sufficient, one-idea'd, vain, self-distinction-seeking, itinerant religionists, who mar a good cause by their pseudo-advocacy. No, Sir, what I mean is—but another and a more fitting time for explanation. This is Kingstown, where we land; there is my card for you (addressing H―). My name is G., Colonel G., late of the regiment; but better known as Jemmy G. by my neighbours in Cork and Tipperary. If you visit Killarney, as I presume you will, I shall be happy to see the grandson of B- at my cabin." H-thanked the old Colonel earnestly for the cordial tone in which he gave his invitation, and promised, should he visit his part of the country, to avail himself of his kindly proffered hospitality. He told me afterwards that he had heard his aunt frequently speak of G. as an eccentric but romantically high-minded character: he had, however, forgotten the particular circumstances of his story.

The Colonel then addressed himself to me, and in a frank off-hand tone said that in Ireland a friend's friend was the same thing as himself, and that in his invitation, I, as a matter of course, was included. I returned an amiable bow, muttered the usual thanks and promises, and made him acquainted with my name, and our object in visiting Ireland.

"You are a most lucky pair of dogs in thus meeting me," replied he;" you must accompany me to Gresham's yonder, and after breakfast we shall determine your best route." To Gresham's accordingly, amid the usual Babel confusion of all landing places, I take it, in the globe, we repaired forthwith; and in a few moments found ourselves seated at breakfast in an Irish hotel, which, to our great surprise, for appearance and the style of the thing, would not suffer much by comparison with Long's or the Clarendon. The hotel and the place of landing, I should premise to you, are not actually in the city of Dublin, but in a very pretty village on the southern, the handsome shore, about five or six miles distant, called Kingstown in honour of George IV.; in memory of whose departure, the Irish, in true Hibernian respect, have erected a handsome granite pillar not unlike, in size and appearance, that commemorative of Louis le Desire's landing at Calais.

The excitement of rapid locomotion, though delightful, is far from being intellectual. It takes days, at least with me, to allay the whirling fervour of circulation, which quick travelling always occasions; and during the process of fermentation and clearing, I am wholly incapable of any mental effort requiring continuity of attention. It was chiefly for this reason, that I spent the first three days after landing, in sauntering about the beautiful fields and sea-shore walks, which abound in the neighbourhood of Kingstown; and am now become almost as familiar with Seapoint and Kilina, and the Isle of Dawki, or some such name, as I was last summer with the scenery of the Bay of Naples. During our rambles, numberless were the discussions between H and the Colonel, respecting the ancient greatness of Ireland; the former holding with me that that greatness is all moonshine, while the Colonel as confidently appealed to what Bede and others have written with reference to the reputation of the Irish monasteries, in the sixth and seventh centuries, for learning and hospitality. We had the day before yesterday our last dialogue, the good old Colonel (who hourly grew upon our esteem, and whom we are now resolved to visit at his Tipperary Tillietudlem,) having taken his departure in the evening; and the dialogue was to me extremely amusing. The Colonel admitted that what passes for genuine history with the majority of his countrymen, is great part fable, or tradition so unauthenticated as to be of no higher value; but as usual, maintained that Tacitus,* and Bede, and William of Malmesbury, bear distinct testimony to the commercial and literary reputation of Ireland, when Great Britain was undistinguished by either.

*In his Life of Agricola, Tacitus distinctly states that the ports and harbours of Ireland were better known from their commercial pre-eminence, than those of Britain. His words are," melius aditus portusque per commercia et negotiatores cogniti,”

