Patrick Francis Mullaney, better known as Brother Azarias, was born in Killenaule County, Tipperary, Ireland, June 29th, 1847. Like the majority of eminent men that his country has given birth to, he came of its noble peasantry. The old tale was here enacted. The parents left the land of their birth in search of a home in our better land. This found, Azarias joined them. At the age of fifteen he joined the Christian Brothers. That great Order gave free scope to his fine abilities. In 1866 he was chosen professor of mathematics and English literature at Rock Hill College, Maryland. He continued in this position for ten years. At the expiration of his professorship he travelled a year through Europe, collecting materials and writing his “Development of Old English Thought.” On his return he became president of Rock Hill College, holding that position until recalled to Paris by his Superior in 1866. After an absence of three years Brother Azarias returned to the States as professor of English literature at the De La Salle Institute, New York. This is not only an important position, but it gives leisure, and that ready access to the great libraries, so prized by literary men. WOMEN. KATHERINE ELEANOR CONWAY. “Next room to that of Roche’s,” said the dear O’Reilly, showing me his nest of poets, “is a gentle poetess.” The door was wide open. It is a question with my mind if the room ever knew a door. Be this as it may, there sat, with her chair close drawn to her desk, a frail, delicate-looking woman. The ordinary eye might see nothing in a face that was winsome, if not handsome; yet, let the dainty mouth curve in speech, and at once a subtle attraction, lit up by lustrous eyes, permeated the face. One characteristic that made itself felt, in the most sparse conversation with this woman, was her humility, a rare virtue among American literary women. I have known not a few among that irritable class who, no sooner had they sipped the most meagre draught of fame, than they became intoxicated with their own importance, and for the balance of life wooed that meretricious goddess, Notoriety. In fiery prose and tuneful song they told of the dire misfortunes that had been heaped upon their sex by that obstinate vulgar biped, man. Their literature—for that is the name given to the crudest offspring of the press in these days—is noisy, and, says a witty writer, a noisy author is as bad as a barrel organ,—a quiet one is as refreshing as a long pause in a foolish sermon. Clergymen, who have listened to a brother divine on grace, will be the first to see the point. Our authoress—(a female filled with the vanity that troubled Solomon says I should write female author)—is a quiet and unobtrusive writer. Of the tricks that catch and the ways that are crooked in literature, she knows nothing, and what is better, no amount of tawdry fame could induce her to swerve a jot from the hard stony