and fell at first without being aware of the consequences, and afterwards, for want of fortitude, yielded to the outcries of demagogues, who, meeting with no resistance, rushed on in their headlong course. The virtuous and loyal among the Italians were defeated-not by the power, but by the craftiness of the conspiracy. Treason, with its accustomed worldly wisdom, attacked every weak point, and profited by the supineness of its adversaries. It is by no means true, that all who had been for so many years crying out for a revival of Italy were either traitors or irreligious; there were many great and pious minds, men of sterling excellence, who would have sacrificed everything in the cause of justice, but they were wanting in that wisdom which teaches us that the first sacrifice to be made for one's country, is the union of prudence with the exercise of power, the avoidance of municipal strife, a noble disinterestedness, generous liberality, activity in operation, energy of language, a holy fearlessness in encountering obstacles, and the exposure of life itself, if necessary, for the country. Let not Italy be deceived; let it not suppose that peace is restored. At this moment the fury and ferocity of her internal enemies are greater than ever; at this very moment they meet in small numbers, to discuss and form new designs in the most obscure corners of Rome. They communicate their information, they encourage their dupes, they excite the lukewarm, they inspire the timid, they restrain the rash; and ever bearing in mind the objects they have in view, they snatch every opportunity, and watch the errors of governments. I have been led to this digression from witnessing the festivals in honour of Pius IX. in Rome, and have been forced to lament the blindness of those who, in their simplicity, closed their eyes to the employment of the conspirators on those occasions. For while those good people stood on the Monte Cavallo, looking in ecstasy at the Pope as he came out on the balcony, and prostrating themselves and striking their breasts, made the sign of the cross, as they received the papal benediction, the traitors were laughing in their sleeves, while with their pions gestures they surpassed even the notable Fra Cipolla at Certaldo. One day as Bartolo was returning from the Quirinal, he joined a young silk-mantled Monsignore. "Oh!" exclaimed he, "Don Achille mio, what a touching sight! Did you see Rienzi, Sterbini, Galletti, how devoutly they crossed themselves?" Those old fellows," said they to each other, frowning, with their ruby-coloured hose and their purple doublets, "are like the owls in the ruins of Caracalla's baths; the brighter the sun the more it offends their eyes." "It is such priests as you, who by your negligence disgrace your character, that are the owls," muttered the old man, and the day will come when the bats will not have holes enough to hide you from the talons of these vultures, that can be satiated only with the flesh of priests! Alas!" And chafing and fuming he continued his way up to the Quirinal. "Like a deluge they crowd up here for the Pope's blessing, and if he keeps them waiting a minute or two, they bawl out their 'accidente,' and are for bringing him by force. Benedictions from the balcony, and then maledictions on Pope Gregory, signs of the Cross, and the next moment, 'Death to the cardinals!' It will drive me mad! Instead of blessings from the balcony, I would give them a blessing from the tower of the Swiss, with two cannons loaded with grape." Softly, Signor Pacifico. Grape! Among whom would you fire your grape ?" asked the dean of a cardinal, who was coming out of the palace. "Ha! your grape, I suppose, would be the pipeclay comforts used in the Corso in the time of the Carnival! What is the matter, what has thus raised your indignation ?" "I am enraged at those hypocritical blessing-hunters. If the padrone only knew them, oh, glory to St. Peter! he would make them keep a respectful distance." "Do you suppose, Master Pacifico, that the Pope does not know them? Depend upon it, he reads their very hearts." CHAPTER V. THE INSTALLATION AT THE LATERAN. The Pope had returned from his autumnal vacation among the hills of Albano and Frascati, and in the midst of joy, festivity, and triumphs, November set in, bringing with it from the north a crowd of strangers, who were impatiently awaiting the installation of Pope Pius IX. in the Basilica of the Lateran. The Pope's master of the ceremonies, Monsignor de Ligny, had made every preparation for this solemnity, and the Pope wished to restore the ancient procession on horseback, which, after the fall of Clement XIV. from his horse, had grown into disuse, and ordered the court to ride in advance of his carriage. A squadron of mounted dragoons opened this magnificent procession. Their high bearskin caps were surmounted with white