Dens,' which is now before the world, is a standard work of Irish Catholic orthodoxy and of Roman Catholic orthodoxy universally. It was published in Ireland and on the Continent, in the customary way, permissu superiorum-with the full sanction and approbation of episcopal authority. No exception was ever taken to it, in whole or in part. It was printed in Ireland expressly for the use of the Irish Catholic priests-to be their guide in casuistry and speculation. In the library of Dr. Murphy's seminary in Cork, there were fifty or sixty copies of it for the use of the seminary and the diocesan clergy. It should be remarked here, that Dens is not singular in his doctrine respecting 'heretics.' Every Roman Catholic theologian who has written on the same subject coincides with Dens. This matter shall be handled in my next publication.

"D.O.C."

This subject of Dens' Theology has been so fully brought before the public by the bold and intrepid exertions of Mr. Mc Ghee, to whose energy and resolution in this matter, the Protestants of the empire are very, very deeply indebted, that it is perhaps unnecessary for us to do more than allude to it. Reviving all the worst and most

odious doctrines of the persecuting church of Rome-doctrines settled by infallible councils as articles of faithand now proved to be made the subject of the conferences of the Romish priesthood-it is a well stored depository of everything that is atrocious in intolerance. Mr. O'Sullivan, with his peculiar power, has exhibited the results of these doctrines in the practice of the people, and has traced the disorders that have desolated Ire land during the late years, to their corresponding dogmas, discussed in the conferences of the priests. We must venture, as best we can, to lay before our readers another, and if possible a still more appalling feature of this book-a book of which 3,000 copies have been in circulation among the priests of Ireland. They talk of its containing some obsolete doctrines. The greater part of it is a mass of the most revolting bigotry diversified only by the most disgusting obscenity. Of this latter, no words that we can employ can possibly convey any adequate idea. All the impure speculations, of all the impure casuists that ever invented new varieties of crime-appear to be stored up in these pages--cor rected and improved by the profligate experience of the most unnatural debauchees.* It seems like the sink of

Locus. poris.

all degraded and perverted human passion-where have been left to putrefy all the impure imaginings, all the monstrous modifications of libertinism that have been deposited in the reservoir of the confessional. And this book is the study of men whom the barbarous institution of celibacy renders very fit subjects for its contamination. But we must drop the veil-we tremble while we think of the effects upon human nature thus circumstanced and thus trained.

We say the effects upon human nature for even in the breast of the priest human nature is human nature still. We do not think that priests are worse than other men-we but calculate what any men would be in their situation. But even were the confessors living miracles of moral purity, is their no danger to the penitent in thus being made conversant with subjects of which an apostle has wisely said, "that it is a shame so much as to speak?" Let any Protestant who values female purity-who loves the chastity of thought that is the chief charm of a virtuous woman-turn his attention to the picture of confessional instruction we have printed

below-let him imagine, in the secrecy of the confession, in the unguarded moment of religious excitement, the questions which, after much hesitation, we have ventured to print in a learned language, put plainly to his wife-nay, let him imagine questions that, even in the modest obscurity of a dead language, we dare not print-let him picture to himself these questions, put by a man whose daily study may be over the abominations of Dens, communicating his vicious knowledge under the sanction of religion; and when he may thus arrive at some appreciation of the consequent demoralization of the female mind, he will bless God, that in abolishing the iniquitous system of confession (for God knows we would as strongly raise our warning voice against Protestant as against Roman Catholic confessors,) he will, we say, bless God that the wives and daughters of Protestants have escaped the contaminating pollution of such demoralizing tribunals.

And yet this theology-the theology of Dens-is the system of spiritual instruction to whose uncounteracted influence unhappy Ireland is about to be given over!

ONE of the finest and most flourishing parts of Ireland is the neighbourhood of New Ross, in the province of Leinster. The town is situated upon the bank of the Barrow, which is here a noble river, capable of floating the largest vessels up to the quay wall; and the surrounding country being rich in agricultural produce, immense stores have been built along the river for the reception of corn, which is thence shipped to England, for the benefit of absentee landlords. For many a day, the principal persons engaged in this trade have belonged to the people called Quakers, a peculiar people, which (politics apart) have been in that, as in many other parts of the kingdom, of great advantage to Ireland, exhibiting in their patient industry, their calm attention to business, their uniform integrity, and their abundant, yet prudent hospitality, an example which, if generally followed, would make Ireland one of the happiest kingdoms in the world. Amongst the most deserving of this deserving community, was old Samuel Ewing, who, having spent the vigor of his life in the pursuits of business, in which he had amassed a moderate fortune, was now retired to spend his old days in a rural dwelling within a few miles of the town; and with his garden, his books, of which, though no great reader, he had a few, and an active concern in every work of benevolence that was attempted in his neighbourhood, the evening of his life was passing away in tranquil and virtuous enjoyment.

