pitude would be left without a veil. The examination of the "Pro Patria" baronet (this person had been originally a stationer) was watched with the most intense anxiety. He had been hailed by Lord Sidmouth as the chief conciliator of Ireland, was created a baronet by his Majesty for the getting up of a convivial amnesty, and immediately after the departure of the King poured out a libation to "the glorious memory," and, as he elegantly expressed it, "threw off his surtout." It was now anticipated that he would be obliged to divest himself of his inner Orange garment, and disclose all the loathsome rags that were concealed beneath. But these expectations were blasted in the bud. Sir Abraham, who had received a wholesome hint, made a mock tender of martyrdom, and furnished, in the impunity of his defiance, matter of astonishment to the empire, and of indignation to Ireland. He returned in triumph to Dublin, with Mr. Plunket bound at his chariot-wheels. I saw the Attorney-general in the Four Courts shortly after his arrival. His face was full of care, and haggard with disappointment and self, reproach. There was a lividness in his eyelids, and a wanness in his cheek, which denoted a spirit pining under the sense of an unmerited humiliation, which he vainly struggled to conceal. How unlike he looked to the distinguished person, who, a little while before, unpensioned and unplaced, was in the full enjoyment of that high renown, for the diminution of which no emoluments can compensate, and who, instead of being the provincial utensil of the British cabinet, was almost the foremost man in the first assembly in the world.

The next public event of sufficient importance to take a place in these epistolary annals, was the first of that series of alleged miraculous interpositions, of which England as well as Ireland has heard so much. You will scarcely expect that I should enter upon a discussion of their authenticity. The subject is too sacred to be lightly treated; and for a grave and detailed discussion what limits would suffice? I shall therefore pass, on at once to the notice of a person, certainly of no ordinary kind, whom they have been the means of calling forth to public view, and who has in consequence acquired a degree of general notoriety, and of importance among his own persuasion, unenjoyed by any Catholic priest or prelate of Ireland since the days of the celebrated O'Leary. You anticipate that I must be alluding to Doc Doyle, the titular bishop of Leighlin and Kildare. This gentleman is descended from one of those respectable families in this country that have, as to the worldly attribute of wealth, been irretrievably ruined by the politics of Ireland. So recently as in the lifetime of his father, the penal code laid its vulture-grasp upon the patrimonial inheritance, and wrested it for ever. Upon approaching to man's estate he found himself in education and alliances a gentleman-in prospects and resources an Irish Catholic. To a person so circumstanced exile had its charms; so, shaking the dust of his natal soil from his feet, he passed into Portugal, where he perfected his education in one of the universities of that country, and became an ecclesiastic. He returned to Ireland about years ago. His learning and talents, both of which are great, procured his nomination to the Professorship of Logic in the Catholic college of Carlow, and subsequently to the titular bishoprick which he now enjoys. In this country, where the deepest and most frequent crimes of the peasantry have a State-origin, a Catholic pastor,

