But the influence of public opinion upon the affairs of a state is different in its operations, according to the form or constitution of government of the particular state in which it presents itself. In states, of which the form of government gives no immediate power to the public, the opinion of that public can only make efforts, perhaps inefficient, to operate mediately through the actual depositaries of power; and, in these situations, public opinion on government assumes a character almost simply speculative; and, like the opinions, in general philosophy and natural science of the schools, end where they began. But, in states like our own, where the public enjoy from the direct provisions of the constitution, a certain share of direct power, and from the indirect results of that constitution, a share of indirect power, of which it would be difficult to state the prodigious sum; there, the effect of the union of that natural and uncultivated spirit of mere philosophy, which has been described inherent in human nature, with the immediate management of national affairs, is a phenomenon of the gravest character, and one which demands the most incessant vigilance. It only requires to be admitted, that nature is more prevalent than art; ignorance than knowledge; that all men have the gifts of nature, and only a certain portion of men, the attainments of art; and that government is a matter of learning, not less than a matter of feeling; it only requires the admission of these truths (truths apparently indisputable), to explain how it must always happen that, among a free people, there will subsist a party whose views are incompatible with the public welfare, and how the opinions of that party must always be a favourite with the multitude of the majority; of that multitude and majority so called, under a certain aspect, in which we have beheld our countrymen at the present day.

That such sentiments are to be prized, as emanating from a mind like that of Mr. O'Connell, cannot be doubted; they are, however, but the precursors of others of a still more liberal tendency, which were expressed by him on his visit to Strabane, a town in the diocese of Derry, and which pre

sented him with the occasion of thus speaking of an Irish Protestant priest.

"The clergyman of Strabane," says Mr. O'Connell, "has but a small living, comparatively speaking; it does not, perhaps, exceed £700 a year. He is universally allowed to be a worthy deserving man. I have little personal acquaintance with him, but with a predecessor of his I had much. I have passed many, many, very many happy days and hours in his society, and never quitted it without being enlivened by his gaiety, instructed by his conversation; and, I trust, benefited by his example. But though his kindness to me is still, and will be ever, with gratitude remembered, I should not notice him here, were it not that I could bear ample testimony to the unbounded benevolence of heart, which led him ever foremost to relieve misery, and gladden the mansions of distress. Glorious pre-eminence, worthy the ministry of that gospel, which teaches us to consider all men as brethren."

The visit of Mr. O'Connell to the little town of Minicherin furnishes him with the opportunity of presenting us with the following sketch of the Irish character. The town consists of twenty or thirty little cabins. To each of these are attached a few acres of land-a portion is a potato garden, and the remainder gives grass for a cow, and produces a little oats. To an Englishman nothing would seem more wretched than the situation of these cabins. The ground on which they stand is half reclaimed bog, and heaps of manure are piled and scattered round them, which render entrance a matter of considerable difficulty. Nor does the state of the interior appear to make amends for the exterior. In mid-day the darkness of midnight rests upon it. The chimney is seldom so well constructed as to carry away the smoke, through which some women, blear-eyed, shrivelled, and blackened seated on their three-legged stools, like so many sylphs in the act of prophecy, gradually become visible. A cow, a calf, and a pig, generally fill up the back ground. The appearance of the furniture corresponds with that of the inhabitants-a few earthen vessels, tin porringers, and wooden noggins on the

dresser, two or three stools around the fire, and a bed or beds, covered by a coarse and black rug, make up the whole of it. All this is wretchedness, surely, or there is no such thing as wretchedness upon earth.

To many, very many, no doubt it would be so, but happily the people most interested, are not wretched; very far from it, and many good reasons might be given, why they should not.

In the first place, neither they, nor their immediate fathers, ever knew a better way of living. This, in itself, is almost every thing. Man is the mere creature of habit, and all those tastes which have the most influence over him, are acquired ones; no man ever was born with a love of snuff, of coffee, of pepper, or of claret.

In the next place, the bogs on which (in which we should rather say) they live, give them plenty of turf. The poorest man has (if it is not his own fault) an inexhaustible abundance of firing. Chilled, and as it were impregnated with the damp and moisture of his mountains, even the smoke of his cabin gives him pleasure. He is not a creature who lives in a medium way, nor is he, perhaps the more to be pitied on that account. He has the rapid alteration of heat and cold, of draught and moisture, and if he is often chilled and drenched during the day, he has a more exquisite relish for the fire during the night, and when he is dried and baked, as it were in an oven, he returns again with cheerfulness to the open air.

