Our first extract is from a Pamphlet just now published, with the initials of J. K. L., and imputed to John Kildare Leighlin, alias Dr. Doyle. Our second is from the Courier, as part of a speech said to be delivered by Mr O'Connell, at a late meeting of the Catholics in Dublin.

After speaking most contemptuously of the Church of England, as "deserters" from Catholicism, especially those of them who went to Ireland," the adventurers who came here to watch the baggage and collect the spoils,"" The Holy Harpies," says this meek-spirited Catholic Divine, are not these men but the SCROFULA of the Church of England, who came here chiefly during the reigns of Elizabeth, and after Cromwell *?”*

"He (Mr O'Connell) would ask, had not the Duke of York publicly announced himself their enemy? Had he not voted against them, and made speeches against them? Was he not a short time ago at the head of the Orangemen of England? The Duke of York was heir to the greatest empire in the world; he had before him all the enjoyments a man could desire; but he ought to remember, that one Duke of York lost Ireland, by endeavouring to force the consciences of the English nation; and another Duke of York might lose it by attempting to force their consciences! It became them to speak out as free men, and to tell the heirapparent, that one Duke of York, by

his bigotry, lost the throne of England, and that another Duke of York might experience the same fate!!!"

These extracts speak for themselves: the one as regarding the feelings of the Catholic Priesthood towards the Established Church of Ireland, and the other with respect to the animosity cherished by the layleaders against those, even the highest characters in the state, who dare to oppose them in the conscientious discharge of their public duty. We would fain hope that the Catholics, as a body, join not in the ravings of the one, nor cherish the deep and seemingly settled malignity of the other. Incendiary language will not, cannot forward their cause. "England, in her magnanimity and generosity, may concede; but menaces she will ever throw back upon them with scorn." The only sure, and safe, and speedy way to gain, ultimately, their object, is to root out bigotry and superstition from among their people; to enlighten their minds with true knowledge, and imbue them with the principles of a rational and practical religion; to make them good neighbours, and good members of society, moral, orderly, and industrious. Thus useful to their flocks, and beneficial to the State and their country, they will obtain what they want, because they will deserve it; and cause tranquillity, and peace, and plenty, and contentment, to visit again the land of SAINT PATRICK.

1st March 1824.

EVERY one has something to say of himself. The veteran grows young, as he recounts the exploits of his youth, and shows how fields and reputation were lost and won. The citizen has his old-world story, which he loves to tell, and who is there so hard-hearted as would wish to interrupt him? I, too, have my story, and, to relieve the tedium of a sickbed, I have become an egotist, and, such as it is, have resolved to relate it. If I can be a hero no where else, I shall at least be the hero of my own little tale.

Of my early youth I shall say little. I had a father who looked strictly after me, and a mother who loved me, but who died before I could appreciate her tenderness. As I was the only child, I was allowed, on all hands, to be a prodigy of learning, steadiness, and so forth; but the truth is, the old folks were deceived; I was too lazy to study any thing except works of imagination, and my character of steadiness was more indebted to my face than to my manners. After going through the routine of school and college, I was sent to study law, previous to appearing at the Scottish Bar. I had always wished to enter the army, but the vile peace did away with every view of that sort; so, instead of the crimson jacket, I was obliged to assume the dingy uniform of the law.

I was now about twenty-one,six feet high, and with as much beauty as avoided the imputation of ugliness, but, I imagine, not enough to entitle me to the character of handsome. Hitherto my life had been an unbroken level. I had never felt my heart the least moved by love, and this, I suppose, because my father was incessantly boring me to look out for a wife. There is always something disagreeable in a father speaking to his son about love and matrimony; an old man has no sentiment about him, or if he has, it lies buried at the bottom of his purse. I,

VOL. XIV.

at least, found the truth of this; and when my father used to harp on this subject, I always, as speedily as possible, put an end to his tune.