who regards his flock, cannot abstain from intermingling political allusions in his public exhortations; and however resolutely it may be denied, it is an unquestionable fact that many an insurgent congregation is tamed into submission to their destiny by the voice of peace and warning that issues from the altar. In this part of his religious duties Dr. Doyle was long remarkable for his moderation. Upon the last general commotion in the South, about sixteen months ago, he published a pastoral address, so adapted to its object by the spirit of Christian eloquence and charity which it breathed, that Mr. Plunket did not hesitate to pronounce it a masterpiece worthy of the meek and virtuous Fenelon. It was calculated to be of equal service to the government and the established church; but a hierarch of the dominant faith was untouched by its merits, and in one of his addresses, or as it was more correctly entitled, his charge, responded by a puerile and blundering insult upon the religion of a man whom he should have embraced as a brother, and might in many points have studied as a model. This unprovoked anathema, combined with the various exciting events that followed in rapid succession, roused Dr. Doyle to a vindication of his creed, and (a still more popular theme) to some elaborate and cutting retorts upon the most precious and vulnerable attribute of Irish orthodoxy-its temporalities. He has boldly denied the divinity of tithes, and has brought to bear a most provoking array of learning and logic upon their Noli-me-tangere pretensions. A deadly controversy has ensued, and still rages. I. K. L., the signature which Dr. Doyle has adopted, has been answered and denounced by sundry beneficed alphabetical characters, and tithe-loving anagrams, for these champions of the church seem reluctant to commit their names, and deep and wide-spreading is the interest with which the combat is observed. Upon the merits of questions so entirely beside my pursuits I cannot venture to pronounce; but as far as the mere exhibition of wit and knowledge and controversial skill is concerned, it seems to me that I. K. L. has hitherto continued master of the field. "You are a Jacobin and a Catholic," cries the Rev. F. W.-" You are too fond of gold and silver," retorts I. K. L.-" Would you plunder the established church of its vested comforts, you Papist ?" exclaims T. Y. X.-"Would you drive a coach and six along the narrow path that leads to Heaven?" rejoins the pertinacious I. K. L.-" Where are your authorities for your monstrous positions ?" demands a third adversary, muffled up in an aboriginal Irish name turned inside out.—“ I refer you (replies I. K. L. here evidently quite at home) to the Fathers, whom you clearly have never read, and in particular to St. Augustine, who wrote the book De Doctrina Christiana, which you have blunderingly attributed to Pope Gelasius, and which book contains no such passage as you have cited from it, the said passage being in another book, to wit, that against the Eutychian heresy, which in the opinion of Baronius and M. Cano was never written by Pope Gelasius; and for further illustrations of my views, vide passim, Erric, Prosper, D'Marea, Cardinal Lupus, Cervantes and Fijo, if you know any thing of Spanish; Illiricus, Vincent of Lerins, Pallivicini, Vigilantius, Ecolampadius, and the Fudge-family." Here is a good six months' course of reading for I.K. L.'s biliteral and triliteral opponents; and the happy results will, no doubt, be communicated in due season to the public.

The profusion of erudition and contempt with which Dr. Doyle plies his adversaries, led me to imagine before I saw him that he must be a man of a pompous and somewhat overbearing carriage, but his appearance and his manners (which I am told are courteous and playful) have quite a different character. He is not more, I understand, than forty years of age, and does not seem so much. He is indeed the most juvenile-looking prelate I ever saw. His smooth round face and ruddy complexion, and his slender and pliant form, seem to belong rather to a young recruit of the church than to one of its established dignitaries. His face has a very peculiar expression-intelligence throughout, strength and an honest scorn about the mouth and lips, and in the eyes a mingled character of caution and slyness, produced by their downcast look and the overhanging of thick and shady lashes, as if he made it a point of prudence to screen from hostile observation the light and indignation, and perhaps now and then the triumph, that glow within. The remark may be fanciful, but it struck me that I could discover in his controlled and measured gait the same secret consciousness of strength and the same reluctance to display it. Perhaps I might extend the observation to the entire of the Catholic hierarchy. How different their air and movements from those of corresponding rank in the more favoured sect! See in the streets a prelatical sample of ascendancy, and with what a buoyant and lordly swing, like a vessel laden with worldly wealth and wafted before a prosperous trade-wind, he rolls along! With what pride and energy, and deep-seated reliance upon the eternity of tithes, he thrusts out one holy and pampered leg before the other! He tramples upon Irish ground with the familiar superiority of one who feels that an ample portion of its fertile soil is irrevocably dedicated, by divine conveyance, collaterally secured by common and statute law, to the uses of his sacred corporation. But the bishop of the people-how dissimilar his attitude and gesture! He picks his cautious steps as if the way were lined with penal traps, and checks the natural impulse of humanity to appear abroad with the firm air and carriage of a man, lest a passing alderman, or tutored parrot from an Orange window, should salute his ears with some vituperative cant against his politics and creed. I would suggest, however, to Dr. Doyle that he need not fear to throw out his limbs as he has done his mind. The enemies of his country have already tendered him the homage of their hatred; that of their fear and respect will inevitably follow.

