ume leaves
an aroma behind and imparts a new flavour to his life. Fresh oil
is poured into the lamp of his piety, its flame burns brighter,
he feels an unction in his prayers; he has a holy relish for the
sacraments. His very interests in life change: he looks on
everything with supernatural eyes, he becomes touchy about the
interests of the Church, anxious about the foreign missions, and
feels an insult to the Holy See as a wound.

The food his brain is living on is leavening his whole life,
giving colour, tone and trend to his existence.

[Side note: Brownson]

This literature, on which he nourishes himself, has been
admirably described by the mastermind of Catholic America--Dr.
Brownson:--"Catholic literature is robust and healthy of a ruddy
complexion, and full of life. It knows no sadness but the sadness
of sin, and it rejoices for evermore. It eschews melancholy as
the devil's best friend on earth, abhors the morbid
sentimentality which feeds upon itself and grows by what it feeds
upon. . . . It washes its face, anoints its head, puts on its
festive robe, goes forth into the fresh air, the bright sunshine;
and, when occasion requires, rings out the merry laugh that does
one's heart good to hear. It is on principle that the Catholic
approves such gladsome and smiling literature."[1]

[1] Vol. xix., p. 155.

Now look at the converse picture. Let the mind of the most devout
Catholic feed on the writings of the Protestant or sensualist and
mark the transformation. See how his soul becomes enervated, his
judgment warped and his heart invaded by every temptation. His
Catholic principles insensibly vanish, and the standards of
paganism replace them. The light of the supernatural dies in his
eyes, a film of clay overspreads his vision; he looks on the
Church through coloured lenses, and the rankness of earth is upon
his life.

Thus our thoughts, views and actions are marvellously coloured
and influenced by the books we read.

[Side note: The English press operating on the Irish mind]

Let us now turn to examine how this bears on our own lives and
the lives of those around us.

Thick as snowflakes, but without their whiteness, the sensuous
and infidel Press of England is discharging its messengers of
evil on this land. It is speaking by a multitude of tongues into
the hearts of our people. The sensational novel, the suggestive
picture paper, the trashy magazine are breathing a deadly blight
over the soul of