Little as he had mingled in the strife and turmoil of life, old Samuel had not been without many of its bitterest sorrows. Happily married, he had brought up a goodly family of sons and daughters, but fell consumption was in their mother's blood; she died ere yet the stamp of age was upon her matron brow, and her children followed her in fast and fearful succession, until but two sons were left of all the group, and of these, one was settled in Dublin, and the other in New York. Yet was not Samuel left quite alone in his retirement: his

VOL. VI.

brother, who had in early life deserted the society of the Quakers, and gone into the army, married upon the Continent, and was soon after killed in battle-he left a daughter, who was brought up in England; her mother choosing to reside in that country upon the pension allowed her as the widow of an English officer, and to devote herself almost exclusively to the education of her "belle Marie," in whom all her affections centred. But ere poor Mary had attained her seventeenth year, she lost her fond parent and faithful protector: Madame Ewing was carried off by a rapid and wasting illness, but she was sufficiently aware of her approaching end, to ask the protection of her Irish friends for her darling child, who was so soon to be left desolate in a world of which even the ordinary coldness and selfishness are not the worst things to be dreaded, when unprotected beauty and innocence are left at its mercy. The answer she received from Ireland was all she could have wished, and something like a ray of comfort gilded the dying bed of the widowed lady as she blessed her weeping daughter, and thanked God for the hope that had arisen even in the last scene of suffering and sorrow.

Upon her mother's death, the young lady was brought to Ireland, and after living nearly a year in the neighbourhood of Kilkenny, with a sister of old Samuel Ewing, she was, upon the death of the last of his children who resided at home, entreated to live with the old man, and be "unto him as a daughter" in the place of the one whom he had recently lost.

Never was a being more fitted to adorn and bless a house of innocence and peace, and to make happy one who could be made happy, by the most devoted exercise of gentle affection, than was Mary Ewing. Grief, for her mother's death, had stamped a character of serious and meditative beauty upon her otherwise brilliant features. This seemed to have settled into a permanent characteristic of her countenance; and yet at times, when the recital of some good or glorious

M

deed lighted up her heart's enthusiasm, the rosy glow upon her cheek, and the beaming splendor of her dark blue eyes, gave an expression which seemed made for joy alone. Her form was light and graceful as a painter might imagine in his dreams, with that expression of elegance, which nothing but beauty of proportion and of form can give, and Mary was as elegant in her mind as her person in

dicated.

Carefully, if not perfectly instructed in all feminine accomplishments, through her mother's care-cheerful though serious-gentle and affectionate by natural disposition-and refined by the studies to which her mind had been directed, it might be supposed that Mary was cast in rather too fine a mould for the situation she was to fill in life as the adopted daughter of a retired Quaker merchant; but she had a fund of gentle, yet firm good sensea discrimination of what was appropriate to the occasion, and an active disposition towards what seemed most calculated to make those around her happy, that formed the solid foundation of a character which obtained

esteem, while the graces that belonged to it excited admiration. Besides, old Samuel Ewing, although no more that a Quaker merchant, was naturally, or by special grace of mental disposition, a gentleman. His mind recoiled from all coarseness; he was mild and courteous to every one, and had not only that civility of manner, which in the world is generally thought sufficient, but was unceasingly active in doing delicately obliging things. The desires of his inmates and his guests were prevented by his unobtrusive attention to their comforts, and the knowledge of what was most agreeable to those around him, was always the immediate forerunner of a quiet exertion to realize their wishes.

The strictness of his sect forbade him to take delight in many really delightful things which Quakers suppose to savour of vanity or improper ceremony; but he loved flowers, and had an eye to see when they were elegantly disposed, and he collected natural curiosities and scientific specimens, and to all these matters Mary attended with that solicitude of love, which gives to diligence an unspeak

not

able charm, for she really loved her old uncle, and proved her love both by doing and forbearing. Her music and her ornamental drawing were things that he could openly countenance, and in his presence she took care to suppress them; but the old man would make occasion to go out of the way, when no occupation required him to do so, that she might, by herself, practise these elegant amusements, and she who saw this delicate attention, repaid it by additional efforts to do every thing that was pleasing to him.

But the greatest sacrifice he made, was to her religion. She was a Roman Catholic, as her mother had been; but however he regretted this, he made no objection, as it was his creed, that people should, in religion,

follow their own heart with invocation

of the Spirit. Thus, notwithstanding this great difference of opinion, they lived together happily, the maiden in the rich blossoming time of female beauty; and the old man in the sere and yellow leaf of contented age.