and yellow plumes, beneath which were suspended cords and tassels of brilliant white; they wore buckskin gloves turned high over their wrists, and high boots; their saddlecloths were of brown sheep-skin. At a short distance followed the Swiss trumpeters in their steel breastplates, their coats-of-arms embroidered with ornamental foliage and partycoloured strips of cloth, their trumpets carrying flags of white brocade with gold fringe, and the device of the keys and triple crown worked in the centre. Then came the honorary chamberlains, dressed in the Italian fashion, and flat caps of the sixteenth century, mounted on splendid horses, with richly-ornamented trappings. Their rich mantles were of black velvet, with slit sleeves, puffed out at the shoulders with satin. Round their necks they wore gold chains supporting the palatine cross. Their caps, also of black velvet, were adorned with delicate black plumes hanging gracefully on the left. The ecclesiastical chamberlains followed, in large purple cloaks, with hoods lined with rose-coloured silk on their heads, and the ample folds of their cloaks covering their horses. After these followed the colleges of prelates in their large purple mantles, attended by their clerks, who wore green hats tied in front with long cords and tassels. The saddles and saddle-cloths of those monsignori consisted of velvet of the colour of the amaranth, and the trappings were of scarlet, and fastened with gold buckles. Next in order were the chaplains, ecclesiastics, and other personages of the papal household, in purple gowns; each bishop and prelate attended by two grooms. Last rode Monsignore Sacrista, mounted on a white mule and bearing a processional cross. The Pope's carriage, drawn by six horses, with riders in ruby-coloured cloaks, was of such richness of design and execution, in relief, and of such splendid brilliancy, that it seemed a mass of solid gold moving through the streets of Rome. The Swiss marched on either side of the carriage, a part on horseback and a part on foot, with morions or steel caps on their heads, steel breast plates delicately relieved and inlaid with gold, and coats of arms embroidered with devices. After these came the papal carriages, some with six and others with four horses, followed by the carriages of the cardinals, with rich and magnificent liveries. The Roman senate closed the triumphal march, preceded by a band of trumpeters on horseback; after these followed the standardbearers, with the standards, on which were the ancient S. P. Q. R. (Senatus Populus que Romanus. The Senate and People of Rome), in letters of gold. The mace-bearers marched on foot at the heads of the horses. In the front carriage was the "Senator," in magnificent robes of cloth of gold; and in the others the " Conservatori," in black velvet. The pages of the Capitol walked on foot at the sides of their carriages, in yellow liveries and short crimson mantles, the scams of which were covered with lace embroidered with the arms of the Senate. The whole of Rome had flocked on that day to see the Pope on his passage from the hill of the Quirinal to the Lateran Basilica. Pius IX. in rochet, cassock, and stole, saw on all sides thousands of hands raised to applaud; he heard thousands of voices shouting his praises, and saw himself sur rounded by thousands whose radiant smiles bespoke the joy that overflowed their hearts. He answered these demonstrations of the love of his people with paternal and celestial smiles, and invoked upon them, as he passed, the blessing of God. Alisa, from a window opposite St. Sylvester, watched the procession, as it moved from the Quirinal, extending from the Fountain of the Horses of Phidias as far as the Villa Aldobrandina; but as soon as the Pope had passed, eager to obtain another view of him, she was so urgent that she prevailed upon her father to take her to the piazza of the Forum of Trajan, to the house of one of her friends. In spite, however, of their efforts, they were too late to turn the front of the advanced guard of dragoons which was pressing back the crowd; and Bartolo, greatly annoyed, retired with his daughter as near the wall as possible while they passed. The horses took up the greater part of the breadth of the street, and the people were so crushed together that mothers were compelled to hold up their children above their heads to save them, when a white handkerchief fell from the hand of a lady who stood upon a balcony above. This frightened one of the horses of the dragoons; he reared and bounded aside, and in another moment Alisa would have been crushed beneath his hoofs. She gave a cry of terror, and in an instant a young man threw himself under the horse, and snatching her up, pressed rapidly with her through the crowd, and after placing her in safety under the arch of a doorway, disappeared. The horse, however, in