the dangerous creek of Ringabella, beyond which are iron-bound precipices descending straightly into "the main sea deep."

Our pleasant office is over, yet_we linger as though loath to leave. The bright stream whose beauties we have feebly essayed to describe, passes before us in panoramic revealings, as we are about to take our long farewell. The lonely lake of its birthplace, the tall mountain, the green-swarded meadow, the glancing tributary, the crumbling abbey, the shattered castle, the solitary moor, the peopled cityall successively start up to our mind's eye, and remind us of hours passed away we can never know again. And now we stand on the last headland, overlooking the darkling ocean, to waive

We

our adieu. The scene and the occasion are in unison. The great "face of the deep" is a solemn object for contemplation at all times: but its solemnity grows on one, and its thought-creating power becomes more intense, if corresponding emotions had already been working within, even before we looked out upon its indefinite vastness. find in it the image of the Eternity, into which all that we hope, or fear, or love, or hate, must ere long sink. It is the place for farewells; and so the great poet felt, who closed the career of his "Harold" at its trackless waves. It is the place for grief to weep itself away, while it hearkens to that mighty diapason, as to the sound of a living voice breathing mysterious condolence; and therefore old Homer makes his daughter-bewailing priest, Chryseus,

"Walk in silence by the full-voleod sea,”

his

THE existence of this work of impertinent nomenclature was quite unknown to us, until our attention was attracted to it by a review in the pages of a distinguished contemporary, where it received praises so lavish as to have the effect of infusing vital energy into what had been previously supposed a very rickety literary bantling indeed. Its powers of life were languishing; the worthy publisher who had intro. duced it to the world was beginning to despair, and the volumes seemed likely to remain standing on shelves to all eternity, when forth came the egregious puff, which wafted it over the still waters of oblivion into the flowing tide of prosperity, and we believe ultimately into the pleasant harbour of a second edition. Well, all this having reached our ears, we ordered the book, expecting a rich treat from pages pronounced by a high authority to be overflowing with humour, unstained by vulgarity, and suggestive, besides, of serious thoughts and reflection. It is enough to say at starting, that we were never more thoroughly disappointed in our life. It is a curious feature in the aspect of the present times, what a remarkable distaste there is for every thing with reference to Ireland, except abuse and slander, which, if properly seasoned, are extremely palatable. The whole of the English press, without distinction of party, seems animated by the one common object of vilifying and holding up to odium every thing in our unhappy country. We hoped the Quarterly Review would have risen superior to such miserable prejudices, but we are truly sorry to find that to the common rule there is not even this one exception. That mighty organ of English opinion, the Times, has set an example which all seem eager to follow; and we think the annals of journalism can scarcely produce more atrocious and slanderous libels than have been set forth in the columns of that newspaper within the last two years, with reference to Ireland, which may truly claim the proud distinction

. 66

of being the best abused country in Europe.

Belgium has been compared by some great man (we forget his name, nor, indeed, is it of much importance for the purposes of our present object) to a cockpit, wherein it is the pleasant pastime of rival nations to decide their little differences, whenever, at the instigation of the devil, they feel an amiable desire for cutting each other's throats. The country is so roomy and flat, so admirably adapted, by reason of the absence of all engineering difficulties, for the evolutions of large armies, that any personal inconvenience which might happen to the inhabitants, in regard of loss of life or of property, weigh but as a feather in the scale. If a territory should be depopulated-a few villages consigned to ashes-the snug chateaus of country squires knocked about their ears or any little disasters of a similar nature occur-what care the belligerents so long as the country affords a fair scope for their martial amusements-all such matters are of very trivial importance. In like manner has our green island, from time immemorial, been selected as the corpus vili, whereupon experiments are to be made by rival armies of famished authors, fighting like the devil for fame or pay, and those contingent advantages which follow in their train, careless if they outrage public opinion, or set at nought all the feelings of their victims-then they have the audacity to complain of a breach of hospitality, if a gentleman closes his doors against them, as in a recent instance, where a prying Cockney Quaker was very properly excluded from Woodstock. What can be the meaning of all this? Does this country-do the characteristics of its inhabitants afford such very peculiar scope for such aggression? We ask the question in stern indignation. We set political considerations altogether aside for the present, asking merely the question, if our blood and our treasure have not been lavished in profusion to make that country from which this

horde of scribbling miscreants emerge, the country which she is? Where, in all those hard-fought contests which have earned for England the military reputation she now enjoys-where has an Irish arm, or an Irish heart been wanting? In every quarter of the globe our countrymen have fought, and have fallen-their bones are mouldering on the mountains of the East, they are whitening on the shores of Spain. In that dreadful day which is still fresh in the memory of our readers, when the empire of England in the East was all but lost-when victory was trembling in the balance— when men went down in thousands, beneath the fire of the Sikh artillery, by whose voice were the armies of England incited by whose example were they animated? Was it not a grey-haired Irish veteran that shewed them the path to victory-and when the morning dawned upon that dreadful field, did it not gleam, too, upon the mighty river, whose waves were darkened with the commingled blood of Ireland and of England?

