POISE 



t h i r t y - o n e 



Firecrackers For St. Anthony 



Our "Good Neighbors" in South 

 America are "Good Catholics." 



JluclLe 2uawuf> M<mn 



THE Catholic who finds himself for 

 the first time living in a Catholic 

 country is constantly conscious of, and 

 touched by, outward evidences of our 

 Faith such as never appear in lands that 

 are predominantly Protestant. 



On a recent visit to Argentina and 

 Brazil, it was not only the number and 

 the beauty of the churches that impressed 

 me. I had expected those, and was not 

 astonished at the boast of the Chamber 

 of Commerce at Cordoba, for instance, 

 that there were one hundred and forty- 

 four churches for its three hundred thou- 

 sand people. 



But what I really liked were the fire- 

 crackers exploding in honor of the feast 

 of St. Anthony; the posters pasted on a 

 billboard reminding the faithful that 

 Trinity Sunday was in the offing and 

 they had better make their Easter duty; 

 the little chapel belonging to the big 

 resort hotel, as obvious and as perfect 

 in its way as the golf course. 



Of course the churches were impres- 

 sive, too; the student can find here every 

 type of New World ecclesiastical archi- 

 tecture, from Spanish Colonial Mission, 

 through the baroque Cathedral age, 

 down to the rustic wayside chapel. The 

 Cathedral of Buenos Aires faces the 

 main square of the city, the Plaza de 

 Mayo. Here, in one of the many side 

 chapels, is buried San Martin, the hero 

 not only of the Argentine but of Ecuador 

 and Peru as well. A huge marble monu- 

 ment commemorates his many victories 

 and his work in liberating the people 

 from the rule of Spain. A military guard 

 in red-and-blue uniform and gleaming 

 helmet stands at attention at the entrance 

 to the chapel. 



Like many European churches, the 

 cathedral has, instead of pews, a quite 

 inadequate number of chairs. People 

 come and go, all during Mass, with what 

 seems to us a distracting amount of 

 shuffling and strolling about. On the 

 occasional Sunday when I was fortunate 

 enough to be able to get a seat, there 

 was certain to be someone right in front 

 of me who preferred to stand all through 

 Mass, arms folded, head bent, not kneel- 

 ing even for the Consecration. On other 

 Sundays, having succeeded in worming 



my way into a chapel right up in front, 

 where I was practically on a line with 

 the main altar, I would find myself 

 hemmed in by the crowd, and would 

 have to stand myself, unable to see the 

 altar at all, following the progress of 

 the Mass only by the sound of the bell. 



At any rate, it was inspiring if uncom- 

 fortable to see the churches always so 

 crowded; to find, as one slowly worked 

 one's way out after Mass, that the steps 

 of the church and the street beyond were 

 packed with men and women carrying 

 their rosaries and missals, waiting to 

 get in for the next Mass. 



The observance of religious holidays 

 was constantly upsetting the schedule 

 of my non-Catholic traveling compan- 

 ions. I became almost embarrassed at 

 the frequency with which I would come 

 back to the hotel on Sunday and report, 

 "If you are planning to see So-and-so 

 this week, or get such-and-such work 

 done, don't count on Thursday. It will 

 be Ascension Day (or Corpus Christi) 

 and I'm afraid it's another holiday." A 

 resident of Argentina tried to count up 

 for me the number of legal holidays in 

 their year, but never could. In addition 

 to the days on which patriotic celebra- 

 tions are held (and they are more plenti- 

 ful than our own), banks, schools and 

 shops close for Shrove Days, Holy Week, 

 All Saints' and All Souls', from Christ- 

 mas to New Year's, and on every other 

 important feast and saint's day through- 

 out the year. 



On Corpus Christi four altars were 

 set up in the Plaza de Mayo in Buenos 

 Aires, and the procession held that after- 

 noon included every church and school 

 society in that Catholic city of more than 

 3,000,000 souls. Benediction was given 

 in the public square, and at least half a 

 million people stood or knelt in the 

 streets, filling them for blocks in every 

 direction, while they raised their voices 

 in "O Salutaris Hostia." 



For two days of autumnal May sun- 

 shine (we were far south of the equator 

 in a land where Christmas is a summer 

 festival), we traveled by launch through 

 the delta of the Parana River. Here, in 

 one of the richest agricultural districts 

 of the world, where citrus groves and 



nutria fur farms flourish side by side, all 

 traffic is by water. Launches instead of 

 buses collect the children and take them 

 to school; the butcher comes by in a 

 boat, and hangs a big juicy steak on a 

 nail in a tree near the wharf; the milk- 

 man and the baker chug along the wind- 

 ing streams and deliver their products 

 at the water's edge. 



The quaintest sight of all this inland 

 waterway, however, was the little float- 

 ing church. Looking for all the world 

 like a New England village church, 

 painted white, and with spire, belfry and 

 Gothic windows, it passed us one morn- 

 ing, moving serenely along the quiet 

 river, between rows of silver poplar and 

 fields of feathery pampas grass. We were 

 told that on board lived the priest and 

 one other man who served as captain, en- 

 gineer, sexton and organist. Every night 

 the church-boat, "Christo Rey," tied up 

 at a different landing. In the morning 

 its bell rang out over the countryside, 

 summoning all the farmers in that vicin- 

 ity to take to their boats and come to 

 Mass. 



Argentina was the country that I 

 became best acquainted with in South 

 America, but it was in Santos, Brazil, 

 where our ship stopped to load coffee, 

 that we spent the feast of St. Anthony, 

 and heard the people joyfully setting off 

 firecrackers in the parks in honor of that 

 popular saint. Anyone who wanted to 

 carry a red silk banner, inscribed with 

 the words, "Vivo San Antonio!" could 

 buy one in a Chinese store that also sold 

 firecrackers, birdseed and flower pots. 



And it was Rio de Janeiro that gave 

 us our last lovely memory of South 

 America. Its harbor is one of incredible, 

 picture-postcard beauty, with the moun- 

 tains marching right down to the sea 

 and wading out into the very water. The 

 city is gay with night clubs and bathing 

 beaches, with flower-lined boulevards 

 and luxurious shops and hotels. The 

 jungle itself encroaches on suburban 

 gardens where wild monkeys cavort in 

 the trees. But the whole city and the 

 harbor are dominated by the magnificent 

 figure of Christ the Redeemer, standing 

 (Please turn to page 34) 