his plunging had struck him upon the left shoulder, and he hastened in the most acute pain to regain his dwelling. He had reached the corner of the street which leads to the Santi Apostoli, when, overcome with agony, he fell to the ground. Two persons from the crowd conveyed him to the house of a physician, who at first thought that the pressure of the crowd was the sole cause of his suffering. He soon discovered, from the difficulty of his breathing, that he was seriously injured; his coat was removed with difficulty, as his shoulder was already exceedingly swollen, but by various applications, he was somewhat relieved. The bystanders observed, suspended from his neck, as they opened his vest, a miniature richly set in gold, and on examining it, a priest who was present told the doctor that it was the portrait of the daughter of Bartolo Capegli. On the back were written in blood the words, "Without hope." The first subject of anxiety of the youth, on being restored to animation, appeared to be this portrait, which he hurriedly replaced out of sight, and giving his name Aser," directed them to his residence in the Via delle Vite. (To be continued.) "REMEMBER, JOHN," said a Pennsylvania sheriff to a friend who had shaken him rather roughly; "remember, I don't care a copper about it personally; but whoever shakes me shakes the commonwealth." WHY is Sunday the strongest day in the week? Because others are week days. THE CONVENT ROSES. BY CHARLOTTE LAW (Authoress of "The Convert's First Communion"). "And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, THE last rays of the setting sun were lingering as though loth to leave the fair bright earth to darkness and to rest; the birds were chanting their evening hymn of love and praise. Earth everywhere was beautiful, but no where was the calm, pure influence of that lovely evening more felt than by the happy inmates of the Convent of Longdale. In the garden attached to the convent, the boarders, or as they were called, the "children," had assembled for their evening recreation. Most of them were thoughtful, if not sad, for the morrow was to part them from two of their most loved companions. Isabel St. Clair and Marie Evelyn had been inmates of the convent school from infancy; both were beautiful and clever. Their long residence in the convent, together with their great beauty and good dispositions, had endeared them to the sisters; and their sincere attachment to each other had procured for them the title of "The Convent Roses." The time had now come when they were considered old enough to leave their peaceful home and enter into the world. Many were the prayers breathed for them by the good nuns who had so long protected them from the temptations and trials they were about to encounter. Both were orphans, and that circumstance added not a little to the great interest attached to them. The evening before their departure was spent by Marie in tears, and by the generous and spirited Isabel in plans for the future benefit of her companions. The children were all clustered around them in the garden, and Mother Lucia, their mistress, had cach by the hand. After walking for some time, they sat to rest in the pretty little arbour, which they themselves had helped to raise. It was a scene for an artist's eye to dwell upon the golden sunset, the beautiful flowers, and the picturesque little arbour. The sweet, gentle face of the kind sister, and the fair, lovely faces of the two girls, who now sat at her feet, their companions grouped around them. There was a stillness, a sanctity in the scene, that silenced them all; and Mother Lucia was the first who spoke. “Ah, Marie, dear,— and you, too, my Isabel-the time, I fear, will come, when the brilliant gaieties of the world will efface from your minds all recollection of your convent-home." "Oh, no," eagerly cried Isabel; "never, dearest mother. Could I forget all else, the scene will live with me for everthis still sanctity, this purity of thought and feeling this evening gives me, will never die." "And you, Marie," said the nnn, tenderly putting away the heavy curls that o'ershadowed her sorrowful face. Never, my mother, shall I forget all you have taught me." Tears choked her utterance. The sound of the bell recalled the children; but Mother Lucia detained Marie and Isabel with herself. They sat and watched the sun set, and the pale moon rose, and the bright golden stars appeared, and still they sat buried in the thoughts of the past and dread of the future. Long and beautifully did Mother Lucia advise them. All that she knew of the storms of life she warned them of; all that the world could give them, and how empty they would find it. Marie's gentle head was bowed low in her clasped hands long ere the sister had finished; but Isabel's bright face had flushed with eagerness, and the strong desire to see the world, and