Perhaps it would be asserted by some, that my present change is the effect of the moment—that it originates from whim or caprice, and is not the result of coolness and reflection. But, my friends, the months that have passed by since the first open avowal of my sentiments to my then Roman Catholic Bishop, in the presence of another Roman Catholic Clergyman, would serve as an answer to such accusations; while my written as well as personal communications upon this subject, with the truly pious and Protestant Rector of Castletowndelvin, long previous to the open announcement of my sentiments to my bishop, must falsify the assertion, that “this change is the result of the moment.” Allow me also to tell you, that I have mentioned my past doubts, not only months, but years ago, to a near relation, who summed up many a plausible argument to dissuade me from that course, which, I trust, under the guidance of heaven I have now adopted: and what is more, in compliance with the request of my late friends, I have gone to some of the most distinguished members of the Roman religion, to explain to them my doubts; but their mystified evasions upon plain and evident truths, have only tended to confirm me in the conviction of their errors. Oh, my friends, my present change is not the effect of the moment, but it is the effect of a mind that has overcome an almost invincible prejudice—a prejudice that grew up with my youthful days—that accompanied my more mature years, and had nearly interwoven itself around the future destinies of my soul. It is the effect of a mind that has taken impartiality for its guide, and looked upon truth as the sole object of its ambition—a mind that has ruminated day and night upon the subject—that has viewed both sides of the question coolly, attentively, and I trust religiously, and has now come to this determination, which is founded on a consciousness of its rectitude. During those hours of darkness, when “sleep falleth upon man”—when others were taking that repose to which the silence of the night or exhausted nature might invite them—I trust it is not too much the language of egotism for me to say, that during the silent hours, when thinking of my present change, I had often bedewed the nightly pillow with the tears of affliction—“my eye-lids had grown dim with grief”—my nights were turned into day because of my watching—and I could find no rest until I obeyed the advice of the Psalmist, saying, “To-day if yon will hear his voice—harden not your hearts.” Psalm xcv. 7–8.