vels as Clarissa Harlowe' and Ned Evans,' the meagre sentimentality of which is borrowed to shed its ragged splendour on the Letters from the Irish Highlands.'

One or two allusions, indeed, in these Letters,' are of a feminine cast; but as the style, if style it may be called, is the same in all, we suppose this was only a ruse de guerre to veil at once the discrepancy in the sentiments and the insidiousness of the motives; thinking, in all probability, that criticism would be disarmed of its terrors when reminded that the offenders were of that amiable sex who are privileged to talk and write more nonsense than critics can find leisure either to hear or read. Against gallantry, therefore, we do not consciously sin; and if, contrary to our serious opinion, there should be ladies concerned, let them not impute blame to us,but wring their pretty hands at being found in such disreputable company.

These Letters' were written from that fag-end of Ireland known to outlaws by the name ofCunnemarra, where the authors have, if you believe them, an estate, (middlemen, we suppose, between Dick Martin and his constituents) a comfortable slate house, though the floor is rather damp,and'Rees's Cyclopædia,' by the help of which they could not teach 'Long Tom' to catch a whale with his little herring-boat (p. 167). If ever Messrs. Longman and Co. should be inclined to publish another edition of the Doctor's useful work, we would recommend them to procure the authors before us to furnish a description of Cunnemarra, where the singular phenonemon occurs of the sun rising some time after morning, and where- -But hear the letter-writers :- Conceive us, then, with a party of wild mountaineers, embarked upon waters of which we know nothing; (they didn't want to taste them, we suppose ;) the night so dark that we could scarcely see the bow of the boat, and yet so beautifully clear, that the mountains on each side were distinctly visible when contrasted with the star-dotted (quite poetical) firmament above. Quere: Was this confusion of light and darkness atributable to the waters, of which they knew nothing, or to the genial influence of the mountain dew' upon their optics?

Let it not, however, be supposed

that our letter-writers. with the help of Rees's Cyclopædia,' have been three years in Cunnemarra without making some notable discoveries in those hitherto unexplored regions. They have found that 'A person unused to live entirely upon potatoes finds them unpalatable in the morning; but, when custom has once overcome this disgust, I really believe there is no food more wholesome and nutritious;' that shoes and stockings would be very inconvenient to women crossing bogs, and that men who labour in the fields are never without them; that some cottages, even in Cunnemarra, are neat, and others dirty; that some are very poor, and others not very rich; that boys and girls love dancing; and that the most miserable (according to their ideas of misery) are contented and cheerful.

If the reader finds nothing novel in this we can't possibly help it:we have carefully read over the fortynine Letters'; and, if there is nothing new in the foregoing, we are ready to confess that there is nothing new in the volume. The object has been,' says the preface, to present to view the details of domestic life, to open the door of the lowly cabin, to portray the habits and manners of its neglected inmates, and preserve the memory of facts, which, although not worthy to become matters of history, are yet of intrinsic value in the delineation of national character.'

Not being in the secret, we can't pretend to say how many lowly doors they have opened, or how many sketches of character repose in their port-folio; but we can safely aver that their volume contains nothing new-nothing which has not been already known-falsehoods and factsboth to the people of England and Ireland, through the medium of books much cheaper, and quite as respectable, as the work before us, though this bears the impress of Albemarle Street. Indeed, so meagre is its information, and uninteresting its details, that we are quite sure the dullest bookmaker in London would, with the help of Arthur Young, Wakefield, Edgworth, and a few others, compile a volume on Ireland every whit as accurate, and much more readable; for three-fourths of

these Letters' are mere hear-says, and anecdotes which, long since, have found their way into the 'Spirit of Irish Wit.'

We know Dick Martin's kingdom, for we too have been in Cunnemarra, and have spent some days in admiring the splendid scenery of that neglected wilderness, where Nature has been impassioned in her creations, where expanded lakes seem but to serve as mirrors to reflect the face of mountains, and where all is irregular,grand, and sublime. We should suppose it impossible for the merest blockhead to dwell for any length of time amid such a scenery without growing fanciful-without blending some of that wild imagery which every where met his eye into his language and giving his readers, if he could write, some faint idea of the works of Nature where she has been more than ordinarily productive of her wonders. But we have sought in vain, in these 'Letters,' for descriptions of local scenery; and though a great portion of the book is taken up with travels, journeys, and voyages, and though the names of mountains, rivers, and lakes, crowd in every page, yet we have no descriptions at least no description that conveys to us any notion of the object described. The task was evidently one beyond the ability of the writers.

Deficient, however, as the work is, both in accuracy and talent, it is calculated to do much mischief. An appetite, a longing, for accounts of Ireland and Irishmen, has lately been generated in England. John Bull, at length, will placidly listen to a description of that country-peruse a pamphlet, without yawning, written on Catholic affairs-and allow the equanimity of his temper to be ruffled at hearing of local oppressions, Orange outrages, and judicial delinquency. He hates pope and popery, to be sure; but his justice predominates over his prejudice; he pities the poor papists, admires their patience, and has almost learned to advocate their cause. This temper is to be encouraged; but, as he is yet only imperfectly informed respecting the object of his recent attachment, all surreptitious aliment is to be carefully withheld, lest he imbibes notions at variance with truth, dangerous to him