yet not become corrupted with it. Mother Lucia's voice became lower and more earnest as she told the fair girls all that God expected from them; how their example would influence others: and again her voice trembled as she warned them of the dangers beauty, rank, and wealth ever bring. And low and sorrowful were her accents as she spoke of her love for them and her grief at losing them. And the silver moonbeams shone purely on the face of each, as with bended knees and bowed heads they joined in Mother Lucia's ferveut prayer. And now, my children, farewell; ever remembering, should the world prove false, should misfortune, should sorrow should other hearts be closed, in Mother Lucia you have a refuge and a friend.” come, They silently sought the convent, and each retired to her room. One more visit Mother Lucia paid to them, for her duties next morning prevented her from seeing them again. Marie was asleep, her eyes heavy with weeping, her cheeks pale, and her hands clasped. Sorrowfully, together, like a pure white rose, she looked too pure, too sweet, too lovely for earth; and imprinting one lingering kiss on her pale brow, Mother Lucia left her, breathing an earnest prayer that that pure white rose might never become scorched and withered in the fiery tempests of the world. Isabel's room was close to Marie's, and the sister paused upon the threshold in silent admiration of the beautiful picture that presented itself. Isabel lay sleeping, dreaming there of those bright, glowing dreams, that bring such perfect happiness. Her bright, beautiful face was flushed, and her lips just parted with a soft, sweet smile; the long, waving tresses of her raven hair were floating around her face and neck, the pure white brow contrasting beautifully with the dark arched eyebrow and the long silken lashes fringing the perfectly-shaped lid. Lovely she looked in her glorious beauty,-so proud, so smiling, so happy, that the red rose in all its shining splendour was dimmed before her. Long did Mother Lucia watch her, and with a heart full of love and care did she imprint a fervent caress upon her brow, and she took her farewell of the "convent roses." Amidst the tears of their companious and the prayers of the sisters, Marie and Isabel left the next morning for home-left the abode of love and purity for the brilliant secues of gaiety; left the haven of rest for the stormy ocean. It is time to introduce my readers more familiarly with the heroines of my story. Isabel St. Clair was an only child, and bad lost her parents when quite an infant. She was left under the care of an aunt, who, not much relishing the charge, had placed her in the convent, and had gone herself on the continent. Isabel had grown up a lovely and accomplished girl. Her disposition was lively, impetuous, and somewhat haughty; very loving, and extremely sensitive; high-spirited, high-minded, and noble-hearted, was Isabel. She was very beautiful; her appearance was dazzling and brilliant. Tall and graceful, with rich dark hair and flashing soul-lit eyes, and a face that would have charmed a lover of the beautiful and intellectual. Of a totally different caste was Marie Evelyn. She had been left at a more advanced age under the care of a gcutleman, who had been her father's dearest friend. She was very lovely, her fair sweet face and large pure eyes, with the profusion of her pale, golden tresses, presented a picture not often seen. She was the essence of gentleness and love. Her piety had ever been remarkable; and the pure and holy expression of her face had well deserved the title of the white rose." Her innocence and timidity, her modesty and her loving disposition, gave you the exact idea of a pure young rose-bud enclosed in its dark green leaves. Though so unlike each other, the two girls had ever been the most sincere and affectionate friends. Marie's shrinking and gentle disposition made her dread the hour which should separate her from her couvent-home; while Isabel, though loving that home quite as dearly, longed, with the ardour of a high and fearless spirit, to encounter the dangers she had heard so much of; and cach became settled in her brilliant home, and the convent dress was exchanged for the gay trappings of the world, and the voice of prayer was changed to the voice of flattery; and the atmosphere of love and sanctity was changed for one of artificial enjoyment and empty show. Daily the change became more irksome to Marie; her heart was in her former home, and the world was becoming distasteful to her. Suitors and flatterers surrounded her, and the incense of praise and adulation was ever wafted in her car. But Marie, though "with them, was not of them," and daily her heart turned with greater love to the home of her childhood; and a new life opened to Marie. Vainly did the noble and wealthy of the land crowd around her; vainly were