The subsequent progress of the Reformation justifies these assertions. When the political events of Europe introduced the new religion to the patronage of despots reformers had no objection to invoke Heaven for crowned heads; and from that time to this the Book of Common Prayer in England has been filled with forms of obtestations for each successive royal family.'

truth has arisen. The invention of the art of printing, too, had previously served to illuminate the "darkness of the human intelleet; and, wherever temporal institutions have not excluded this light, Catholic minds have vegetated beneath its influence with as much luxuriance as those of Protestants.

• But argument is unnecessary where facts are conclusive. If Protestant England obtained a Bill of Rights, Catholic England achieved Magna Charta: if Geneva is a Pro

By no means,' replied Malachy, for we must not give credit to any man's faith for what is due to his constitution, no more than we should accuse Mohamedanism for the sallow complexion of the Turks. The tyranny of Christiern in Sweden, and of Henry in England, occasioned the immediate successors of these cruel despots to afford asylums to the early reformers, where they have since continued; and, if they have at some times evinced a love of independence, it is no more than might have been expected from men nursed in these cradles of liberty; for their predecessors in all ages, and of nearly all religions, bore a similar cha

racter.

Nothing less than the most uninformed prejudice could induce any man to exalt the Protestant at the expense of the Catholic mind. Men were brave, virtuous, and patriotic, ages before the Thirty-nine Articles received royal approbation. Venice and Genoa astonished Europe in Catholic times; and even Spain, with all its bigotry, displayed a love of country and a heroism seldom equalled, certainly never surpassed. Have Pope and Dryden been worse poets because they were Catholics? or Shakspeare a better one because he was a Protestant?

The world, I admit, has been more enlightened since the Reformation; but that is wing, in a great measure, to the collision of opposite and conflicting opinions, from which

republie nearly two hundred years before the Reformation. Come home to modern times.

Spread the map of Europe before you, and, in whatever country there is a glimmering of freedom, you shall find as many of the inhabitants Catholics as Protestants. If Spain and Portugal are not free, neither is Denmark nor Sweden; and if Italy be in chains, so is Prussia. England, then, is the only Protestant country which pretends to liberty; and accordingly we find it the strong hold of this unsupported opinion-retailed in the senate, where it is believed without being examined; and printed in the newspapers, from which the credulous nation swallow it with its accompanying falsehoods. Yet, like all other untruths, it requires only to be touched by the wand of Reason, when it vanishes into air, and “leaves not a wreck behind.”

The complaint against the Catholic religion is, that it tends to perpetuate existing authorities; and this cannot be denied: but try the Church of England by the same test, and you must discover that this error equally attaches to that establishment. The Protestant hierarchy is as much, if not more, wedded to ancient forms than their popish predecessors; and, I believe, it will readily be admitted that, if an angel from heaven were to descend with a plan of political reform, the Church of England would reject it, unless it tended to increase their princely revenues, and add to their extravagant privileges. The characters of men are formed much more by temptations than by the duties of their profession;* and experience has shown

them less happy or less useful, though Mr. Croker seems to insinuate the contrary.

It would be too much to expect that all the superstitious tales of the Irish peasantry could be related in a single volume: Mr. Croker has therefore only made a selection; nor has he uniformly selected the best. Many of the legends and traditions are very deficient in interest; and many more are wanting in those circumstances with which they have been usually connected by the people themselves. Our own esteemed contributor, in his Benshee,' and Fairyman of Croonaan,' evinces a more intimate acquaintance with his subject; and, though it has been whispered about that the former article was from Mr. Croker's pen, we can assure our readers that the report is false: we did not hear of his intended publication until after the appearance of the Benshee' in our first Number; we cannot, therefore, be accused of intentionally anticipating the work before us.

Mr. Croker has given most of his legends and traditions in the words of those from whose lips he first heard them; and all who wish to know what kind of language the Irish peasant talks in should read this very entertaining volume. We have before said that most of our Irish novelists have caricatured the dialect and manners of the people; and few of them more than Miss Edgeworth. But in future this will not be permitted; for Mr. Croker has set an example that deserves to be followed. In reading his book we imagined ourselves listening to Paddy himself; and we must confess his is the only work that ever impressed us with such an idea before. The following Legend of Bottlehill,' one of the best in the book, will serve to illustrate our remarks:

It was in the good days when the little people, most impudently called fairies, were more frequently, seen than they are in these unbelieving times, that a farmer, named Mick Purcell, rented a few acres of barren ground in the neighbourhood of the once celebrated preceptory of Mourne, situated about three miles from Mallow, and thirteen from "the beautiful city called Cork." Mick had a wife and family they all did what they could, and that was but little, for the poor man had

no child grown up big enough to help him in his work; and all the poor woman could do was to mind the children, and to milk

the one cow, and to boil the potatoes, and carry the eggs to market to Mallow; but, with all they could do, 'twas hard Well, enough on them to pay the rent. they did manage it for a good while; but at last came a bad year, and the little grain of oats was all spoiled, and the chickens died of the pip, and the pig got the measles--she was sold in Mallow, and brought almost nothing; and poor Mick found that he hadn't enough to half pay his rent, and two gales were due. "Why, then, Molly,' says he, what'll we do?

