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extent the inveterate hatred to Protestantism and to all establishments displayed by the others, yet aided them in their designs, actuated by absurd ideas of reform, a restless spirit of innovation and a consciousness of their own incapacity and unfitness for office, which rendered them anxious to distinguish their administration by the accomplishment of something which had not been done before, and desirous that that something should be of such a nature as to gratify the wishes and secure the support of that rabble, to whom they looked to enable them to retain office, in defiance of the wishes of their sovereign and the rational part of the nation. Such are the component parts of that revolutionary party, at present running breast-high to the destruction of the Church of Ireland. The method adopted by this party in their attack, is to pour forth fine sentiments about the wishes of the people; the abuses resulting from antiquity; the rights of the majority; liberty of conscience; purity of religion; equalization; conciliation; grievances, &c. coupled and interlarded with impudent assertions of general abuses; indecent falsehoods; and gross and insulting language, directed against every individual and party, who rise in defence of the hated establishment. They thus gain a two-fold object. Their servility precludes all free discussion, while it provokes their opponents to engage in a war of defence; as their gentlemanly feelings prevent them from retaliation in kind. As soon then as all their assertions have been disproved, they, knowing full well that that disproval was not of the least value to the cause it was designed to support, put the question to the vote, and carry it by means of their own unprincipled majority. One might suppose that one trial of the consequences of this fruitless defence might be sufficient to induce the Constitutionalists to change the plan of their operations; but no: they continue in the same system of useless apology, remonstrance, and vindication, in which it is the whole policy of their opponents to engage them. They even go further, and say, "It is right that abuses should be removed, if any exist. The truth will be more easily defended when free from the burden of supporting slight defects or er

rors. It is right to make the best of every thing, and, as it is probable that these people have some slight grounds for what they say, some good will probably arise from their attacks." We must make a few remarks on the absurdity of this system that the truth is more easily defended when perfectly free from abuse, is certain; as a ship will encounter a storm with more safety when all her timbers are perfectly sound, and her rigging has been renewed ; but it were a strange proof of wisdom to take out all the decayed planks, and all the imperfect rigging, as soon as the storm had begun to rage, the decayed and worm-eaten plank must then be preserved with as much care as the sound one, and even more, for it will feel the attack with more severity. The time to change a defective timber, or to remove an obnoxious abuse, is the time of peace, tranquillity, and leisure; when the attack commences and the storm begins to rage, all must be defended; for it is as fatal to admit the enemy through the neglected and ivy-covered postern, as through the new and splendid gateway. "Whatever is, shall be preserved,” should be the maxim of those who wish to resist a torrent of revolution. But how is it to be preserved? we shall recur to the instance above noticed. The persons who attended the Church of Ireand supplied the weapons against themselves; they talked of the ancient custom of the Church to support the poor, to build its own edifices, &c. This sounded very well; but how should it have been met? not by remonstrance, or by argument, but by language to the following effect :-"Gentlemen, there is a great deal of truth in what you say. There is no doubt but that a certain portion of the burden of supporting the poor ought to be borne by the Church lands, which were, many of them, originally bestowed for this purpose; and it were also desirable that the parish Churches, Cathedrals, Glebe Houses, &c. should be erected at the expense of the same funds. This is the more desirable, as for all these sums no return whatever is made to society at present: for all the lands, tithes, &c. which were given thus by our ancestors, for the support of the widow and the orphan, are now not in the hands of those to whom they were given for this purpose, but are usurped for the enrichment of lay impro