the tales of love breathed in her ear her heart belonged to a mightier far than they, and the silver bouds of his love had united it closely to himself. Marie's heart was with her crucified Lord. Vainly did all temptation come her only desire was now to live for him. Suitors And how fares it with our bright Isabel in her new home. A thousand new thoughts and feelings had sprung up withiu her; her wondrous beauty gave her a power over all hearts, and she was not slow to perceive it. She soon became the leader of fashion and gaiety,-her brilliant powers of conversation, her wit and intelligence, procured for her a universal reputation. Her dress was ever the most magnificent, and her smile was ever the brightest. She, indeed, bore the palm from all others; her sway was universal, and imperiously did she use the sceptre of power. Still, the frankness and generosity of her nature were uppermost, and never was one so loved and so admired as Isabel. Her life was one of uninterrupted gaiety and pleasure; ever and anon thoughts of her couvent home came across her, and for a time pleasure was forgotten in its memories. Briefer grew these intervals, for the love of power and admiration was leading her ou. Fainter grew the shadows of the past; more indistinct and confused became her recollections of all she had been taught and of all she had hoped to be. thronged around her; her highmindedness prevented her from coquetry, and noue could boast of one mark of favour or encouragement. Those whom Isabel loved she loved passionately; she had loved Mother Lucia from her childhood with a fervour and intensity that belonged to her impetuous nature; she still corresponded with her, and to the sister's letters Isabel was indebted to a great degree; kind they ever were, but ever breathing the same spirit of warning and of care. Isabel still passionately loved her, and all that was good in her she felt had been brought out by the care of the Holy Mother. Amongst Isabel's suitors there appeared a most accomplished and amiable young man, called Ernest Seval; he was handsome and very fascinating,-his noble countenance bore the impress of his soul; highly skilled in all the attainments that become a man, and perfect in all the accomplishments of a gentleman, he soon made an impression upon Isabel that others had failed in doing. He was a Catholic, and had the most fervent and chivalrous love for his faith. His intellect was highly cultivated,―his powers of conversation were brilliant. His life, for one so young aud wealthy, was singularly pure and holy. Never did his dark eye flash so brightly, or his face appear so animated and intelligent, as when defending or explaining the doctrines of the faith he loved so well. Ernest was not long in discovering that beneath the veil of gaiety-half proud and half playful, Isabel had a warm heart and a well-cultivated disposition. Frequently thrown into each other's society, the clear penetration of Ernest discovered in the beautiful girl rich veins of thought and a deep and glowing imagination, and to show her the vanity of fashion, to lead her naturally noble mind to higher and holier things, became his chief object. For this end he was constantly with her, and it was not wonderful that the tie that bound two so young and gifted should daily become stronger. Her aunt, with whom Isabel now lived, was fond of Ernest, and nothing gave her more pleasure than to see them together. And truly they were each worthy of the other: Isabel's graceful and elegant figure never looked so well as when contrasted with the noble and stately form of Ernest. CHAPTER IV. "I've gazed on many a brighter face, As it had left on hers."-MRS. WELBY. It was the feast of Corpus Christi: morning broke gay and smiling; all Nature had put on her richest attire to celebrate the great festival. All was joy and preparation in the Convent of Longdale,--for that day a fair young girl was to receive the white veil of a novice, and to begin in earnest her life of self-denial. Beautifully was the little church decorated with flowers; they were the roses, red and white, twined in many a fair wreath; there were spotless lilies and rich laburnums, the fragrant lilac, and the sweet violet. At an early hour were the convent children assembled in their white dresses and long veils, each with a bouquet of beautiful flowers; gay and happy they looked, for the postulant was an old friend and a long-loved favourite. Indeed, it was none other than the "white rose," our gentle Marie. Discontented with the world, and loving God alone, she had left fortune, rank, and gaiety, all to live for Him a life of self-denial and humility. The convent sisters were in the choir, the organ was pouring forth its rich notes of joy and welcome, the venerable priest knelt before the altar with his train of neophytes, and Marie entered, followed by two