My manners, though sometimes lively, were, in general, grave. I never was very fond of company, and I now began to live more secluded than ever. My favourite amusement was to wander alone towards Arthur Seat, and there, throwing myself down on some sunny rock, I used to feast my mind with the fanciful thoughts which the beautiful scenery around called forth. I felt, like another Mirza, among the hills of Bagdad. I heard the hum of the great city, I saw the smoke rising from a thousand palaces, I felt myself amid the haunts of busy men ; then turning myself round, every thing seemed at once to vanish; houses, and noise, and men, disappeared, and I found myself stretched on a bare rock, the steep hills before me, and the sheep feeding quietly in the green valley beneath. Such were the thoughts which used to pass along my untroubled mind, like light clouds flitting across the blue of a summer sky.

But I felt that something was wanting to make my dream complete ; my heart wearied for some one who might be a partaker and a heightener of my happiness,-some bright being, with intelligent countenance, and pale forehead, and dark mournful eyes, whose feelings would be deep as my own, and who would love me with that pure, that relying love, without which I felt I could never be content. Such was the visionary portrait which fancy drew, and which my soul loved well to contemplate.

For a couple of years did I lead this unprofitable, but to me delicious sort of life. At this time my father died, and I lost a kind, a good-hearted, a dear parent. I was told that I had always been a dutiful son, but my own heart reproached me with many an act which had been long forgot3 G

But this happiness was too much to last. Nature has given me a warm heart, and to love is with me to adore: if I love, it is with the deepest, the most romantic passion. But while my whole heart thus pours itself out, I cannot help expecting-it may be vanity, perhaps that my affection shall be as warmly returned. I must be loved; I must know and perceive that I am loved. My mistress must trust in me with the same boundless confidence I trust in her, and the warm torrent of love which gushes from my heart would be chilled and frozen did it meet with any coldness in her.

Ellen was too modest, and brought up with too much strictness, to allow any display of the affection with which she had been inspired. Indeed, the timidity of her nature made her carry this too far; and had she at this time shewn a little more regard for me, much distress might have been spared to both of us. Nature and education, however, had taught her to believe, that a woman should treat her lover as a friend, and not till he becomes her husband should she, in any respect, behave to him as a lover. She always treated me with the most gentle kindness, she sung to me the songs I loved, she painted those flowers I gathered for her, she tried to please me in a thousand little artless ways which could not fail to touch my heart; but, spite of all this, there was something wanting to make me happy. There was too little, or rather a total want, of warmth in her love to me, which distressed, and at times rendered me miserable. If I took her hand, she passively permit ted it, but there was no kind pressure responsive to my own; if I folded her in my arms, I felt no bosom clinging to mine; if I snatched a parting kiss, a crimsoning blush was the only sign of emotion she betrayed. Her heart, in reality, was not cold, but it was too pure for this world; and believing it improper to shew even to me those feelings of affection which were growing around her heart, she went into the opposite extreme of coldness,- -a coldness which seemed almost to amount to indiffer

ence.

Our wedding-day was at length fixed, and here again Ellen's rigid

ideas interfered; and while I wished it to take place in three days, she decided that it should not be for three months. I believe, after all, that Ellen, poor girl! had a melancholy foresight of what was to happen, and was unwilling to bind me in bands which I might afterwards regret had ever been tied: but she was wrong; had we at that time been married, my heart would have been her's, and her's alone, for ever. She was fixed, however, in her resolution, nor would she even receive from me a written promise by which we might in some manner have been bound to each other. "You may claim me this day three months, (said she,) if you then shall think me worthy; but from you I will receive no promise; your heart is what I ask; with that, your promise would be superfluous; without it, worse than useless. I have only to add, our engagement, Gerald, must be kept secret; no one shall know it from me,-not even Florence Cecil."

Florence Cecil was a young English lady, who had been at the same school with Ellen. At school, every

one except misanthropes contract particular friendships, and Florence Cecil and Ellen Noel soon became sister-friends. I understood that they were of very opposite dispositions; the former being all passion, while the latter was all gentleness; and thus it generally is; that friendship is the firmest which is formed from the most discordant materials; and in chusing a friend, we generally look for those qualities in which we ourselves are most deficient. Florence was an orphan, and, I was told, both rich and handsome. I had never seen her, as she had only very lately come down (along with her brother) from England, on a visit to some Scottish relations.

