Father Salvadorez pointed out to me immense stores as we walked along, where great quantities of dry goods were piled up so as to provide the sick with clothing and bandages, also immense stores in which groceries of every kind were packed. The ambulance department, where everything needed for sick soldiers could be had, was well worth seeing, also the rest of the rooms and stores in connection with the building. The insane department contained but one unhappy case. He was a young man with pale face, long, black, flowing hair, and dark eyes full of sadness that stared at us gloomily as we went in. A few words of cheer from the Padre encouraged him, so he smiled, nodded his head, and then retired to a corner of his cell. Father Salvadorez receives a salary of two thousand dollars a year, and each of his assistants gets one thousand dollars. A military attendant is attached to each. It is, indeed, a delightful treat to form the acquaintance of the Padre and the officers of the military hospital. If the stranger knows a little Latin, Italian, or Spanish, he can chat with them, and get a good deal of information. Their expressive gestures will go a good way to supply their lack of English. It afforded me no small share of pleasure to meet at the hospital, among the thirty-four sisters in charge, a novice who had recently arrived from Cork, Ireland. She was the only Irish one among a number of French and Spanish sisters, but certainly not the least loved. After passing a few delightful hours of inspection, I bade adieu to the Padre, whom I promised to meet at the university next day. On the following morning, at nine o'clock, I heard him deliver a grand essay in defence of the Syllabus, before a very large and attentive assemblage of students. After viewing the chief features of interest in Havana, I bade the city good-by, and set out for Matanzas, to see its famous Yumuri Valley and caves of Bellamare (of the beautiful sea). REV. M. W. NEWMAN. * * * * * Enjoy present pleasures in such a way as not to injure future ones. Our Gaelic Tongue. It is fading, ah, 'tis fading like the leaves upon the trees! It is dying, sadly dying, like echoes 'mong the trees! When the last breath of Autumn sighing on the breeze. The places now that know it, it soon shall know no more; It has vanished, it has vanished, like some loved one gone before. No more is it spoken as it was in the days of yore. It is sinking, slowly sinking, into its silent grave at last, To live but in the memory as a relic of the past; Our olden time is sinking by time and wrong harassed. And the land that gave it birth it will leave forevermore; No more the hills re-echo to its music as of yore, Amid the ancient ruins pining, an exile on its native shore.