little children, who were to officiate as her bridesmaids. Lovely and gentle she ever was, but there was now a faint flush on her check that enhanced her beauty; and most like an angel she looked as with her rich white robes floating around her, her hands clasped, and her fair head bent low, she knelt before the priest, to ask his blessing and-the veil. In a clear sweet voice, that thrilled the hearts of those who looked on, she answered all the reverend father's questions. One by one the rich robes, the ornaments she wore, were taken from her, the long golden tresses were laid at the altar's foot, and the black dress was given her, and the novice's veil. Attended by the Mother Superior, and two assistant nuns, she then withdrew, and soon again entered the chapel clad in a coarse serge dress, and with a veil upon her head. Kneeling again before the priest, he blessed her, and placed upon her head a crown of white roses, typical of the spotless life she was called to lead. Rising, she was conducted in turn to each of the sisters, to whom the kiss of peace was given, and again she knelt, and the holy sacrifice went on. None viewed this scene with feelings so intense as Mother Lucia,-gratefully she thanked the good God who had taken this spotless flower to himself. The mass was ended, and slowly the sisters left the chapel. And that day all was gay and rejoicing in the THE Church is constantly inviting and cordially recommending her children, frequently during the daily toils of life, to call to mind some of her truths: she bids us, as often as we hear the sound of a clock, to sign ourselves with the sign of the Cross; before we commence any action, to make an offering of it to our Lord; when we retire to rest, to sprinkle our bodies with Holy water. Each of these little practices has a meaning and an expression which come home so strikingly to the Catholic mind. As in spring, a mild shower brings refreshment and fertility to the thirsty earth, so does a short act of devotion, piously performed, re-invigorate the heart, and qualify it afresh for the duties and the cares of life. This is a consoling thought for the sons of toil, who, from morning to night, are busily employed amid the strife and the turmoil of some huge town. There is another exercise of Catholic devotion which lays claim to a special notice, as in a few words it embodies the greatest, the most sublime, and the noblest of our doctrines. We here allude to the Angelus, that prayer which the Church has appointed to be recited thrice each day, in honour of the Incarnation; a mystery so transcendant, that in pondering upon it the mind of mortal man feels a suffusion of love and gratitude,-a mystery of which the commemoration, to use a sainted and eloquent Pontiff's own words "Una cunctis lætitiæ communis est ratio."* In proportion, as the black malice of heresy has sought to destroy, to uproot, and to lay low this saving truth, so much the more brightly and the more gloriously has its light shone forth. Nay, even in these days, a fresh lustre has been imparted to our Lord's Incarnation by the solemn declaration, that his Virgin mother was conceived without sin. Now, the Angelus is divided into three parts; each of which contains a Versicle and Response, and is followed by that prayer which the child learns in early years of innocence, and which the lips of advanced age can pronounce when memory fails, and when life, like the evening ocean, is fast receding. There is no moment in which the true son of Mary does not delight to recite an Ave Maria. The first portion of the devotion which we are now consider. ing, contains these words:" Angelus Domini nuntiavet Marie et concepit de Spiritu Sancto." Here, we see, that the first word has given to this prayer the title of the Angelus. This is the custom of the Church on many of her devotional practices. These words are said in commemoration of the mystery of the Annunciation on Holy Gabriel's bright mission to Nazareth, where he revealed to the humble Virgin, tidings of the honours with which our Lord was pleased to recompense her many virtues and her loving fidelity. Truly, indeed, may the Church delight in this message, which was the beginning of a new and a glorious era. The reply of Mary to the Archangel, is embodied in the second part of the Angelus. After learning the full nature of her prerogatives, she exclaimed :-" Ecce ancilla Domini : Fiat, mihi secundum verbum tuum." Her words were few; but they were expressive beyond all others, they serve to show how humility must have reigned in the Virgin's heart. The promises of a futurity of ineffable blessedness called not into action one spark of human glory, or of selfcomplacency. No; she styled herself the Handmaid of the Is a common cause of joy to all.