Wisha, then, mavournene, what would

you do but take the cow to the fair of Cork and sell her?' says she; and Monday is fair day, and so you must go tomorrow, that the poor beast may be rested again the fair.'

And what'll we do when she's gone?' says Mick, sorrowfully.

Never a know i know, Mick; but sure God won't leave us without him, Mick; and you know how good he was to us when poor little Billy was sick, and we had nothing at all for him to take, that good doctor gentleman at Ballydahin come how he gave us two shillings; and how he riding and asking for a drink of milk; and sent the things and the bottles for the child, and gave me my breakfast when I went over to ask a question, so he did;

and how he came to see Billy, and never left off his goodness till he was quite well.'

Oh! you are always that way, Molly, and I believe you are right after all, so I won't be sorry for selling the cow; but I'll go to-morrow, and you must put a needle and thread through my coat, for you know 'tis ripped under the arm.'

Molly told him he should have every thing right; and about twelve o'clock next day he left her, getting a charge not to sell his cow except for the highest penny. Mick promised to mind it, and went his way along the road. He drove his cow slowly through the little stream which crosses it, and runs under the old walls of Mourne as he passed he glanced his eye upon the towers and one of the old elder trees, which were only then little bits of switches.

'Oh, then, if I only had half the money that's buried in you, tisn't driving this poor cow I'd be now. Why, then, isn't it too bad that it should be there covered over with earth, and many a one besides me wanting it? Well, if it's God's will, I'll have some money myself coming back.'

So saying, he moved on after his beast; 'twas a fine day, and the sun shone brightly on the walls of the old abbey as he passed under them; he then crossed an extensive mountain tract, and after six long miles he came to the top of that hill -Bottle-hill 'tis called now, but that was not the name of it then, and just there a man overtook him. Good morrow,' says he. Good morrow, kindly,' says Mick, looking at the stranger, who was a little man, you'd almost call him a dwarf, only he was'nt quite so little neither; he had a bit of an old, wrinkled, yellow face, for all the world like a dried cauliflower, only he had a sharp little nose, and red eyes, and white hair, and his lips were not red, but all his face was one colour, and his eyes never were quiet, but looking at every thing, and although they were red, they made Mick feel quite cold when he looked at them. In truth he did not much like the little man's company, and he couldn't see one bit of his legs nor his body, for though the day was warm, he was all wrapped up in a big great coat. Mick drove his cow something faster, but the little man kept up with him. Mick didn't know how he walked, for he was almost afraid to look at him, and to cross himself, for fear the old man would be angry. Yet he thought his fellow-traveller did not seem to walk like other men, nor to put one foot before the other, but to glide over the rough road, and rough enough it was, like a shadow, without noise and without effort. Mick's heart trembled within him, and he said a prayer to himself, wishing he hadn't come out that day, or that he was on Fair-hill, or that he hadn't the cow to mind, that he might run away from the bad thing when, in the midst of his fears, he was again addressed by his companion.

Where are you going with the cow, honest man?'

To the fair of Cork then,' says Mick, trembling at the shrill and piercing tones of the voice.

'Are you going to sell her?' said the stranger.

Laugh if you will,' said the little man, but I tell you this bottle is better for you than all the money you will get for the cow in Cork-ay, than ten thousand times as much.'

Mick laughed again. Why, then,' says he, do you think I am such a fool as to give my good cow for a bottle-and an empty one, too? indeed, then, I won't.'

You had better give me the cow, and take the bottle--you'll not be sorry for it.'

'Why, then, and what would Molly. say? I'd never hear the end of it; and how would I pay the rent? and what would we all do without a penny of money?'

I tell you this bottle is better to yon than money; take it, and give me the cow. I ask you for the last time, Mick Purcell.' Mick started.

'How does he know my name?' thought he.

The stranger proceeded: Mick Purcell, I know you, and I have a regard for you; therefore do as I warn you, or you may be sorry for it. How do you know but your cow will die before you go to Cork?'

Mick was going to say God forbid !' but the little man went on (and he was too attentive to say any thing to stop him; for Mick was a very civil man, and he knew better than to interrupt a gentleman, and that's what many people, that hold their heads higher, don't mind now).

And how do you know but there will be much cattle at the fair, and you will get a bad price, or may be you might be robbed when you are coming home? but what need I talk more to you, when you are determined to throw away your luck, Mick Purcell?'

