us into the kingdom of God's dear Son, and makes us heirs of the promises.

So again, if any one who has been carefully catechized, is told that in the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper there is only a commemoration or remembrance of Christ's death, he will answer, that he was taught in the Catechism, that the Body and Blood of Christ are verily and indeed taken and received by the faithful in the Lord's Supper; and that he must believe, therefore, that he and every faithful receiver of that Sacrament receives our Lord's Body and Blood in the very sense which his blessed Redeemer intended, when He called the Bread His Body, and the Wine His Blood.-So it is, that such short statements committed to memory save men from errour: they are weapons, the power of which is felt in the hour of need. And this is the reason why the Church drew up the Creeds, or forms of belief, which were always committed to memory before the person was baptized,—and has always enforced so strongly the now much neglected duty of catechizing.

"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." Blessed are they, who mercy show

To all the creatures here below:
To bird and insect, fish and beast,
Even from the greatest to the least.
For, tell me whether wouldst thou be,
If thou couldst have thy mind,
The lark, at heaven's gate singing free;
Or in a cage confined?

The dog, that chases, blithe, his tail;

Or chained, the yard within?

The chafer, floating on the gale;
Or writhing on a pin?

The measure then of God's own hand,
Mete thou to all in thy command;
But chiefly to thy fellow kind,

In age or childhood, grief or pain
A Father's mercy thou shalt find,
Where none shall ever moan again.

Rev. J. Bush. (Lines on the Beatitudes.)

THE IRISH BEGGAR'S HUT.

As my friend was rather fatigued, he retired early, and I went out alone to take a walk late in the evening on the sea-shore, and soon perceived a something, I could not make out what, moving before me. As it passed a house, some rays of light from a window discovered to me a strange kind of headgear decorated with flowers, which I recollected to have been worn by a beggar-woman, whom I had seen in the fish-market. She was one of the mob who had closed the gates behind us, and the wildness and eagerness of her gesticulations had suggested to me some doubts of her sanity; a suspicion somewhat confirmed by the fantastic character of her attire. She wore a yellow petticoat, the tattered remains of a large red shawl, which she trailed behind her in the dust like a train, and a man's round hat, with a broad brim, decorated with a garland of artificial flowers. In her hand she carried a stout stick, by the aid of which she moved swiftly along. Altogether she reminded me of a character in one of Walter Scott's novels, as these half-insane, oddlydecorated beggars always do; for she was by no means the only one of the class I had seen in Ireland.

Mary Sullivan, for that was her name, was now proceeding in a very quiet, orderly manner along the shore of Bantry bay; at last I approached and wished her good evening, and she made a perfectly civil reply. It appeared that the business for the

day was over, and, although she still wore the costume of her part, she had left the stage, and was on the point of returning to her private abode. As she said it was situated not far from the town, on the shores of the bay, I offered to accompany her to it, for I had a wish to see the dwelling of an Irish beggar at night.

We crossed some broken, rocky ground, and at last, as it seemed to me, turned quite out of the beaten path; but Mary Sullivan said there was no other way, so on we went. She said, if I would give her my hand, she would lead me in safety to her hut, which, it appeared, belonged, not to her, but to her sister. These poor people generally prefer a wild-looking place to live in; they seem to think they are more independent, if their abodes are not very accessible; and the benefits of the great undertakings of the English in road-making are by no means so universally acknowledged by the Irish as we might suppose. We reached at last the hut of the Sullivans, which stood on a naked, rocky ground, washed by the waters of Bantry bay, and crept in. The Irish are a very religious people, and have all kinds of pretty pious salutations always at hand. If they pass people at work in a field, the regular form is "God bless your work," and the answer "Save you too." If one praises a person or even a thing, or more especially a child, one must never forget to add "God bless it;" for praise always seems suspicious to an Irishman, and, unless accompanied by an invocation of God's blessing, it appears to him to indicate a desire, either to possess it oneself, or to destroy it, by calling towards it the attention of fairies and bad spirits, who are always on the lookout for what is beautiful. An Irish mother would rather hear a stranger say "What a nasty, screaming, disagreeable brat your child is!" than "What a charming little angel you've got there!" unless he instantly warned off the bad spirits by adding "God

bless him." As they never forget to ask a blessing, they are also most diligent in returning thanks. "Thanks to the great God," is a phrase often in their mouths, and certainly I believe in their hearts also. They often utter this thanksgiving, even when speaking of a misfortune, as "I've lost my poor dear little child, thanks to the great God;" a phrase that always reminded me of the Russian slawa bogu," which generally closes every story.

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We crept into the hut of the Sullivans, with the usual salutation of "God save you all," and heard the response "God save you kindly" from the sister of Mary Sullivan and her half-grown daughter, who was crouching over a turf fire, boiling potatoes. A little girl and boy were lying on the ground in company with some pigs, and gnawing a half-raw potato, which they had taken from the pot. The hut was lighted partly by the fire, and partly by a dim lamp, which hung from a rafter. The lamp was a large sea-shell, filled with fish-oil, in which was burning a rush wick.

The father was not at home, having been for some days upon the water, helping to collect coral sand; but another strangely-sounding voice came from the corner of the hovel, which had taken no part in the pious salutation. I asked who was moaning there. 'It is my eldest son, your honour," was the reply; "he's an idiot-thank the great God—and he often moans so the whole day long.'

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By the feeble glimmer of the lamp I now recognised a poor creature, who seemed to me more miserable and helpless, than almost any I had ever beheld. It was a young man about twenty years of age, lying in a sort of box, representing a bed, and which was indeed the best bed the hut contained. He had under him straw and rags, and a pillow for his head, but he lay sobbing and trembling all over. His mother showed me some parts of his miserable frame. His arms and legs were like those of a

skeleton, and several of his fingers had grown together. As we touched him, he lifted up his head, and gazed at us with a vacant look.

"He has been so from his birth, your honour," Isaid his mother. "For twenty years we have been obliged to feed him so, without his being able to do the least thing for us."

"And yet you love him?" said I to the poor mother-thinking, perhaps, that an unfortunate creature like this could hardly be attended to in the midst of such poverty.

“ Love him? –to be sure, your honour. Isn't he my own son, God bless him? Eh, Mavourneen, look up then," she added, raising him carefully up, and laying his head on her arm, while she stroked his crippled hand. "I'm the only one, sir, that understands his language. He never asks after anybody but me. I give him every morning his potatoes, and, when I've got any, milk and porridge. You see he's got a better bed than any of us. Don't sob so, darling."

Mary Sullivan, the old aunt of the idiot, had, in the mean time, hung upon a peg her flower-adorned hat and the other parts of her costume, and taken from her pocket some potatoes and a fish, which had probably been given to her. The potatoes she laid at the corner of the fire, which she seemed to consider as her own, hung the fish by a wire over it to roast, and then took out her pipe and began to smoke. She told me, in answer to my question, that she spent about a half-penny a day in tobacco, that is, fifteen shillings a year, which, for a beggar, appeared to me to be no inconsiderable sum. For a half-penny one can buy, in Ireland, a large piece of bread; and I could not help wishing, that some second Father Mathew might arise, to preach a total abstinence from tobacco, and induce the poor Irish women to expend what it costs them, in wholesome food for themselves or their children.