peasantry, according to which a death upon the gallows is no longer ignominious when it is caused by what is called an agrarian murder?

Who are chargeable with this? Ordinarily speaking, one would say, those to whom the moral instruction of the people is entrusted. But it must undoubtedly proceed either from the presence of bad, or the absence of any instruction at all.

If such a phenomenon were predicable of the north of Ireland; if a Protestant peasantry were found thus indifferent to human life, and thus flagitiously regardless of the precept, "Thou shalt do no murder,” what would be the inference? Would there be any great hesitation in ascribing it to some pernicious influence, exerted by those to whom their early training was confided, and by whom they were taught "the way they should go?" Let us put a case. Let us suppose a most mild and benevolent Roman Catholic clergyman in the north of Ireland savagely murdered; let us suppose him a person who had never interfered in politics, so as to draw down upon himself any marked displeasure, and who had given of his substance indiscriminately to all who were in want; let us suppose the miscreant Orangeman, by whom he was waylaid when on a mission of charity, arrested; let us suppose the charge proved against him, so that no human being could entertain a doubt of his guilt; let us suppose that the jury, neverthe-. less, upon some point which does not touch the merits of the case, acquit the prisoner; let us suppose that upon his enlargement he is surrounded by exulting friends, and that lifting his arm with a fiendish joy, he exclaims, "there's the hand that done the job;" let us suppose this ruffian returning to his native village, all inhabited by bro

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ther Orangemen, and that this village is illuminated at his approach, as if to celebrate this triumph over law, as well as to hail the liberation of their associate, who was acquitte by a mockery of justice; let us sup ose all this taking place in the north of Ireland, and the actors Orangemen, and we ask, would not the press ring with the indignant recital? would not the parliament and the empire be agitated by it? would it not be made to resound through Europe? Would not the Orangemen be denounced as monsters who were not fit to live in human society? And would not the ministry be hurled from power, which could continue to regard them with any peculiar favour?

Now, what we have imagined in the case of the Orangemen of the north, is nothing more than a tame and spiritless narrative of what is literal matterof-fact in the case of the Romanists of the south of Ireland! The Rev. Irwin Whitty is the murdered Protestant clergyman to whom we allude, and every circumstance which we have supposed respecting the trial, the acquittal, and triumphant welcome home of the liberated murderer, is but a transcript of what actually took place when the felon was enlarged who glo. ried in his deed of blood!

But we must conclude.

The reader must draw the inference for himself. Such is the working of popery in Ireland! If Sir James Graham supposes that by largely endowing it, it will be greatly improved, he is much mistaken. He knows not what manner of spirit it is of. And if he be suffered to accomplish his design of establishing it in triumphant ascendancy in this country, there appears to us no limit to the calamities which he will bring upon the empire.

MANY summers ago too many now, and too far off, to be counted with any pleasure we found ourselves at a friendly tea-table in the magic Vale of Avoca. The day had been spent in the wonted restless manner of all tourists; and the shifting scenery which had been brought before us during its well-filled hours, seemed not unlike some gorgeous panorama, as, at the sweet time of "gloaming," we turned to the hospitable roof where we were to find pleasures yet awaiting us in social intercourse. Our fellow-guests were few, and scarcely made a dozen ; but any deficiency of number was more than compensated by the happy gifts of those present, and to the hour that we write we ever look back upon that conversazione as a most successful one. Two or three were, like ourselves, strangers; and marvellously eloquent had we all waxed on Irish, Swiss, and German scenery, comparing and contrasting them one with another, and bringing our various recollections to elucidate our positions. Mine hostess, a young and remarkably pretty woman, did her part with cleverness and tact; and though apparently only now and then linking-in a sentence, was in truth the guide star of the whole re-union, suggesting throughout the course we all should pursue. She questioned us (individualiter) as to what we had seen and what we had not seen, in the day's ramble; and then, in few words, outVOL. XXVII.-No. 162.

WORDSWORTH.

lining what we might do on the morrow, she added

"And when you stand at Moore's tree, you will have at your feet The Meeting he has given immortality to (nothing can shake my faith at least in the locality); while soaring overhead is the proud hill of Castle Howard, with its dream of woods."

A look of delighted pleasure indicated that we had fully caught-up the poetry of the idea; and we could not less than reward the fair enthusiast by replying

"Well, were we but fortunate enough to listen always to such sentences, we should say the fairy tale was realized of the princess, who never unsealed her lips, but pearls and diamonds straightway fell from them to the ground!”