Oh! no, I would not throw away my luck, sir,' said Mick; and if I was sure the bottle was as good as you say, though I never liked an empty bottle, although I had drank the contents of it, I'd give you

the cow in the name--'

'Never mind names,' said the stranger, "but give me the cow; I would not tell you a lie. Here, take the bottle, and when you go home do what I direct exactly.'

Mick hesitated.

Well, then, good-by, I can stay no longer: once more, take it, and be rich; refuse it, and beg for your life, and see your children in poverty, and your wife dying for want--that will happen to you, Mick Purcell!' said the little man with a malicious grin, which made him look ten times more ugly than ever.

May be 'tis true,' said Mick, still hesitating: he did not know what to do-he could hardly help believing the old man,

M

and at length, in a fit of desperation, he seized the bottle-Take the cow,' said he, and if you are telling a lie, the curse of the poor will be on you.'

'I care neither for your curses nor your blessings, but I have spoken truth, Mick Purcell, and that you will find to-night, if you do what I tell.'

'And what's that?' says Mick. 'When you go home, never mind if your wife is angry, but be quiet yourself, and make her sweep the room clean, set the table out right, and spread a clean cloth over it; then put the bottle on the ground, saying these words, Bottle, do your duty,' and you will see the end of it.

And is this all?' says Mick.

'No more,' said the stranger. Goodby, Mick Purcell-you are a rich man.'

God grant it!' said Mick, as the old man moved after the cow, and Mick retraced the road towards his cabin; but he could not help turning back his head to look after the purchaser of his cow, who was nowhere to be seen.

'Lord between us and harm!' said Mick: He can't belong to this earth; but where is the cow?' She too was gone, and Mick went homeward muttering prayers, and holding fast the bottle.

And what would I do if it broke?" thought he. Oh! but I'll take care of that; so he put it into his bosom, and went on anxious to prove his bottle, and doubting of the reception he should meet from his wife; balancing his anxieties with his expectation, his fears with his hopes, he reached home in the evening, and surprised his wife, sitting over the turf fire in the big chimney.

'Oh! Mick, are you come back? Sure you weren't at Cork all the way! What has happened to you? Where is the cow? Did you sell her? How much money did you get for her? What news have you? Tell us every thing about it.'

Why, then, Molly, if you'll give me time, I'll tell you all about it. If you want to know where the cow is, 'tisn't Mick can tell you, for the never a know does he know where she is now.'

'Oh! then, you sold her; and where's the money?'

Arrah! stop awhile, Molly, and I'll tell you all about it.'

'But what bottle is that under your waistcoat?' said Molly, spying its neck sticking out.

fool; and what'll we do for the rent? and what'

Now, Molly,' says Mick, can't you hearken to reason? Didn't I tell you how the old man, or whatsoever he was, met me-no, he did not meet me neither, but he was there with me-on the big bill, and how he made me sell him the cow, and told me the bottle was the only thing for me?'

Yes, indeed, the only thing for you, you fool!' said Molly, seizing the bottle to hurl it at her poor husband's head; but Mick caught it, and quietly (for he minded the old man's advice) loosened his wife's grasp, and placed the bottle again in his bosom. Poor Molly sat down crying, while Mick told her his story, with many a crossing and blessing between him and harm. His wife could not help believing him, particularly as she had as much faith in fairies as she had in the priest, who indeed never discouraged her belief in the fairies; may be he didn't know she believed in them, and may be he believed them himself. She got up, however, without saying one word, and began to sweep the earthen floor with a bunch of heath: then she tidied up every thing, and put out the long table, and spread the clean cloth, for she had only one, upon it, and Mick, placing the bottle on the ground, looked at it and said, ' Bottle, do your duty.'

'Look there! look there, mammy!' said his chubby eldest son, a boy about five years old look there! look there!' and he sprung to his mother's side, as two tiny little fellows rose like light from the bottle, and in an instant covered the table with dishes and plates of gold and silver, full of the finest victuals that ever were seen, and when all was done went into the bottle again. Mick and his wife looked at every thing with astonishment; they had never seen such plates and dishes before, and didn't think they could ever admire them enough, the very sight almost took away their appetites; but at length Molly said, 'Come and sit down, Mick, and try and eat a bit sure you ought to be hungry after such a good day's work.'

Why, then, the man told no lie about the bottle.'

Mick sat down,after putting the children to the table, and they made a hearty meal, though they couldn't taste half the dishes.

'Now,' says Molly, I wonder will those two good little gentlemen carry away these fine things again?' They waited, but no one came; so Molly put up the dishes and plates very carefully, saying, Why then, Mick, that was no lie sure enough but you'll be a rich man yet, Mick Purcell."

Mick and his wife and children went to