--St. Leo. The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary, and she conceived of the Holy Ghost. Behold the handmaid of the Lord: may it be done unto me according to thy word, Lord, and she besought, that in her regard might be accomplished His own sweet-loving pleasure. How profitable is it for the Catholic to have, thrice each day, this meet and fit answer brought to his remembrance. But if the first and second divisions of the Angelus are beautiful, and if they inspire high and noble thoughts to pious minds, it is impossible to prize too greatly the third portion of this devotion. "Et verbum caro factum est, et habitavit in nobis."* We are here carried back in memory to that dark and wintry night, to that stable whither Mary and Joseph directed their weary steps, to all those touching incidents which attended the Incarnation of the word Eternal. Then comes the announcement of, how the Lord of All, the Alpha and the Omega, for thirty years, dwelt amid the seclusion of Nazareth. During this period of hidden life He loved and He obeyed, He toiled and He laboured; He was in all respects like to frail man, save that He was spotless and sinless. Our Lord dwelt amongst us for three more years, and the consideration of these years embraces His public ministry, His preaching, His example, His miracles, His rejection by the proud, censorious, and unbelieving world, and lastly, the consummation of all his labours upon Calvary. Such are the memories which Holy Church secks, by the sound of the Angelus bell, to revive in her children's mind during hours of toil. Who shall have the hardihood to deny that practices like these tend to enlarge the heart, and enable it to retain in all their unclouded splendour the bright mysteries of religion? The Angelus concludes with a short prayer, by which we implore Christ to infuse into our souls that grace which may render us worthy of a participation in the glory of His resurrection. There are two indulgences annexed to this devotion,-one is plenary, and may be gained by any person, who, having confessed and communicated, upon some day in the month, according to his own selection, shall on the same day recite, kneeling, the Angelus morning, noon, and evening; the other, which is for 100 days, is applicable every time this prayer is repeated at other times, with the same condition of kneeling. Pope Benedict XIV. in the year 1742, confirmed these indulgences, adding, that during the whole of the Pascal season, which extends from Holy Saturday until Trinity Sunday, the anthem, Regina Cali Latare, with its versicle, response, and prayer, must be said standing, in place of the Angelus. Now the Church, out of that true maternal foresight which is her peculiar characteristic, concedes the same indulgences to those of her children, who, not knowing the Regina Cali, shall continue to recite the Angelus, although this latter prayer must, during Pascal time, as well as upon all Sundays of the year, be repeated in a standing position. We have, indeed, written nothing concerning this beautiful devotion but what is fully known to the majority of Catholics; yet, perhaps, our paper may serve to show how easily the sons and the daughters of toil may refresh their minds for a few minutes with the thought of the Infant at Bethlehem, and of his own sweet loving mother, Mary. DISCIPULUS. SISTERS OF MERCY IN BELFAST. No doubt it is with very great pleasure we all see the convent for the good Sisters of Mercy, rising above the town; and from the plans, we may hope that it will, when finished, redound much to the honour of the Catholics of Belfast. These noble and generous ladies have renounced home, and peace, and joy, to labour for the salvation of their neighbour; whether in the soldier's camp, or the infected hospital, or at the sick-bed, or in the wearying toils of the day and night school, all are alike welcome to their zeal and charity. Truly, *And the word was made flesh, and dwelt amongst us. fellow-townsmen, if we even sought but our own honour and credit in the perfecting of the building in hand, we ought not to stand idle; for, were it not a shame to Belfast to be indebted to other towns for money to carry out this worthy work? Ought we not to rejoice that God has given ns, in the building of a convent for these kind and holy ladies, an opportunity of laying up stores for ourselves in heaven, where "rust or moth cannot destroy," and where every penny laid out is counted by Him, who will not be outdone in generosity, and who is to be our judge The Ulsterman. Poetry. TO OUR BLESSED LADY. SWEET lily of Eden! Immaculate Maid! The crown of sharp thorns which encircled His head, A SEA-SIDE PICTURE. I stood on the shore of the clear blue sca And to the works, great Lord, of thee The castern sun was shining bright, The air was soft as balm, No sullying breeze from the neighb'ring heights How proudly o'er its glassy bosom As the whispering ripples play T. MAHONY (Cork). |