random. How cold seem in our mouths the expressions of father, daughter, mother, brother, compared to the sweetly affectionate ones of Mon Pere, Ma Fille, Mon Frere, Ma Mere; and unfeeling would be the heart which did not vibrate in unison with the soft and dulcet sounds in the lips of a French woman of je vous aime.

We had a large party of ladies and gentlemen at dinner. My friend and I were the only Protestants, and I could plainly perceive there were times when we were a restraint. I therefore went soon to the drawing-room--and a happy drawing-room it was, or seemed to be. The young people danced, and the old ones looked on, and beat time with their feet and fingers.

I was among the lookers on. The gravest looking-probably the only grave-looking one of them all. Like Jessica, I am never merry when I hear sweet music-and sweet was the simple melody which was then playing. In the liveliest Irish air, as has been well remarked there is a lurking shade of melancholy-faithful picture of the Irish character, of which, though the border is lightsome, the ground is gloom.

One of the fair companions of my morning's walk came running up to me; and taking me familiarly by the arm, exclaimed, "Que vous avez l'air triste et morne."

"Venez," continued she, endeavouring to draw me to the dance," venez et jouissez."

"Ah quel peuple," I had heard her sister say an instant before; "rien ne les amuse, rien ne les occupe."

By the peuple she meant English people. She perfectly knew that, strictly speaking, I was not one of them. But in a certain kind of general reference, Catholics often consider Irish Protestants and English as the same. I found she considered the English a sullen, morose, and melancholy people. Whether this was Catholic feeling or French education, I cannot possibly determine; but I should suspect the latter.

A priest, who had been detained from dinner, came in at a late hour of the evening. The company flocked round him, with more of joy than of reverence, and more of affection than of either. I approached him likewise. I love an Irish Catholic Priest. I regard him as the moss-grown column of a fallen edifice, which was the admiration of past ages-sublime in solitude, and venerable in decay. I love him for what he is, as well as for what he was.. Never should it be forgotten, that it was one of this calumniated order of men, who, when all his own subjects had deserted him, attended the French King to his execution; and while he was besprinkled with

his blood, exclaimed in the holy enthusiasm of religion,

"Enfant de saint Louis, montez au ciel."

The present one was a tall and elderly man pale, thoughtful, and bent forward,-" in faded splendour wan." He was the melancholy representative of the body to which he belonged. He conversed with me familiarly and frankly, though he was often obliged to stop to bestow his blessing.

"Benedicte domini," said, or rather sung the sweet young women, as they came running down from the dance with their hands joined, and a pretty reverence, composed of a bow and a curtsy.

"Salus, honor, virtus quoque
Sit & benedictio,"

replied the Priest in the same tone, as he laid his hands on the heads of his innocent suppliants, who, gay and happy, flew back to the dancing. How delightful was this mixture of gaiety and religion, of devotion and cheerfulness-how suited to the female character, whose weakness is its strength, whose fragility is its grace, whose volatility is its happiness, and whose attribute is its tenderness of heart.

How delightful, too, is the Catholic religionsolemn in music, fragrant in incense, splendid in decoration, graceful in ornament; the beads, the

scapular and cross, it may be said like the Pagan religion of old, to deify life, and to reflect only in its fair bosom the beneficent author of creation; while the gloomy spirit of Calvanism, like a stern enchantress, waves her wand over the bright landscape of the imagination, and gives in its stead the dark cavern of a ferocious tyrant.

CHAPTER V.

Banbridge.

I WALKED to Loughbrickland, a distance of eight miles, yesterday, before breakfast. The morning was beautiful-the hedges were blooming with the flower of the hawthorn-the air was loaded with fragrance-I could have fancied myself in Elysium, had I not met numbers of yeomen in every direction. They were in general good looking men; and were well and uniformly dressed. They all wore orange lilies. I now recollected that it was the 12th of July; (the 30th of June, old style,) and of consequence the anniversary of the battle of the Boyne.

I entered into conversation with a little group, who were travelling my road. They were very

desirous to have my opinion of the Catholic Bill, as they called it, that is expected to be brought forward next Session of Parliament.

"Never mind acts of parliament, my lads," said I, "but live peaceably with your neighbours. I warrant you your fields will look as green, and your hedges smell as sweet this time next year, whether the bill passes or not."

"and may be

May be so," said one of them we wouldn't be long here to smell or look at them.” I made little reply to this, for I could not expect that any thing I should urge would weaken even the rooted prejudices of their lives. What I did reply they heard with respect, though not with conviction.

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Ah, reverend Sir," said a middle-aged man, you speak like a good man and a great scholar; but, Lord love ye, books won't make us know life." "Tell me," said I, "why you take me for a clergyman; "is it because I wear a black coat ?" No," returned he, "but because you have a

moderate face."

The lower class of people in Ireland are great physiognomists-good ones, I am bound to suppose, for my face has often received the above moderate compliment. It speaks favourably, however, of the manner of the Irish Protestant clergy, that a man of mild demeanour is almost always taken for one of them.

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