Soon after the publication of Doctor Doyle's pamphlet, a tract upon the Miracles appeared, which is known to have been written by Baron Smith, and which is distinguished by the metaphysical eloquence and the refined astuteness of that enlightened and highly-gifted Judge. Of this and of other writings of that eminent person it was my intention to give some account, as well as of the author himself, who is among most remarkable men in Ireland; but this letter has already exceeded its legitimate bounds, and I must postpone my delineation of the Baron, and my purposed criticism upon his writings, until my next communication.

the

THE SURPRISE OF ALHAMA.

BOABDIL wanders, sad and slow,
Alone and in the garb of woe,
Sighing where'er his footsteps go,

"Ah, where is my Alhama!"
He hears with rage the city's fate,
And slays the courier at the gate,
Then prostrate falls, but cries too late,
“Ah, where is my Alhama!”

At length he mounts his favourite steed,
And to the Alhambra bends his speed,
Still groaning in his bitter need—'

"Ah, where is my Alhama!"

He enters in his palace wall,

He bids his trumpets sound the call;

Yet grieving at the city's fall,

Ah, where is my Alhama!"

He wakes the drum's soul-stirring charm,
That tells his valiant Moors to arm;
Still crying 'mid the loud alarm,

"Ah, where is my Alhama!"

His soldiers range in battle form;
He views them ripe for war's red storm,
Crying with grief and anger warm,
“Ah, where is my Alhama!"

An ancient chief approaches nigh-
"Wherefore, O king, the battle cry?"
The monarch answers with a sigh,

66

66

Ah, where is my Alhama !”

My friends, my soldiers, true and bold, The Christians' hated cross behold

O'er my Alhama basely sold,

'Ah, where is my Alhama!""

An Alfaquin with hoary beard
His prince addresses-not a word

He utters till the cry is heard,

Ah, where is my Alhama!" "We marvel not at that, O king:"Again the words of suffering

Fresh cause of interruption bring

"Ah, where is Alhama!"

my

THE MONTHS.-NO. IV.

April.

"No joyless forms shall regulate

Our living CALENDAR:

We from to-day, my friend, will date
The opening of the year.

Love, now an universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth.”

WORDSWORTH.

APRIL is come" proud-pied April"-and "hath put a spirit of youth in every thing.' Shall our portrait of her, then, alone lack that spirit?-No-not if words can speak the feelings from which they spring. "Spring!" See how the name comes uncalled for-as if to hint that it should have stood in the place of "April !"-But April is Spring-the only spring month that we possess in this egregious climate of ours. Let us, then, make the most of it.

April is at once the most juvenile of all the months, and the most feminine-never knowing her own mind for a day together. Fickle as a fond maiden with her first lover;-coying it with the young sun till he withdraws his beams from her-and then weeping till she gets them back again. High-fantastical as the seething wit of a poet, that sees a world of beauty growing beneath his hand, and fancies that he has created it; whereas, it is it has created him a poet: for it is nature that makes April, not April nature.-April is, doubtless, the sweetest month of all the year; partly because it ushers in the May, and partly for its own sake-so far as any thing can be valuable without reference to any thing else. It is, to May and June, what "sweet fifteen," in the age of woman, is to passion-stricken eighteen, and perfect two and twenty. It is, to the confirmed Summer, what the previous hope of joy is to the full fruition-what the boyish dream of love is to love itself. It is, indeed, the month of promises; and what are twenty performances compared with one promise? When a promise of delight is fulfilled, it is over and done with; but while it remains a promise, it remains a hope: and what is all good, but the hope of good? what is every to-day of our life, but the hope (or the fear) of to-morrow?-April, then, is worth two Mays, because it tells tales of May in every sigh that it breathes, and every tear that it lets fall. It is the harbinger, the herald, the promise, the prophecy, the foretaste of all the beauties that are to follow it-of all, and more-of all the delights of Summer, and all the "pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious" Autumn. It is fraught with beauties itself that no other month can bring before us, and

'It bears a glass which shews us many more."

As for April herself, her life is one sweet alternation of smiles, and sighs, and tears-and tears, and sighs, and smiles-till it is consummated at last in the open laughter of May. It is like—in short, it is like nothing in the world but "an April day." And her charms—but really I must cease to look upon the face of this fair month generally, lest, like a painter in the presence of his mistress, I grow too ena