Scarcely had Ellen pronounced the name of Florence Cecil, when that lady was announced. She was above the middling stature, and was dressed in a dark pelisse of the Spanish fashion, which, fitting tightly to the shape, displayed the fine proportions of her luxuriant form, and a swelling bosom, which seemed to press against the silk, as if anxious to burst from its soft confinement. The expression of her face was the very op

posite to Ellen's; she wanted the blue eyes and gentle look of the latter, but there was a dignity about her, and yet a feminine sweetness, which more accorded with the ideas I had formerly entertained of female beauty. Her long hair was very dark, and while it harmonised with the rich glow of her complexion, it contrasted powerfully with her forehead, which seemed to have been washed by the lilies, it was of such snowy whiteness. Her large eyes were of the deepest black, and their pensive expression was softened into richness by the jetty eye-lashes which fringed them; and at times such fires would flash from them, as shewed the warm nature of the heart to which they were the eloquent index.

If I was struck with the appearance of Florence Cecil, I was still more delighted by the attractions of her mind. Like myself, she was enthusiastically fond of poetry: without being sentimental, her soul was full of romance; and when she talked of love, there was an earnest, a thrilling expression in her face and manner, which shewed how tremblingly alive she was to every impulse of gentle affection.

I returned home, charmed with the beauty and kindness of Florence Cecil, which I could not help contrasting with the coldness and reserve of Ellen. From this time, there was scarcely a day in which I did not see Florence, and every hour was placing my heart and honour in greater peril. I would not believe that I was in any danger of loving her, and when I saw my sweet and kindhearted Ellen, and heard her building airy castles of future happiness, I knew it was impossible I could desert her, impossible that I should inflict such a wound on the peace of her gentle bosom.

But every hour, as it flew on, was dragging me nearer to the precipice of dishonour. I at length awoke from the dream in which I had been revelling-awoke to a full sense of my actual misery. I found that I no longer loved Ellen, or loved her only as a brother, while Florence Cecil my soul adored with the devotion of an idolater. I loved her with the most impetuous passion. The very opposition which it met with served as

fuel to the flame which devoured me; uncontrollable, its violence affected my very life, and in an evil hour I told her how I loved, and heard that I was beloved in return. Now was my misery completed. I was bound in honour to a woman whom I more than esteemed; and yet, forgetting every duty, I had engaged the affections of her friend; to one I must prove a villain. My heart bled at the misery I would inflict on Ellen, and yet I could not think of wedding her, when my heart had been given to another. Long did I struggle between duty and inclination, but at last love completed his triumph over honour; I resolved to marry Florence Cecil, and to abandon poor Ellen.

From this moment I never knew peace, except when in Florence Cecil's company; there, indeed, I forgot every thing but love,-there, I existed in an intoxication of delight; but when away from her, the wound I had inflicted on Ellen was ever be fore my eyes. I execrated myself as a wretch-a dishonoured villain. My breast was a hell within me, compared to which I thought all other hells would be beds of roses; and yet all this I was content to suffer, so that I might be loved by Florence.

I had now entirely deserted the Noels. I never went near the house, nor did I ever see Ellen; and I began to hope that she had forgotten me. I soothed my remorse, by reflecting that she had never exhibited much passion for me, and that, the first shock being over, the distress which I believed I had occasioned only existed, perhaps, in my own heated imagination.

Encouraged by these reflections, I pressed Florence to name a day for our marriage. A delicious blush overspread her happy face, as she named that day month,-the day on which she attained majority, and became the uncontrolled mistress of her actions. I heard her in silence; in truth, I was deeply affected, for, by a strange and melancholy coincidence, the day she proposed was the day which poor Ellen had formerly fixed for our marriage. From that moment, a vague presentiment came over my mind of some evil I knew not what, but it seemed to me that