self, and injurious to others. The present work is one of those which should not be allowed to pass the cordon sanitaire, and for this reason we have laid our injunction upon it. The writers affect peculiar consequence in their own country, pretend to great candour,assume a philosophic tone when they are uttering strange nonsense, and have come before the British public, in a genteel garb, from the shop of Mr. Murray. All these are certain passports to favour; the superficial reader will swallow their hear-say stories for facts; and thus rld and long-since refuted calumnies will be renewed, while the moral jaundice will, in some eyes, tinge every thing Irish with a forbidden hue. The public are not to blame, for even the critics have fallen into the snare; and this volume has been, as yet, lauded by all who have noticed it. And for what? for statements which we shall presently show to be a little worse than nonsenseto be invidious falsehoods,-falsehoods gravely sent forth to the world on the word of some garrulous gossip, whose habitual propensity to vilify and misrepresent his country and countrymen has made them both abroad what they ought not to bethings of contempt and scorn. The ignorance evinced on this occasion by the London critics is really inexcusable; for the statements they extracted have long since been fully and ably refuted by English writers, with whose works they ought to have been acquainted if they had read the books they have criticised. The evil we complain of will henceforth cease; Ireland shall be no longer misrepresented with impunity, nor England duped without detection. Works of dark shadowing,' like the volume before us, we shall touch with our Ithuriel spear, and reveal their hidden deformities; expose the quackery of those who write on Irish affairs without ever having crossed the Channel; and show up the learned critics who comment on bogs without having ever sat at a turf fire, and condemn illicit distillation without having ever tasted potheen.

Throughout the volume there is a restless anxiety to find fault with the Catholic clergy; and for this purpose

we are told several anecdotes of their opposing proselyting schools of their refusing the rites of the church to those who were too poor to pay them, which if true, subjected them to ecclesiastical censure-and of one of them who, very naturally, quarrelled with an intolerable buckeen for locking him out of his chapel. Passing over all these as scattered stars that light the path of bigotry, we come, at length (p. 114), to the following: :

The priest is often called in to perform

a sort of exorcism on those whose disor

ders are supposed to arise from spiritual agency; and, with respect to such possession, our people entertain very wild and wonderful notions.-They have an idea of seeing what they call their "fetch;" some aerial being or other, who appears to give them warning of their approaching death. Such an apparition, you may readily conceive, often precedes an attack of illness, of which, however, it may happily prove to have been the worst symptom. I remember hearing a story of the kind from a poor man, whose son, while working in the field, "conceited" that he beheld some indescribable being, who called to him, and, taking up a little stone, threw it at his head. The boy set off instantly, ran home without stopping, and "took sick from that hour." Whatever was the cause of the boy's complaint, I had the satisfaction of knowing that a simple dose of medicine had effected his cure.

One of the most deplorable of these superstitious fancies is their credulity with respect to the "Gospels," as they are called, which they wear suspended round the neck as a charm against danger and disease. These are prepared by the priest, and sold by him at the price of two or three tenpennies. It is considered sacrilege in the purchaser to part with them at any time; and it is moreover believed that the charm proves of no efficacy to any but the individual for whose particular benefit the priest has blessed it. One of them I have been shown as a rarity, which seldom indeed finds its way into heretical hands. I will describe, as minutely as possible, both its form and contents: it was a small cloth bag, marked on one side with the letters I. H. S. enclosing a written scrap of dirty paper, of which the following is an exact copy, orthographical errors not excepted:

- In the nameof God Amen. When

our Saviour saw the cross whereon he was

To Be Crucified his body trembiled and shook the Jews asked Iff he had the faver

or the ague he said that he had neither the faver or the ague. Whosoever shall keep these words in mind or in righting shall never have the faver or ague. Be the hearers Blessed. Be the Believers Blessed. Be the name of our Lord god Amen. CY. TOOLE.

was

'On the other side of the paper is written the Lord's Prayer in as curious a style of spelling; and after it a great number of initial letters, apparently all by the same hand, and probably essential to the charm. Instead of being edified, you are, I doubt not, as much grieved and disgusted with the description as I actual appearance of this pious cheat. with the such in the broad day-light of reason, we Yet, may we not hope that, by exposing lend a helping hand towards their gradual extirpation? If the dread of ridicule has already driven them into the remotest corbetter motives may, ere long, still more ners of the land, is it not to be hoped that effectually destroy the influence of all such false and dangerous deceit ?'

Pshaw! there's insidious nonsense for you! A priest called in to perform exorcisms! mad priests, we suppose, like the unfortunate M'Carroll; for no one in his senses would. Were a parish priest to attend upon every booby who conceits' he sees his fetch,' he would be able to pay but little attention to his parish. The truth is, (and the writer of this letter should have ascertained it before he gravely sat down to asperse a body of men, who have lately forced their Protestant adversaries to acknowledge their learning, their piety, and their talents,) that the priests are never called in on such occasionsthat they have opposed, by all means in their power, this and other harmless superstitions-and that the peasant, knowing their sentiments, never has recourse to them when any such 'conceit' fastens on him, but flies immediately to the nearest Fairyman for a remedy. Paddy, however, is seldom troubled with any such silly conceits; a glass of potheen is generally sufficient to dispel such airy nothings; and few, in Ireland, now 'conceit' they are ill, but those who can afford to pay a doctor.

The statement respecting the Gospels' very satisfactorily proves that these writers have never read any book but Rees's Cyclopædia;' otherwise how could they be ignorant of the