priators. Wherefore we so perfectly agree in the justice of your observations, that on the- dayof -we shall bring in a bill to further the reform you speak of. The consequence of this system would be an immediate division in the enemy's camp. The radicals would heartily join in this attack on the whigs, the chief proprietors of these funds; the latter would of course become alarmed, as it would be impossible for them to bring forward any thing in their own defence, which would not apply with tenfold force in support of the Establishment; they would be instantly obliged not only to relinquish their attacks upon it, but to become active in its defence. Again, while this method was taken by one to divide the radicals and whigs, another might sow dissension between the whigs and papists, by an address to the following purpose to the former: "Gentlemen, you assert with great justice that the people of Ireland labour under heavy burdens; and the removal of these burdens would immortalize your administration. The worst burden under which that unhappy country labours is, that the poor peasantry have to support an exorbitantly wealthy Church Establishment; while the nature of that Establishment is such, that of the sums raised for its support, little or none is expended for the benefit of the people, or of society at large. The revenue of that Church amounts to about 900,000 per annum; and yet this immense sum is appropriated by men, nominally without families to support, or establishments to maintain. It is quite right that this Establishment should be abolished; and if its clergy are to be supported, it will be much preferable to compel them to live upon a moderate revenue from the state, and to make it a heavy misdemeanor in them to attempt to levy any contributions on the people. It is obvious that the Protestant Established Church of Ireland can be no burden to the peasantry, or in fact to any portion of society, but the reverse. Its revenues do not amount to more than one-third of those drawn from Ireland by the Church of Rome; and these revenues can be no burden on the people, as they are in reality a substitute for a higher rent, and are therefore paid by the landlords, while they cannot injure the landlords, as they merely withhold from them a property, which neither they nor their ancestors ever possessed, or

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had a right to; and at the same time these revenues are wholly spent among the people, and are restored to them, with the additional advantage of supporting during their circulation, (for it is no more), a large body of resident gentry, whose instruction and example is of the highest utility to the country, and to society at large. To destroy the Protestant Church Establishment in Ireland, would therefore be only to increase the difficulties and burdens of that kingdom; but as it is obvious that something must be done to alleviate the grievances of the people, I shall onevening next, bring in a motion for an accurate return of the whole revenues of the Romish priesthood in Ireland, with an account of how these revenues are raised, and what portion of them is expended for the moral or physical benefit of the people and shall proceed to draw up and propose to the House some measure which may tend to render the revenues of this Church more beneficial to society." Again, both radicals and papists might be set upon the whigs, by showing how the cowardly, vacillating, and tyrannical policy of the latter has almost destroyed public credit, and consequently injured manufactures and trade, ruined agriculture, and rendered capitalists afraid to invest their property in any useful branch of commerce; how it has caused the greatest danger to several commercial establishments and branches of trade, and totally ruined others. In this attack they would be sure of the support of the radical manufacturers of England, and the popish agriculturists in Ireland. All this would, it is evident, tend if properly managed, to split the strength of the revolutionary party, but it would do more, as it would totally stop the attack on the Protestant Church of Ireland, by giving its enemies abundant employment at home. It would be the means of detecting real abuses, and effecting salutary reform, and above all, it would transfer all the advantages, the eclat, and the encouragement, derivable from an offensive war, from the Revolutionary to the Conservative party in the state. In the adoption of a system like this, the Conservatives would of course have some difficulties to encounter: as they must be prepared to expect that, before it would be brought fully to act, some measures might be carried by their opponents, which might

by the old system have received a temporary delay. They must also be aware that, as their own chance of successfully executing the change of system increases, their opponents will become violent and abusive in proportion to their danger; but we have no hesitation in declaring our conviction that if this system be

steadily, actively, and with perseverance, adopted; it is not yet too late, not only to prevent further evil, but ultimately to undo what has been already done; and to restore the Protestant Church and British Constitution, to all the strength and preeminence they have lost.

TO MY BRIDE.

The timid dove, when first she dares to wander from the nest,
Mistrusts the very breeze on which her pinions learn to rest;
So tremblingly thou leav'st, my love, the sheltering ark of home,
With one, whose faith must yet be prov'd, the world's wide waste to roam.

I read thy tender doubts in the mute language of those eyes,

I hear them too confess'd in those involuntary sighs;

And now thou turn'st thine head away to hide suspicion's tear,
And the pale cheek that would betray the vague surmise of fear.

Thy bosom, palpitating, tells the pulses of the heart,

That from thy childhood's favorite haunts could not unmov'd depart :
Deeming each object dear on which the light of memory's rays,
Reviving all the early scenes of youthful pleasure, plays.