"Impossible! the supposition, my dear Sir, implies a moral impossibility,” replied H—, in that pompous and sepulchral tone, which used to amuse us Johnians so much at our memorable Noctes. "The Celts, from whom the Irish are descended, were the most barbarous of the nomadic tribes that inundated the west and south of Europe at the dawn of history. War, slaughter, rapine, was their only occupation, and as to letters or morality, no such thing was known before Christianity partially softened some of the harsher features of their barbarism. The Celts were not only uncivilized savages, like those of New Zealand at the present day, at the time of the Roman conquest of their brethren in England, but at the time of the invasion by Strongbow and his followers; and are so even at the present hour, where the breed has not had the advantage of a Saxon or Norman cross. What is their history from the time that St. Patrick 'gave the toads and frogs a twist,'* to their nominal subjection by Henry II., but a cannibal war of kites and crows upon each other's garbage? We had in yesterday's paper an account of the two murders in Celtic Clare, under circumstances of true Celtic ferocity. Compare the features of character which these circumstances depict, with those recorded by Giraldus Cambrensis, of the savage Irish of his time, and tell me will the penal laws, or absenteeism, or magisterial oppression, account for the perpetuity of the resemblance. The Clare murderers jumped and howled with savage joy over the mangled remains of their victims, as did their ancestor, King Dermot, over the body of his enemy and co-barbarian, Donald, King of Ossory. But the Irish annals themselves are decisive as to the civilized state of the island of saints, during the most sanctified period of its history; there is but one theme, plunder and slaughter. The greatest hero is he whose hands are most stained with the blood of his countrymen; out of two hundred kings whose names and exploits are handed down to us, one hundred and seventy died a death of violence. And so, I repeat, it will be, till the aboriginal Celtic traits shall have disappeared before the influence of the printing-press; and so it would have been with England, had not the Celts and Armoricans been expelled the island by the Romans, and Saxons, the Normans."

During this tirade, the Colonel kept stroking his lips and smiling, so as to appear unmoved by the expression of sentiments so little flattering to his Celtic countrymen. When H- had concluded, be made one strong expiration between a sigh and my Uncle Toby's lillibulero whistle, took a pinch of snuff, blew his nose, and with the most annoying coolness said, " And so, Mr. H— Pinkerton is your magnus Apollo of philosophical historians, and the crudities and stupid misrepresentations of that peevish, half-sighted, self-sufficient twaddler, are to you, a crack Cambridge man, forsooth, philosophy teaching by example, as my Lord Bolingbroke well defined history. And this is the logic and the liberality of sentiment taught in a great English university in the nineteenth century. Now, Sir, without stopping to argue the question of how far nomadic habits are or are not favourable to the growth of a lusty morality, or to shew that the ancient Irish were as much Belgic, (that is Scythian, Gothic,) and Phoenician, as Celtic; or to expose the presumptuous fallacy, as old as the Greeks, of stigmatizing as barbarous all those habits or institutions, which may not square with our own notions of civilization; or to point out the absurdity of a doctrine which teaches that time and circumstances have no influence on a national character, which they alone created at the period selected for its standard,-permit me, an old man, to state the result of forty years' consideration of Ireland in the twelfth century. First, of the wild state of society pictured by the Welshman Barry; and next, why it is that a country so favourably

Bede, speaking of the crowds of northern Saxons who thronged the monastic seminaries of Ireland, records a circumstance characteristic of Irish hospitality: "Quos omnes Scoti (as the Irish were then called) libentissime suscipientes, victum quotidianum sine pretio, libros quoque ad legendum ac magisterium gratuitum præberere curabant."

endowed by nature, should at this moment be behind other nations in the progress of wealth and civilization.

"I might offend you, if I asked you have you read Tacitus, de moribus Germanorum? Yes, you of course have read it. Did it ever strike you that that wonderful production was a philosophical romance-not intended as a history of the manners of a particular people, of whom he possibly could, comparatively, know nothing; but as a true picture of man, such as he is in every part of the globe where the state of society is inartificial-with all the virtues no less than the vices of rude independence? Like the ancient Germans, of whom Tacitus discoursed, the Irish were a tall, hardy, muscular race; generous, hospitable, fond of gaming and drinking, music and every other species of sensual excitement; ardent in their affections, be they for friends or against enemies; creatures of impulse; crafty and ferocious, but distinguished by a peculiar vivacity of imagination, a wild enthusiasm of temperament, easily disposing them to be superstitious in their religion. As with people more fortunately circumstanced, war was their passion, the necessity of their nature; but when mankind have ceased to bestow upon the Napoleons of history the homage which is only due to the more dignified, and far more difficult, virtues of peace, it will be time to reproach the ancient Irish with their killing' propensities; and, as with an exciteable people in their uncivilized condition, actuated by a wild spirit of personal independence, on which the quasi-descendants of the German barbarians of Tacitus so pride themselves, and among whom a low value was set on human life, it is not to be wondered at, that revenge, wild justice, as Bacon finely terms it, should be esteemed a solemn duty; and that resistance to every institution, trenching on individual liberty of action, should be encouraged as public virtue. Hence, the lawless turbulence, so characteristic of the ancient, and, if you will, of the modern Irish; a stage of society which all nomadic tribes must pass through, but which circumstance of internal, no less than external growth, have unfortunately conspired in perpetuating in the sister island,' as the Cockneys designate Ireland.

