The Cardinal's Words.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXX, Issue 43, 23 October 1902, Page 1

The Cardinal's Words.

' I was present,' writes Rev. H. W. Geary, 'at the memorable scene in the Cork Municipal Chambers on August 29, when the freedom of the city was conferred upon Cardinal Moran, by the unanimous vote of Catholic and Protestant Councillors as a recognition of the services rendered by him to his native country in the elucidation of its ancient history and past glories. Burns sang of his native heath ;—; — ' My dear, my native soil 1 For whom my warmest wißh to Heav'n is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be bleat with health and peace and sweet content ! ' And this was, in effect, the burden of the magnificent discourse which his Eminence delivered in reply to the assembled Councillors and the surging crowd of people of every degree and creed that filled the Municipal Buildings and their precincts to the verge of suffocation. His presentation of the case for equal treatment of Ireland was calm and masterly and powerful, and he rose to the height of towering eloquence when he pictured the unity of the hopes and aspirations of the seadivided Gael. But no part of his fine discourse struck a note that vibrated more warmly in the breasts of his packed audience than the closing sentences in which he unfolded his own inmost soul and told in tones that came full from the heart his personal pride in and love of the dear old motherland. If previous parts of his address won warm and frequent applause, this won the higher compliment of tears. 'It has fallen to my lot,' said his Eminence, 'to travel a good deal, and to visit many lands. Now that the autumn of life is not far distant, and that my period of the sear and yellow leaf is at hand, I may be permitted to give expression to my conviction that there are few countries in the world in which man's pilgrimage here below may be attended by such contentment ar.d peace and happiness as iir Ireland. The Englishmen will rejoice in being born in Britain, incomparable as it is in commercial enterprise. The Italian may be proud of his country's renown, the home of the muses, of the fine arts. Others would prefer, as the land of their birth, the rugged hills of Switzerland, the fair plains of France, the sunny gardens of chivalrous Spain, or the widespreading domain of Germany, unconquerable as it is in its love of fatherland. For my part, " I return thanks to the Almighty that I was born in Ireland, poor Ireland, suffering Ireland, holy Ireland." I venerate the footsteps of Ireland's early saints, her ruined sanctuaries, her wayside graves. I love her harbors, her rivers, her lakes. I rejoice in her blue mountains, her mossy streams, her undulating plains. I cherish every leaf of her forests, every flower of her meadows, every shamrock of her green hills. So long as life remains it will be my prayer that faith, hope and charity, the virtues typified by the triple leaf of that dear little sacred plant may every day abound more and more among Erin's sons, and that every blessing that heaven can bestow may be the inalienable heritage of this dear old land.'