the injustice of this shall cease, and a crown of immortal effulgency, and robes of unfading light, and torrents of inebriating rapture, be the eternal reward of those who, in meek resignation to the dispensations of their heavenly Father, have borne patiently the afflictions of this short and at best miserable existence.

No wonder that such a form of prayer should have spread throughout every kingdom of the globe. No wonder that every Catholic worthy of the name, takes care to teach it to his children, and recites it every evening in the bosom of his family. No wonder that during the last six centuries, countless millions have enrolled themselves in the association whose object it is to repeat this prayer, and to learn from it lessons of the purest and most exalted virtues. No wonder that the Church, exulting in their devotion, and consoled amidst the deluge of iniquity that almost covers the earth, by their regular attendance at the sacraments, their zeal for religion, their fraternal charity and unfeigned humility, should have profusely bestowed on them the treasures of merits confided to her keeping, by granting them numberless indulgences; or that to their prayers she ascribes one of the most signal victories of modern times, the victory which, at Lepanto, broke down the power of the Mussulman, and hindered the blind and sensual superstition of Mahommed from effacing every trace of civilisation and piety on the earth.

True it is, that such associations have been assailed by the conceited folly which mistakes par

tial observation and crude conclusions for important and philosophical discovery. True it is, that the beads and scapulars, the badges of those who are enrolled in the society of the Rosary, have been considered fit subjects for the pointless sarcasms of narrow-minded witlings. But it was ever thus with all that is most intimately interwoven with religion. The all-saving cross itself was folly to the short-sighted conceit of this world. Yes; and that same world, in the insolence of its brutal wit, flung the garment of a fool around the eternal Wisdom of the Father! Did a presumptuous scoffer possess the spirit of true philosophy -of philosophy which derives its deductions not from fanciful theories, but from a patient investigation of the wants and aspirations of human nature he would perceive, that the sluggishness of men even in the best pursuits, requires to be stimulated by the powerful aid of example and association; that the majority of mankind never did and never can understand mere abstractions; that they stand in need of forms and sensible helps to devotion, and that the Church, like the apostle, must become all to all, to gain all to Christ. Had those who sneer at the scapular, listened to the voice of experience, they would have learned how often it has prevented the perpetration of crime; how often it has served as a second and, strange as the fact may appear, a more irresistible conscience. Many could relate how, when about to yield to temptation, that sacred badge, resting on their bosoms, suddenly recalled their religious feelings, and hushed the storm of passion which

was threatening their destruction. But those societies and their emblems have a much more solid support than any reasoning of mine. They are approved and blessed by the Church of Christ. That Church, whose wisdom is as far superior to the shallow sophistry of the self-called philosopher, as heaven is above the earth. And the names of such gifted men as a Charles Borromeo, a Francis of Sales, a Vincent of Paul, a Bossuet, a Fenelon, a Pascal, enrolled amongst their members, prove that the judgment of the Church is in accordance with the sentiments of the real philosopher; of those philosophers who live for the benefit of their race, and who, when departing from this world, leave the moral horizon illuminated and beautified by the lustre of their example. Undoubtedly those societies are not indispensable to religion. The Church existed before them, and would continue to exist, were they to cease on to-morrow. Yet they are the outworks of the faith. They mantle and shelter the venerable building, while they are memorials of its antiquity. And at a period like the present, when the infidel spirit of this world, availing itself of those convulsions in society which seem the throes of some new state of mankind, seeks to wrest them to its own unhallowed purposes, it behoves every Catholic to come manfully forward, and make no unholy compromise, nor yield a foot of that vantage ground on which he stands, nor suffer a profane hand to touch a single ornament that beautifies the everlasting Church of Christ.

But why address such admonitions to IRISH

CATHOLICS? Were they ever deterred by shallow sarcasms, or even the iron hand of persecution, from upholding whatever could inspire a filial respect for the Mother of God! Was not a reverential love for that glorious Virgin inhaled by us almost with the first breath of life? Can we not trace it back amidst our earliest feelings, until they melt into the dreams of infancy? Is it not intertwined with the happiest and purest recollections of the morning of our existence? Do we not feel convinced, that to the intercession of Mary, we owe our preservation from many a danger in the fearful period of youth? Was not the example of her virtues the bright beacon that guided us in safety over the dark and tempestuous ocean of life? And in the day of sorrow, when we sunk helplessly beneath the rude blow of affliction, were not our broken spirits bound up, was not the oil of serenity poured on the festering wounds of our affections, when we looked up to Mary, and thought on the unquailing fortitude with which she stood by the cross, while her heart-that heart overflowing with melting tenderness-was lacerated, pierced, as the aged prophet foretold, with a sword of grief, as she witnessed the agonising tortures of Him, whom she loved with more than seraphic ardour, and especially in that dreadful moment, when, amidst the gloom and convulsion of nature mourning over the death-pangs of a God, she caught his dying look, as it struggled through the blood streaming from the wounds with which his venerable brows were furrowed, to behold for the last time that sinless creature, the only object

worthy of his regard in a world which had requited him with such base ingratitude. Yes; when we call to mind the consolation, the lessons, the succour we have received through the instrumentality of Mary; that she has been to us a parent, a guide, an intercessor; how can we refrain from encouraging and applauding those who, day after day, testify their veneration for this exalted woman? How can we restrain the happy impulse which prompts us to join our voices with theirs in accomplishing the prophecy, that all generations shall call her blessed? Amidst the wildest storms of the long and dreary night of persecution which swept over our native land, the voice that proclaimed the excellence of Mary and sought her intercession, was never hushed. The beads were grasped in hands from which every other earthly possession was torn. And well did she repay that unshaken fidelity. To her intercession, under God, are we indebted for the preservation of the priceless treasure of faith, through many a disastrous struggle; and now that the tempest has past by, may the day perish in which Catholic Ireland will forget its gratitude to thee, thou ever glorious Virgin! or cease to transmit from generation to generation, an ardent love for thy tenderness-the deepest veneration for thy spotless sanctity!

But never shall that day arrive! No: despite the cold sneer of the callous-hearted infidel, despite the outcries of the fanatic, despite the misrepresentations of the prejudiced and the unreflecting, still-still will we reverence in thee the most