It was one evening in October, shortly after the sun had set, and the lulled wind gave some respite to the falling leaves, that a horseman who seemed, by the appearance of his clothes and his steed, to have travelled far and swiftly that day, rode up to the plain yet elegant dwelling of Samuel Ewing, attended by a man in ordinary peasant's dress, who rode behind in quality of servant, and whose horse seemed with difficulty to get one leg before the other.

The young gentleman, for such he appeared to be, though travel-soiled, seemed to hesitate when he reached the gate, as if still in doubt whether he should pull the bell or ride on, and then turned round with an inquiring look to the servant. "Pull away, Masther," said the man, understanding his glance, "divel a use in thinkin' about it, at all at all. Sarra fut more this ould baste 'll go at any rate, and you can't do bether nor pull away bouldly, and go in.”

"But," replied the gentleman, "if Miss Ewing be here, she will recognise me immediately, and I have got a false name put in my letter of introduction, for these Quakers are so scru

pulous, and he may have heard of this unlucky business."

• Whew! Masther,” said the servant, with a knowing grin, “axin' your pardon for takin' the freedom to spake sir, shure it is'nt you that id be afeard to see Miss Ewing. God bless her purty face, the darlin' its well I remimber it-the women's cute sir, ay, be me sowl, cuter nor we, a great deal, an' if you let on to her any way at all, she'll soon see what she's to do."

"The question is, what she may think proper to do in such a case," said the gentleman, in a tone rather of soliloquy than reply, “for that she will do-but no matter if I do not see her now, I may never see her again, and, by heaven, that thought is worse than anything else that can happen—I shall run all risks."

Having so decided, he rung the bell, which was soon answered, and in a few minutes he was introduced to the room where old Samuel sat reading, while his niece sat at her needle-work in the window beyond him, “I have come to you, sir, about some business which this latter will explain," said the stranger, scarcely looking at the old man to whom he spoke, but fixing his view with deep earnestness upon the young lady. She started, and raised her head at the sound of his voice, then colored deeply and seemed about to arise and speak, when the stranger raising his hand to his face, intimated, as plainly as he could by gesture, his desire that he should not be recognized. His signs were understood by the young lady, who did not speak, but resumed her position in evident astonishment and embarrassment, while old Samuel, intent upon his letter, was wholly unconscious of the wordless intelligence which passed between the stranger and his niece. "Thy name is Henry Thompson," said he, as he concluded the letter, and looked towards the young man. The stranger bowed, and fixed his eyes on the ground as one bitterly ashamed, while Miss Ewing's astonishment evidently increased. "Thou art welcome to my house," continued the old man; tomorrow I shall inquire for thee, respecting a ship. My friend who has given thee this letter, says thou art upon a business of haste."

"So much so," replied the young

man, "that if it were possible I should be glad to know this evening whether any vessel is ready."

"This evening! it would be quite useless, young friend; thou wilt lodge with me tonight, and tomorrow I shall go with thee into Ross, and learn what vessel will first sail. Come, take off thy riding coat. Mary, thou wilt order some refreshment for the young man."

Mary, glad of the excuse to escape from a scene which both surprised and annoyed her, rose and left the room, while the embarrassment of the stranger, who remained, left him unable distinctly to reply to what had been addressed to him. As the young lady crossed the hall, the servant of the stranger, who stood at the door, caught a glimpse of her, and throwing down on the ground the reins of the horses which he held, ran towards her with his hat in his hand: "Oh, thin, miss, jewel, but it's a joy to my heart to see your sweet face agin-did you see himself, that's the young masther, miss, that's here, sure, and jist gone up stairs to see you, miss."

"See me!" said the young lady. "Something is the matter," she continued in an agitated tone, why does your master come here, Patrick, and what is the reason that he pretends to my uncle that he is some other person?"

66

'Raisin enough, miss," replied the man. "I suppose he had'nt time to tell you of it yit, an' myself does'nt rightly know the ins an outs of it, but sures its throuble we're in-something about the law, bad look to itan' my young masther thinks of goin' out of the country."

"Out of the country!" exclaimed the young lady, with astonishment.

"Ay, in troth, miss, an' divil a sorrier boy-barrin its himself, missthere'll be in the whole country, or upon the salt say, than Pat Mc Cabe, for that same. An' sure it's myself that doesn't know, this blessed hour, whether I'm to go with him or no. I hadn't the heart to ax him, but may be you would, miss."

"I-how can I ask him? he seems not to wish that I should even appear to know him-but what is the matter?" she again repeated with increasing anxiety.

"It is a long story, miss, an' I'd