judas that turned the trick!

Remember Harmon!

I saw a strange thing at the police station here. William Faran, who gave his address as 231 Broadway, was brought in from the corner of Fifth avenue and Vine street, where he had been arrested by Traffic Officer Seebohm for begging on the street and drunkenness.

The grip of delirium tremens was relentlessly closing upon his dissipated body.

He seemed indifferent as his pipe, his tobacco and his money were taken from his pockets, as the custom is---but when a sturdy policeman took from his pocket a tiny brass Catholic cross not more than half an inch long, Faran became hysterical and begged pitifully for the return of the useless bauble of superstition.

When Sergeant Palmer gave him back the little brass relic Faran grinned placidly and carefully tucked it into his pocket.

A few hours afterward Faran was hurried to the city hospital dying with that little cross of brass clutched in his stiffening fingers. Night crieth unto night!

Moeller, the godsmith of Romanism here, from his "Episcopal" palace, pronounced this edict publicly February 25, of last year:

"We direct that in the future no confessor having

faculties in this province absolve parents who require their sons and daughters to attend Non-Catholic schools unless such parents, when going to confession, promise that they will send their children to a Catholic school at a time to be fixed by the confessor or agree that they will abide by the decision of the bishop in the matter."

This bombastic "edict" further calls attention to the papal decree requiring children to receive "holy communion when they begin to reason about the seventh year." Iridescent shibboleth!

Chapter 7