And

what is our reward? To be a target for their scorn-to be reviled, ridiculed, and insulted. Surely these people cannot be surprised at disaffection to their laws, at want of social confidence, and want of material prosperity, among a people kept in constant hostility towards their governors, by these indiscretions on the part of the governing nation. For it has truly been said that "Insolence was the first Repealer ;" and we own we cannot see how any permanent union can be maintained, while the dominant country encourages so fruitful a parent of dissension. The facilities of intercourse, which ought to conduce to better acquaintanceship and better feeling, only tend to increase the evil, and to subject this country to periodical invasions of the very vermin of literature. They go scampering in droves over the whole length and breadth of the land, spying out what they consider our nakedness. Having noted down whatever grotesque, or despicable, or revolting traits they may observe, or may hear of, during their few weeks' sojourn (spent in the company of low companions), they return to their desks in London, and, out of the coarsest materials, compile the most sordid and malignant libels. Twenty ministerial miscarriages do

not do so much to alienate the Irish people from the rest of the empire, as the employment of one of these unlucky and wretched men, who, for a single hundred pounds, will cast more of the poison of international hate into the bitter cup of our destinies, than fifty years of the best government, conducted at the cost of millions, can avail to neutralize. It may be advanced as an excuse, that the writers of this country have set a bad example-and there is, unfortunately, some truth in this "It is an ill bird that fouls its own nest" and we are sorry to admit a fact which cannot be denied, that we have had a large share of this unnatural and unfilial progeny-but, we hope the writers of Ireland will, for the future, have better taste and better feeling, than to follow such leadingand as for those who come with the poaching attributes of their miserable race, to make game of the peculiarities of the Milesian temperament, we shall set up a warehouse for the manufacture of instruments of castigation of which an abundant supply may be obtained-and

"Whips be placed in every honest hand,

To lash the scoundrels naked through the land."

The latest occurrence which has stirred our gall, is the appearance of the work whose title ornaments the head of this chapter. It is not devoid of a certain smart turn of writing and cleverness, or we should not have deemed it worth our notice. But, in proportion to a writer's ability is his power of doing mischief, and creating false impressions-harmless sallies, devoid of acumen, and free from personalities, may be passed over with impunity-every country has its peculiar foibles. We have all our weaknesses, as the Frenchman said when he boiled his grandmother's head in a pipchin;" but does this afford any reason why Ireland is to be made the laughing-stock of Europe-why lying, slandering, and all manner of misre presentations, should be scattered abroad against us. Why each gossiping English coterie, each petty book-club, should be entertained by a feast, the main ingredient of which is ridicule of

us.

66

No; we shall make it our business to chastise the offence, and to annihilate the offenders-we shall kick down from his pedestal every little pot-bellied Cockney celebrity-the stalwart foot of Maga shall be applied

to his nether-end, with a force which he covets not he shall be whipped at the cart's tail of public opinion-he shall be made a fit object for the scorn of the Row-he shall be a scarecrow for every respectable publisher until the Bentleys and Colburns, seeing him in the way, shall pass by on the other side. In the first volume of this book is a frontispiece, entitled "Irish Harrowing," which we shall here describe, for the benefit of such of our readers as have not seen the original. We, of course, mean the picture-taking it for granted, that every one is aware that no such species of cruelty is practised in this country at the present day; whether it has been the case in any former time we leave to the curious imaginations of such miserable panderers to national animosity, such as the author now under our notice.

A wretched bare-legged peasant is seated astride upon a miserable famished horse, whose hair is staring up like that upon the skin of a terrier, of what is usually called the wirehaired species. He is fastened by the tail to a harrow, upon the top of which, in order to sink its teeth more firmly into the ground, is laid an enormous stone. The poor brute is plunging wildly in vain endeavours to draw this heavy mass by his caudal extremity-his rider, all the while, belabouring him about the head, with a countenance of most savage atrocity, using for the purpose a thick clubbed stick, firmly grasped by the middle-while, in the distance is seen a boy, half-naked, with mouth reaching from ear to ear, and a large stick upon his shoulder, evidently enjoying the spectacle with the keenest relish-and two peasants, seated on a bank at some little distance, are quietly looking on with lively delight, smoking at intervals, by the way of giving a zest to this choice spectacle. Now, for what purpose does the writer present this beautiful drawing to the notice of his readers, when we are informed, some pages further on in his book, that the practice which it is meant to illustrate has long ceased to exist? Every nation, at some period of its existence, has unquestionably perpetrated many savage and barbarous practices, and that our own country was exempt from those amiable weaknesses,

VOL. XXXI.-NO. CLXXXVI.

it is vain to deny; but if he intends thus to prove his proposition, that we are still in a half-savage state, we take the liberty of telling him, that, although, as he asserts on the authority of Holingshed, there is no Irish term for a knave-we could select from our vocabulary an epithet, which so inso. lent a writer so richly deserves, but which our respect for those conventional usages of society which he has outraged, withholds us from adopting.

