LETTER X.

ENGLAND.

We started for Dublin with sorrowing hearts, for it was likely to be a long, if not a last farewell to friends who were endeared as well by a participation in danger as in feeling. Those who have daily been expecting to die together in a holy cause, cannot lightly part. One of the last things that I learned before leaving the place was communicated to me by an intimate friend and near neighbour, a very sweet Christian character. She had lived on terms of intimacy with a Romish family in the town, and a few days previous to my departure the mother of this family called on Miss with tears entreating her to embrace Popery; for that the next year would witness the utter extermination of Protestants, and it would be out of her power, or that of any other person, to save any life, however dear to them. She urged it with most affectionate importunity, and evidently much distressed at her failure. Whether the better informed class of the Romanists believed in Pastorini's predictions or not, they saw them universally received among the bulk of the people, and of course knew that they would take care to verify what they believed. It was by a wonderful interposition that the Protestants of Ireland were

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THE DUMB BOY.

saved, though an unmarked one; for, with a population of six to one, roused to the highest pitch of religious fanaticism, prepared by extra masses, fasts, and prayers, and confiding in the assurances of an infallible church that so it must be; where, too, they had every thing to gain and little or nothing to lose, it is marvellous that such a restraint was laid on their sanguinary purposes. The priestly fancy of entering into discussion with their opponents wrought powerfully against their own cause: and the notorious Doyle, who led the way in every species of agitation and mischief, and sanctioned the riotous meeting at Carlow, one of the ablest, wiliest, and boldest of Romish bishops, whose writings were firebrands, and who in a public speech eulogized a farmer in his diocese for taking the Bible in the tongs and burying it in a hole in his garden, that Dr. Doyle afterwards died a Protestant; nor could all the devices of his brethren long conceal the fact.

Jack had never before been beyond the environs of his native town, and I expected to see him much astonished by the splendid buildings of Dublin. He regarded them, however, with indifference, because, as he said, they were not 'God-mades,' while the scenery through which we had travelled, particularly the noble oaks on Colonel Bruen's fine demesne, and the groups of deer reclining beneath their broad shadow, roused him to enthusiasm. It was wonderful to trace the exquisite percepiton of beauty as developed in that boy who had never even been in a furnished room until he came to me. His taste was refined, and his mind delicate beyond belief: I never saw such sensitive modesty as he manifested to the last day of his life. Rudeness of any kind was hateful to him; he not only yielded respect to all, but required it towards himself, and really commanded it by his striking propriety of manner. He was, as a dear friend once remarked, a God-made' gentleman, untainted with the slightest approach to anything like af

put him out of conceit with any article of apparel that drew forth the remark. He would answer the taunt with a face of grave rebuke, saying, Bad Mam, bold Mam; Jack dandy, no Jack poor boy.' He had not, indeed, arrived at so copious a vocabulary when we left his home; but he was rapidly acquiring new words.

It was beautiful to see him at prayer. He had never kneeled down with us at Kilkenny; for any Romanist who 'had detected him doing so must have informed, and the priest would have commanded his removal. In Dublin he volunteered to join us, and as he kneeled with clasped hands, looking up towards heaven, the expression of his countenance was most lovely. A smile of childlike confidence and reverential love played over his features, now becoming most eloquent; his bristly hair had began to assume a silky appearance, and was combed aside from a magnificent brow, while a fine colour perpetually mantled his cheeks, and changed with every emotion; his dark hazel eyes, large, and very bright, always speaking some thought that occupied his mind. He was rather more than twelve years old. In profile he much resembled Kirke White when older; but the strongest likeness I ever saw of him is an original portrait of Edward VI., by Holbein, in my possession. It was taken after consumption had set its seal on the countenance of that blessed young king, as it did on that of my dear dumb boy.

One adventure he had in Dublin that afforded him much enjoyment. I went into an extensive toy-shop to make some purchase, and Jack, enchanted with the wonders around him, strolled to the farther end, and into a little adjoining recess, well filled with toys. A great uproar in that direction made us all run to inquire the cause, and there was Jack, mounted on a first rate rocking-horse, tearing

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DEPARTURE FROM IRELAND.

away full gallop, and absolutely roaring out in the maddest paroxysm of delight, his hat fallen off, his arm raised, his eyes and mouth wide open, and the surrounding valuables in imminent peril of a general crash. The mistress of the shop was so convulsed with laughter that she could render no assistance, and it was with some difficulty I checked his triumphant career, and dismounted him. He gave me afterwards a diverting account of his cautious approach to the "good horse;' how he ascertained it was bite, no; kick, no;' and gradually got resolution to mount it. He wanted to know how far he had rode, and also if he was a Godmade? I told him it was wood, but I doubt whether he believed me. Thenceforth Dublin was associated in his mind with nothing else; even at nineteen years of age he would say, if he met with the name, Good Dublin, good horse; small Jack love good Dublin horse.' The shipping pleased him greatly, and many of his beautiful drawings were representations of sailing vessels.

I had now been in Ireland five years and three months; and with what different feelings did I prepare to leave its green shores from those with which I first pressed them! Unfounded prejudice was succeeded by an attachment founded on close acquaintance with those among whom I had dwelt, contempt by respect, and dislike by the warmest, most grateful affection. I had scorned her poverty, and hated her turbulence. The first I now knew to be no poverty of soil, of natural resources, of mind, talent, or energy, but the effect of a blight, permitted to rest alike, on the land and people, through the selfishness of an unjust, crooked policy, that made their welfare of no account in its calculations, nor would stretch forth a hand to deliver them from the dark dominion of Popery. Their turbulence was the natural fruit of such poverty, and of their being wholly under the influence of a party necessarily hostile to the interests of a Protestant state, and bent on subverting its ascendency. What

Ireland was, I too plainly saw: what she might be, I clearly understood; and the guilt of my country's responsibility lay heavy on my heart as I watched the outline of her receding

Bristol was our destination; and for the ensuing year, Clifton became our abode. This period of my life was one of severe trial, which it is not necessary to particularize. Incipient derangement, which afterwards became developed, in a quarter where, if I did not find comfort and protection, I might expect their opposites, occasioned me much alarm and distress, while my brother's protracted absence increased the trial. Much secluded, I pursued my literary avocations, and watched the progress of Jack's growth in knowledge and in grace.

Clifton is certainly one of the most beautiful spots in England; the river winding its graceful way beneath St. Vincent's picturesque rocks on the one side, and on the other the noble plantations of Leigh rising, as it were, out of the water, and overhanging it with grove and garden, is enchanting; while the constant succession of vessels of every variety of size and character, passing to and fro, fills the mind with a picture of commercial greatness, the more striking from its locality. The number of steamers was then small; the ungraceful chimney, with a long pennon of black smoke, had not superseded the tapering mast and swelling sails, nor given a hurrying rapidity to the slow, gliding movement so peculiar to a ship in smooth water. Every one of these sea-kettles ought to be inscribed with the motto, 'Death to the picturesque.' They now send their dark vapours curling up St. Vincent's cliffs, and by continually agitating the waters, destroy the tranparency of that elegant river. But believing, as I do, that these "swift messengers " have a special commission, in the divine purpose, to bring from all parts of the world that acceptable present unto the Lord of Hosts, - his own peeled and scattered Israel, — to the holy