Most of those trying to lead a life of Christian perfection in the world model their spiritual life on one or other of the religious Orders, following its spirit and finding in the ideals of the religious family to which they have attached themselves, if only by ties of affection and reverence, an encouragement, an inspiration and a spiritual strength. It is, then, in no Way surprising that the new lay institutes, brought into being in their present form by the Apostolic Constitution Provida Mater published in March, 1947, should in some cases grow up under the aegis and protection of one of the older monastic Orders.

Granted the pre-eminence of charity among the virtues, the superiority of the contemplative over the active life, there is still a sense in which we are most. like to God when performing the works of mercy. For the whole order of things, the relations between creatures and the pale semblance of rights which we are permitted to assert in the divine presence, are dependent on the Creator's prerogative of mercy. Whatever is, is the consequence of God's mercy removing the defect that is non-existence; the even more abysmal deficiency that is sin is removed by his greater merey and by that very fact we are brought without merit into a still higher order of justice. This last was effected by a mercy determined to stir our hearts and to show how much God would be like ourselves: because divine beatitude can admit of no defects, God as God cannot suffer with us; but becoming man, he could both remove misery and feel it—he knew compassion.

In response to the crying need of the present day a large number of new religious associations have sprung up during the last few years. On one hand the appeal of the interior life in the midst of a materialistic and superficial world, and ou the other the urgent need of apostolic work, have brought into being a new type of society adapted to modern circumstances. We describe here a Spanish institution, the Teresian Institute, which has already existed for thirty-seven years and which can be seen today as a flourishing member of the apostolate.

Saint Nilus's characteristically balanced view of the life of prayer and action leads him, like St Thomas at a later date, to prefer the ‘mixed’ or apostolic life. ‘bishop,’ he says, ‘is a man accomplished both in action and contemplation (praxei kai gnosei), more perfect than the ascetics in the desert’ (Oratio ad Albanum, 704A). It is a high ideal, difficult to attain, and calling for expert guidance. In his Liber de monastica exercitatione St Nilus traces the portrait of the perfect spiritual director which is as valid today as it was then. ‘Those’, he writes, ‘who would undertake the guidance of others must first have fought their own passions and prudently stored up in their memory the experiences of this warfare so that they may hand them on to others and thus make victory easier for them.’ (Mon. Exerc, 25; 752A). This ‘tight against the passions’ is a typical conception occurring in many of the Greek Fathers who are influenced by Stoic philosophy.

When I was told I should have the honour of speaking to you today I thought I would like to submit for your consideration some thoughts on the spirit that animated St Vincent de Paul and inspired the works associated with his name. He was, as you know, proclaimed to be, and constituted, the patron of all Catholic associations of charity throughout the world by Pope Leo XIII. But he is, I venture to think, in a special way your patron. Tt is not perhaps generally known that, when he instituted the Confraternities of Charity, he established them for both men and women. The ladies of 17th-century France seem to have had both more energy and independence than the men, for, whilst their confraternities flourished and still flourish, those of the men were soon absorbed into a body that came to be known as the Company of the Blessed Sacrament which, a few years after St Vincent's death, was suppressed, on alleged political grounds, by Mazarin.

Martin's father was irked by Martin's lowly profession and the friars agreed with Don Juan that Martin, being lettered and well versed in medicine as well, should be received as a brother-professed.

But because of his humility Martin would not agree to become even a lay-brother, and he never rose above the degree of a donator, a tertiary. The only privilege to which, some fifteen years later, he joyfully assented was to be allowed to take the solemn vows for life whilst he remained a tertiary: this was indeed a rare privilege. During the whole of his religious life Martin wore a white habit with a black cappa or cloak.

We read in today's Gospel that our Lord went into the temple and drove out of it the buyers and sellers, saying to those who sold doves: ‘Take these things hence’. By that he meant that he wanted the temple to be pure: ‘It is my temple’, he seemed to say, ‘I have full right to claim it. I alone intend to dwell there. I alone mean to be its master.’

‘I perceive’, said the Countess, ‘that philosophy is now become very mechanical.’ ‘So mechanical’, said I, ‘that I fear we shall quickly be ashamed of it: they will have the World to be in great what a watch is in little; which is very regular and depends only upon the just disposing of the several parts of the movement. But pray tell me, Madam, had you not formerly a more sublime Idea of the Universe?’ We have now passed the mechanical phase of religious teaching and are come to a time when it is easy to be ashamed or at least timid about religion. And the one leads to the other. So soon as religion is reduced to a code of rules and embargoes adherence to any religious sect ceases to have any more significance than affiliation to a golf club.

Who is St David? Or perhaps we should rather ask: what is he? Is he a symbol only, the human equivalent of leek or dragon, mythical, providing a happy opportunity for a patriotic toast or for the annual generalisations of public persons? Or does he remain powerful in his own right, with something still to say to his own people? There is no harder task than the rediscovery of what is familiar. To see the room in which you sit as new, to know your friends afresh; yes, but good-natured habit and, even more, laziness are always urging us to accept instead of to enquire. For the myth grows old and respectable, and its origin was forgotten long ago. Fourteen centuries of time and an infinity of change separate us from St David. To rediscover him means by-passing almost the whole of our history and surrendering quite a lot of our prejudices.