He states somewhere his impressions of Irish character, which, he adds, is to the great majority of Englishmen a profound mystery-a mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, credulity and foolish distrust; a sense of honour, with dishonest jobbing; high spirit, with abject dependence; no sense of right and wrong. Our legislators falsifying history for selfish purposes to establish a case; our farmers withholding their seed-wheat, and letting their land remain fallow as long as there is a possibility that the government will find them seed. Our landlords guilty of dishonesty and tyranny; our orators empty clamorists; the whole country a nation upon whom kindness and conciliation are thrown away. And then he has the effrontery to add, what appears to us the consummation of this unparalleled decoction of falsehood:

"That savages, or even half-savages, must feel the strong hand to inspire them with respect; thus the conciliatory system in the East, and not even ready money, will get you on. Are the Irish civilized? Are they in a condition to be placed on the same footing with the English? and can a people be called civilized where farm-labourers work under an escort of police-where they harrow by the horses' tails-where ball-proof waistcoats are lucrative articles of manafacture," &c. &c.

Our national characteristics, he proceeds to add, are, "a love of sporting and a hatred of work." The younger brother will drag on his shabby life at the family domain, rather than make an effort to be independent by means of a profession; and as for a trade, he would call out the man who suggested such a degradation. The shopkeeper shuffles out of the business, and leaves it to his wife, while he is either indulging his half-tipsy grandeur in the back-par

3 B

lour, or out with the hounds. The farmer, even in harvest-time, will leave the loaded car, throw aside the business of the day, to follow the "hoont," if the hounds come in his neighbourhood. Even a shooting sportsman is sufficient to attract them. They follow the example set them by their betters, and have learned no other.

Now, we ask, in sober seriousness, if this vile misimpersonation of Irish nature shall be allowed to continue, or are these gross libellers of our common country to pass unpunished? The author was introduced into this country, as he himself states, before steam-packets came into fashion. He never visited it since-if he has a prudent regard for his hide he never will again. We question if the state of society which he represents existed even at that period; but is it to be tolerated that, even assuming it did, the picture is a correct one of what exists now? Are we alone exempt from the social improvement which has taken place in other countries within the space of the last fifty years? Has there been no increase of civilization-no spread of education? And is it just that, even now when we are only beginning to recover from the effects of one of the most awful visitations of Providence which ever, in the history of countries, fell upon an unhappy land, we are to be libelled by the miserable and petty misrepresentations of every book-making trifler, who, impelled by hunger and request of friends," or prompted by the ignorant vanity of his nature, and his aspirations after literary distinction, chooses to foist his rubbish upon the public? Our landlords-heaven help them!have become the victims of legislative immolation, as we proved in our April number; our peasants have been carried off in thousands by disease and famine, borne with a patient resignation and an unexampled fortitude, which, if we are savages, nevertheless entitle us to the admiration and respect of the civi lized world, in no one country of which, we venture fearlessly to assert, could be found those many virtues which, under the recent pressure, have been called into action.

Not contented either with these foul misrepresentations, ancient history has been ransacked by this reckless libel

ler, for the purpose of proving that we are now only what we ever were, and abundant quotations from Holinshed, Spencer, Ware, and others, are furnished, to establish the interesting fact, that, time out of mind, there was no species of disgusting or revolting enormity which we were not always ready to perpetrate.

If this gentleman, who appears to possess an incredible genius for lying, had been making a book about the savages of America-had been describing the interesting varieties of Lynchlaw-the assassinations which occasionally take place in the open street by republicans with bowie-knives, who have also a pleasant propensity for gouging and other similar atrocities-he could scarcely have presented a more frightful picture of national degradation, than is laid before the public in his pages. Since the time when Shakspeare introduced to an English audience the renowned Captain Macmorris, who, as well as we recollect, is the only Irish character to be found within the plays of the immortal Bard of Avon, we have had every variety of the species; and the interesting peculiarities which each successive delineator of Irish habits and characteristics has thought it necessary to pourtray, seem to be an inordinate love of whisky-punch and duelling, love-making and homicide, meanness and extravagance. What a host of servile writers have been employed in the attempt to vilify and blacken the fine, generous, and confiding nature of our warm-hearted and unsus

pecting countrymen! Received with that cordial welcome and hospitality for which we have ever been remarkable, each mercenary scribe has eaten the mutton and drank the claret of his entertainer, and then departed, chuckling and rubbing his hands with complacent satisfaction, and prepared to commit the grossest outrage upon that hospitality which he had invaded, and to execute a job foul and dirty enough to gratify the avid and greedy appetite which that most credulous and simpleminded monster, John Bull, entertains for everything anti-Milesian or scandalous. Let one or two examples, taken from the work now before us,

suffice. Mrs. Fogarty's tea-party will do as well as anything else for the purpose. After informing his readers how the name of Fogarty is to be pro