"A dream of woods." You must place yourself on some eminence, reader mine, which will give you a far-stretching prospect of forest scenery. You have been to Chatsworth? "No." Anywhere, then, nearer home. You have climbed the hill, and now have tree-tops far beneath you, and on either side to look out upon. Far, far away expands that tranquil sea of foliage, out of which now and then strikes forth the cawing rook, breaking the noonday stillness with harsh cries. What a dazzling sheen is flung across that beech grove, lighting up its very inmost recesses, like a fire-illumined pa

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lace by night; and passing onward by those dark-green firs, it falls low down in the glen on the murmuring streamlet, pouring a blaze of gold on its leaping waters and now, all is dark and still again! And looming away in the distance (you can scarcely trace them out from the blue clouds with which they are intermingled) are heath-clad mountains; and beyond them again, the restless sea, evermore surging its waves against the defying headlands. Here and there a rift of feathery smoke, ascending calmly into the tranquil sky, indicates some human dwelling; but were it not for such an intimation, you might deem the whole bright world unpeopled, and that you stood alone, emparadised in solitude. And while you gaze, and pour yourself abroad on the fair vision, what thronging images start into being within you. Vague memories, vain longings unconsciously show themselves. Childhood, youth, manhood, which have come and gone, and have stamped you into the being that you are, are beheld with one full although fleeting glance, and are recognized with truthful sorrow. Thoughts of what you might have been, and what you once promised yourself that you would be, give an upbraiding contrast to what you know you are, and must now continue-how little known, and less cared for! But trouble itself is speedily forgotten; and like the bright haze in which the valley before you is sleeping, a thin veil is drawn over the past, which startles no more by its sharp-cut realities. Dear, blessed Nature! what a kindly mother thou art to thy sorrowing children : thou soothest their wayward murmurings while they are waking, and when at last the slumber of death falls upon them, thou takest them home to thy sheltering bosom, there to rest in unbroken repose! A soft languor grows on you, and then a better spirit prevails; and with quieter thoughts you listen to the preachings of Nature, and from them derive comfort and peace.

"A dream of woods!" How much of the strange, wild history of man, from its very beginning, is wrapped up in the theme! Within the groves, and on the high places of old, were celebrated the impure mysteries of Paganism; and human blood reeked upon the altar of a cathedral not made with hands, the long-drawn forest alleys.

The graceful superstitions of Greece, on the other hand, poured intellectual glory on the woodlands; each tree became a nymph, who sported in the sunshine, and possessed life identified with that tree's continuance. The waving foliage was her drooping hairs, the ca dence of its sighing in the winds her tearful voice; and her death-shrieks were no other than the creaking of the riven timber, when the ornament of the forest fell prostrate before the woodman's axe. A truer faith has for ever endeared to us Lebanon and its cedars, whereof the house of Jehovah was formed by Tyrian architects for the Wise King; and on Olivet there yet remain eight aged trees, which Christian tradition has identified with the sufferings of the Son of God. They stand within the inclosure, that was once Gethsemane.

English history has countless associations for us. The yew tree, now so fallen in value, seven centuries agone was in higher estimation than even the oak. With its tough, sinewy arms were won the red fields of Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt; where the archers' shafts, old Froissart tells us, "fell so thick and so continuous that they seemed like unto snow," neither hauberk nor head-piece being able to withstand their passage. Three kings fell by this death:-Harold, at Hastings; William Rufus, in the New Forest; and Cœur de Lion, at Chaluz, near Limoges, in France-a remarkable category, and each attended by its own peculiar circumstances. The fate of the first decided the crown of England, which now passed over to a Norman dynasty; the death of Rufus was regarded as a judicial punishment for the depopulation of whole districts by his father and himself, to form of them hunting grounds. Over the fate of the heroic Richard we are disposed to drop a tear of regret; for the historical monarch is wholly forgotten in the knightly character of romance. Yet he sacrificed himself in an obscure act of petty vengeance, and fell beneath a doom he had resolved to inflict upon others."Why aim thy shaft at me?" he inquired of Bertrand de Guerdon, the archer who had mortally wounded him. In the calm resolution with which the brave man meets his fate, the unabashed prisoner replied-" My father was slain by thine own hand;