And there is one, to whose embrace thou still dost fondly cling,
Like a young bird that peril shuns beneath its parent's wing,
'Tis She, who rear'd thee "from the world, unspotted, undefil'd,"
And breathes a farewell blessing now upon her darling child.

I, too, have felt the fervour of a mother's boundless love,
And prize it as the purest bond that nature ever wove;
Nor think that I could wish thee e'er its golden links to break,
With such as could make light of this, all other ties were weak.

I could not chide the precious tears, that feeling bids thee weep,
For her, who by thy cradle us'd her anxious watch to keep,
Whose tender and unceasing care could never be repaid,
Who would approve with smiles, and by her sighs alone upbraid.

Oh! think not I could e'er awake within thy guileless breast,
One pang that could avail to mar its sweet and hallow'd rest;
Or seek to poison at its source thy young affection's flow,
By mingling with its tide of joy the bitter cup of woe.

Lovely as woman's form may be, 'tis delicate and frail,
And like the pliant willow bends beneath the passing gale;
But I would hope to shield thee from each rude and chilling blast,
And make thy future life as fair and blissful as the past.

Then learn to trust this heart that beats for its belov'd alone,
And swells with an unfeign'd delight to feel thou art its own,
That shall not be found wanting when its constancy is tried,
But to its first devotion ever truc, my lovely Bride.

LITTLE FAIRLY,

BY SAMUEL LOVER, ESQ. R.H.A.

AUTHOR OF "LEGENDS AND STORIES OF IRELAND."

The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but, I think, now 'tis not to be found

I will have the subject newly writ o'er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent.

The words great and little are sometimes contradictory terms to their own meaning. This is stating the case rather confusedly, but as I am an Irishman, in Ireland, and writing an Irish story, it is the more in character. I might do perhaps, like a very clever and agreeable friend of mine, who, when he deals in some extravagance which you dont quite understand, says "well, you know what I mean." But I will not take that for granted, so what I mean is this-that your great man, (as far as size is concerned,) is often a nobody; and your little man, is often a great man. Nature, as far as the human race is concerned, is at variance with art, which generally couples greatness with size. The pyramids, the temple of Jupiter Olympius, St. Peter's, and St. Paul's, are vast in their dimensions, and the heroes of Painting and Sculpture are always on a grand scale. In Language, the diminutive is indicative of endearment-in Nature, it appears to me it is the type of distinction. Alexander, Cæsar, Napoleon, Wellington, &c. &c. (for I have not room to detail) are instances. But do we not hear every day that "sucha-body is a big booby," while " a clever little fellow" has almost passed into proverbial use. The poets have been more true to nature than painters, in this particular, and in her own divine art, her happiest votaries have been living evidences of her predilection to "packing her choicest goods in small parcels." Pope was a crooked little thing that asked questions," and in our own days, our own "little Moore" is a glorious testimony to the fact. The works of fiction abound with instances of the fancy of the author not considering it necessary that his hero shall

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LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.

be an eligible candidate for the "grenadier corps;" the earlier works of fiction in particular: Fairy tales universally dedicate some giant to destruction at the hands of some "clever little fellow." "Tom Thumb," Jack and the Bean Stalk," and fifty other such for instance, and I am now going to add another to the list, a brilliant example, I trust, of the unfailing rule, that your little man is always a great man.

If any gentleman six foot two inches high gets angry at reading this, I beg him to remember that I am a little man myself, and if he be a man of sense (which is supposing a great deal,) he will pardon, from his own feeling of indignation at this exposé of Patagonian inferiority, the consequent triumph, on my part, of Lilliputian distinction. If, however, his inches get the better of him, and he should call me out, I beg of him to remember, again, that I have the advantage of him there too, in being a little man. There is a proverb too, that "little said is soon mended," and, with all my preaching, I fear I have been forgetting the wholesome adage. So I shall conclude this little introduction, which I only thought a becoming flourish of trumpets for introducing my hero, by placing Little Fairly before my readers, and I hope they will not think, in the words of another adage, that I have given them great cry and little wool.