"Of the circumstance of internal growth, it is needless to more than mention the number of independent kingdoms and principalities into which the whole island was, at a very early period of its history, divided; by whose endless feuds, peace, the essential condition of all social improvement, was wholly precluded, and, as a consequence, the settlement of the inhabitants under some one defined species or form of government, rendered an impossibility. Then, lest this untoward state of things should fail in perpetuating discord and endless strife, there was the law of Tanistry, (the principle of which is, let me remark, closely allied to wisdom), and the usage of gavelkind, to ensure an inexhaustible supply of these civil broils which are thought to be so necessary to the health and happiness of us Irish; by the former, the dignity and power of the chieftain was made the reward of successful turbulence; by the latter, the accumulation of property by individuals or families, the first step towards civilization, and the subjection of passion and brute force to law and public opinion,—was effectually prevented.

Giraldus, while sneering at a custom which modern philosophy has eloquently advocated, of leaving the limbs and body of infants as unswathed as possible, tells us that, notwithstanding, the wild Irish were remarkable for their tall and handsome bodies, and pleasing countenances, and that in music they excelled every other nation. "In quibus (playing on the harp and drum) ferè omni natione incomparibiliter est instructa."

That the metaphorical cast of Irish eloquence is not of modern growth, is evident from the following curious letter (in Girald) from King Dermot to Strongbow, reproaching him with delay in fulfilling his promise of military aid. "We have seen the storks and the swallows. The birds of the spring have paid us their annual visit; and at the warning of the blast, have departed to other climes. But our best friend has hitherto disappointed our hopes. Neither the breezes of the summer, nor the storms of the winter, have conducted him to these shores."

"Another circumstance of interual origin, which contributed to retard the progress of civilization in Ireland, was the roving pastoral habits of its early inhabitants, occasioned, as it should seem, by the fertility of its soil, and the salubrity of its climate. The love of repose, or irksomeness of labour, is so natural to man, that nothing but the strong stimulus of necessity, or avarice, or public opinion, can overcome it; and no such stimulus existed in the rich pasture grounds, or the property tenures, or habits or conduct of the ancient Irish. This is a point I might expatiate upon, were it not now almost a truism in the philosophy of history. What has made the Scotch one of the wealthiest and most enlightened of modern communities, but the sterility of their soil? And what prevents the Spaniard or the Neapolitan, at this hour, from assuming his fit station among the nations, but the fertility and delightful mildness of his

climate?

"Of the circumstances of a mixed external and internal origin, which were hostile to the improvement of Ireland, the most influential, in my mind, was her geographical position: had she been some thirty or forty miles (a considerable distance in the infancy of navigation, though nothing in this age of steam-boats,) nearer Britain, she would, most probably, in the times of Vespasian or Agricola, have enjoyed the incalculable advantage of being overrun by the Roman arms, and their train-Roman arts and institutions; at all events, her conquest by the Anglo Norman followers of Strongbow, would have been, like that of England under the first William, complete and nationally beneficial: while, if she lay some fifty or a hundred miles more westward, it is not improbable that some domestic Alfred or Arminius, would have effected such necessary reforms in her institutions, as would have prepared the way for national unanimity, and national independence, and wealth, and civilization. Ireland, it should never be forgotten, was not, till the time of Cromwell, more than half subjected to the English rule; and, what is of still more importance to the present question, never for one continued year, since the landing of Fitzstephen, at Waterford, till the year 1830, when Lord Anglesey, our present matchless Lord-Lieutenant, was restored to us, for the purpose of crushing for ever the serpents of faction, of all shades and creeds, was treated but as a nation of barbarous Helots. I will not excite the indignation, so graceful in youth, in your minds, by running over the sad tragedy of crime and oppression which constitutes the history of Ireland from Henry II. to the reign of George IV.; it is written in letters of fire and of blood; it is to be seen in those very murders in Clare, to which you, Mr. H, have just invited our attention. All I would say is, that before you pronounce Irish turbulence and Irish lawlessness incurable, give good government a fair trial. And what, you may ask me, is good government; I will tell you over a jorum of old whiskey punch, when you honor' me with a visit at Tillietudlem. Once more, let me earnestly advise you to brush away your national prejudices; cultivate a more hearty faith in the natural goodness of your fellow creatures. Be assured that the law of morality is written on the heart of man by the finger of God himself; and that the grossest deviations from it will be found, if examined in the spirit of a high philosophy, to be misdirections, the consequence of bad education, and not corruptions of moral feeling. These murders in Clare are horrible, truly lamentable; but recollect that these very murderers three summers ago, sacrificed all personal considerations at the shrine, as they honestly felt, of their country's weal. I allude to that great instance of the moral sublime,-the Clare election; which witnessed a poor, ignorant, oppressed, drunken, priest-ridden peasantry, forgetting, in one moment of patriotism, all domestic feuds, refraining wholly from every species of intoxicating liquid, shaking off the serfship of centuries, and, undismayed by the menaces of their priests and their feudal landlords, boldly asserting their rights as free-born British subjects!"