His food is simple; but he has it in abundance. It is wholesome food likewise. Vegetables and milk, potatos, butter, onions, and oaten-bread. Onions and garlic are of a most cordial nature. These vegetables composed part of the diet which enabled the Israelites to endure, in a warm climate, the heavy tasks imposed on them by their Egyptian master. They were likewise eaten by Roman farmers to repair the waste of their strength, by the toils of harvest. When notwithstanding their cordial properties, he feels uneasy sensations in his stomach, from the acescant qualities of his food, nature kindly extends her hand to him with a medicine drawn from his own mountains-a medicine which he does not take reluctantly,

but readily and cheerfully-whiskey- which, when not drunk to excess, is as well-suited to his temperament and necessities, as wine is to a Frenchman's, or as ale to an Englishman's.

Milk and vegetable diet humanize the heart, as if they do not create, they cherish benevolent dispositions. All fierce animals are carnivorous, all gentle ones are granivorous. An Irish mountaineer is mild, humane, and affectionate, and he shrinks -yes, paradoxical as it will be reckoned by many-he shrinks beyond most other men from the idea of inflicting misery, or of shedding blood. This is his natural and quiescent character. But he is social, and he has extraordinary sensibility. His sympathy is easily excited, and he catches the flame of enthusiasm with an ardour inconceivable to persons of a more phlegmatic temperament. The quarrel, therefore, of his neighbour, his friend, or his relation is his own quarrel-he kindles as he goes along, passion takes entire possession of him, and under the influence of this temporary frenzy, he is capable of committing the greatest excesses. Women are more tender, more humane, and affectionate, than men; but when in a passion, they have much less self-government, and have, perhaps, done more atrocious deeds.

"The wretched condition of society in Ireland, the contest which has so long subsisted between the two great sects into which it is divided, the occasional arrogance and oppression of the Protestant, plant the thorns of envy, jealousy, and hatred, in the poor Catholic's breast, which never fail to shoot forth into a plenteous crop of resentment, whenever an opportunity presents itself. On such an occasion, he does not scrupulously discriminate between the Protestant, his benefactor, and the Protestant, his oppressor. In his ordinary and insulated state, he thinks only of the man; in his artificial and gregarious state, he thinks only of the Protestant.

"But, besides his great susceptibility of impression, his great tendency to association, and his political situation, there is another reason why the incidental character of the Irish mountaineer should so often predominate over his intrinsic

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I mean his great tendency to drunkenness; which, after all, he has only in common with the inhabitants of other mountainous countries. The craving and longing of man, in a cold and damp climate, for ardent spirits, is so universal, that it seems an instinct given by nature for his preservation, rather than a pernicious habit which leads to his destruction. It has been remarked, that the Indians have diminished every where in America, since their connexion with the Europeans. This has been justly ascribed to the Europeans having introduced spirituous liquors among them. In the same period, the Irish peasantry have every where increased; nor is there, perhaps, a healthier body in the universe.

But to return to the other advantages of the poor mountaineers' condition; I return to them with pleasure, for sweet it is to find that the flower of human happiness will not wither, even when stuck in the bosom, of what at first view, appears wretchedness itself.

Milk, and vegetable diet, not only mend his heart and humanize his disposition, but give him, if not better health, at least longer life. Animal food is a much higher stimulus than vegetable. It quickens the circulation much more, and sooner wears out the power of life. The lamp burns the brighter, perhaps (and only perhaps), but it burns quicker. I have felt the pulses of a number of English and Irish peasants, and have always found those of the latter, slower than those of the former.

Constant intercourse with his cattle, sharing with them his room and his roof, gives him health to enjoy life. Nature, which made man, and those animals equally necessary to each other, has kindly prevented any inconvenience from their living together. On the contrary, to repay him for affording them shelter, she has done more. She has endowed them with the power of destroying the effects of marsh exhalations, and of preventing fever.

Constant living out of doors during the dav gives him more health, more enjoyment. Happiness not caly depends on