You see owld Fairly was a mighty dacent man that lived, as the story goes, out over the back a' the hills beyant there, and was a thrivin' man ever after he married little Shane Ruadh's* daughther, and she was little, like her father before her, a dawnshee craythur

* Red John.

but mighty cute, and industhered a power, always, and a fine wife she was to a sthrivin' man, up early and down late, and shure if she was doin' nothin' else, the bit iv a stocking was never out iv her hand, and the knittin' needles going like mad. Well sure they thruv like a flag or a bulrush, and the snuggest cabin in the counthry side was owld Fairly's. Well, in good time she brought him a son, throth she lost no time about it either, for she was never given to loitherin', and he was the picthur o' the mother, the little attomy that he was, as slim as a ferret and as red as a fox, but a hardy craythur. Well, owld Fairly didn't like the thoughts of havin' sitch a bit iv a brat for a son, and besides he thought he got on so well and prospered in the world with one wife, that, by gor, he determined to improve his luck and get another. So, with that, he ups and goes to one Doody who had a big daughter a whopper by my sowl! throth she was the full of a door, and was called by the neighbours garran more, for in throth she was a garran, the dirty dhrop was in her, a nasty stag that never done a good turn for anyone but herself; the long-sided jack, that she was, but her father had a power o' money and above a hundher head o'cattle, and divil a chick nor child he had but herself, so that she was a great catch for whoever could get her, as far as the fortune wint, but, throth, the boys did not like the looks iv her, and let herself and her fortin alone. Well, as I was sayin, owld Fairly ups and he goes to Doody and puts his comether an the girl, and faix she was glad to be ax'd, and so matthers was soon settled, and the ind of it was they wor married.

Now maybe it's axin' you'd be how he could marry two wives at wanst, but I towld you before, it was long ago, in the good owld ancient times, whin a man could have plinty of every thing. Well home he brought the dirty garran, and sorra long she was in the place when she began to breed, (arrah lave off and dont be laughin now. I don't mane that at all,) whin she began to breed ructions in the fam'ly and to kick up antagions from mornin' till night, and put betune owld Fairly and his first wife. Well she had a son of

her own soon, and he was a big boss iv a divil, like his mother-a great fat lob that had no life in him at all-and while the little daunshee craythur would laugh in your face and play wid you if you cherrup'd to him, or would amuse himself the craythur, crawlin about the flure and playin wid the sthraws, and atein' the gravel, the jewel, the other bosthoon was roarin' from mornin' till night, barrin he was crammed wid stirabout and dhrownded a' most wid milk. Well up they grew and the big chap turned out a gommoch, and the little chap was as knowin' as a jailor; and though the big mother was always puttin up her lob to malthrate and abuse little Fairly, the dickins a one but the little chap used to circumvint him, and gev him no pace, but led him the life iv a dog wid the cunnin' thricks he played an him. Well, while all the neighbours 'amost loved the ground that little Fairly throd on, they cud n't abide the garron more's foal, good, bad, or indifferent, and many's the sly malavoguein' he got behind a hedge from one or another when his mother or father was n't near to purtect him, for owld Fairly was as great a fool about him as the mother, and would give him his eyes, 'amost, to play marvels, while he didn't care three thraneens for the darlint little chap. And 'twas the one thing as long as he lived, and at last he fell sick, and sure many thought it was a judgment an him for his unnatherl doin's to his own flesh and blood, and the sayin' through the parish was from one and all. "There's owld Fairly is obliged to take to his bed with the weight of his sins." And sure enough off o' that same bed he never riz, but grew weaker and weaker every day, and sint for the priest to make his sowl, the wicked owld sinner, God forgive me, for sayin' the word, and sure the priest done whatever he could for him, but after the priest wint away he called his two wives beside his bed, and the two sons, and says he, "I'm going to lave yiz now," says he," and sorry I am," says he," for I'd rather stay in owld Ireland than go any where else," says he, "for a raison I have"-hegh! hegh! hegh! "oh murther, this cough is smotherin' me, so it is. Oh wurra! wurra! but its sick and sore I am. Well come

• Big Horse.

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