Thus ended the warm hearted defender of his country; and here must end this tedious prolegomena to my letters from Ireland. N. E.

NOTRE DAME DE PARIS, BY VICTOR HUGO.*

Our

CRITICS, we believe, are commonly wont to recognize at least as many species of words as of comedies; sentimental comedy, genteel comedy, comedie larmoyante, comedy of intrigue, comedy of character, and so forth. For our own part, we never trouble ourselves about these minute divisions and subdivisions. classification of plays, novels, romances, and all other works of imagination, comprehends but three distinct genera ; to wit, the very dull, the tolerably entertaining, or if you will, interesting, and the very entertaining or very interesting ; we have no need of invariable rules of composition, or strict canons of criticism, or immutable standards of taste, (the advantage of this our system,) or any other such foolery, when we are called upon to sit in judgment upon these works. Our opinion is formed entirely from certain symptoms which their respective degrees of merit never fail to produce upon us. Suppose, for example, our last arrival from the circulating library may chance to bear the title of "Haut Ton," or "High Life," or" Spring in Town," or any other equally euphonous and prepossessing appellation; and suppose us determined to enjoy this intellectual treat as it should be enjoyed; that is, with the obligato accompaniment of certain corporeal luxuries, which are indispensable to our perfect and entire well-being and contentment. Accordingly, our cigar box is placed on the table by our side, a flask of something peculiar, in the way of liquid, stands close by to keep it in countenance, the usual severity of the month of June is tempered by an extra allowance of coals upon our blazing fire, and we sink down upon the well stuffed cushions of our easy chair, in a delightful ecstacy of suspense and expectation as to the contents of our book. Now, how comes it to pass that after this resolute and determined preparation for relishing the full flavour of all the intellectual delicacies we hold, or suppose we hold, compressed within our hands,-how comes it that at the end of some half hour or so, if you happen, gentle reader, to step stealthily into our sanctum, you behold our head dropped down on one shoulder, our mouth wide open, our eyes firmly closed, the book lying, face downwards, upon the rug, and a half smoked cigar not far off, which, albeit of matchless flavour, and but lately imported from thy bower of sweet odours, "O Hudson!" has not been able to maintain its place between our lips, so potent is the drowsiness that has thus overwhelmed us? How has all this happened? The answer is simple: the book is a dull book.

Now, suppose on the other hand, that we have just become possessed of a hitherto unread production of Sir Walter; ay, or even of one already devoured, but of which the rich flavour has in some degree departed from our mental palate. Well, what if the book be lying on the table before us? We shall have plenty of time and opportunity to look it over a day or two hence; and we surely could not in any case contrive to put off the pressing business we happen to have on hand exactly on this particular afternoon, of all other afternoons in the year. Besides, we have been keeping rather bad hours of late, and we have not stirred out of doors these three days past; and a stroll in the evening, and then early to bed will be the very thing to recruit us; and then we should like to call at our club, and it is a long while since we have seen our friend in Mortimer-street, who is sure to be at home just about the time of our walk, inasmuch as it will be the season of his post-prandial potations; in short, there are all sorts of reasons why we should not open this book, and not one that we can hit upon why we should. However, we may as well just throw a glance over the preface, so that we may be able to begin at once upon chapter the first, when we have leisure to read the work. Now take the trouble, kind reader, to look in upon us two, three, four, five hours from the time we sit down to this

* 4 Vols. 12mo. Cinquième édition, 1831. (Paris. Charles Gosselin.)