London, August the 29th. MY DEAR AND BLESSED MOTHERThis goes hoping it will find you in better health (to say nothing of the spirits) than it leaves me in at present; for what with the hot weather and the travelling and the bother, I haven't a leg, left nor right, to stand on. I wish I was back with you and the girls in Bannow; and if once I get therecatch me out of it again-that's all! Oh! they're an unbelieving set, them English; and betwixt you and methough I'd be sorry to have it made public-not over and above mannerly. Would you believe it that I saw a spalpeen take the inside of who do you think? Counsellor Dan himself! and I may walk ten mile of ground without anyone saying, "God save you kindly," or "I'm proud to see you, Mister Ryley." Think of that! And as to the unbelief: the've no belief in them at all, good or bad. I got a little comfortable one night-(the master has grand lodgings in a beautiful house, where the outside step of the door is washed every morning, and a white brick rubbed on it for cleanliness)-one night I was in the kitchen, and convarsing about home and the like-its mighty quare, so it is, how people's hearts turn home, wherever their bodies are-and I said quite quiet, how the roses and woodbine and things that way covered over the cottages in Bannow; and how the landlords lived on the soil and by the soil; and how there were no locks on the doors, and nothing but quiet ness and civility one to another, and the clergyman and priest mighty gracious together; and I was growing quite comfortable thinking of my home, when a slip of a girl (a mighty nate pretty creature, that, if people went by the dress, would be called a born lady with us) turns up her nose, and says, (oh, mother, if you could but hear their tongue!)" Mister Paddy," says she "My name's Terence, if you please, miss," says I, smiling up in her blue eyes, (don't tell Kathleen Carey, by

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the Benny bridge, that I did that same, though). "But you are an Irishman?" she says again. Thank God for his goodness, I am," said I; for I never let on to the English I'm ashamed of my country. Then," says she, "don't think to make a fool of me; for every Irishman is born a Paddy! Born a Paddy," she says again, "the same as a cow is born a cow, and a pig a pig!" And from that day to this, sorra a name she has on me but Paddy, and I can't find it in my heart to quarrel with her, on account of the blue eyes. "And if Ba-no," (that's the way she calls it,) "if Ba-no is so pretty," says she, "why did you leave it?” “ Because, miss," I makes answer, "I was rather soft, and I took a fancy to the master, on account of the fancy he took to me, and not quite liking to go to service in my own place, on account of my father being a decent tradesman of a tailor." "That's Irish pride!" says she, her blue eyes laughing like fairy-candles in her head. No, miss," says I, "it's only dacency." "Decency," she says, "has nothing to do with it. My father has a shop in the Strand; but he has ten daughters, and though we might all live at home, we would think it mean to be dependant while we could earn our living by our own hands. My sisters have all trades; but I like service better." Oh, mother, think of the five Miss Kavanaghs, in their black beavers and Tuscany bonnets, turning out from their father's bit of a shop on the hill, to earn their bread; and yet Lucy's father's shop is grander than e'er a shop in Dublin. "I think," she says, saucy enough, "that in Ireland, instead of each person trying to make a little property for themselves, they all go on living on what their parents have got; taking away from the capital, and adding nothing to it; just, Paddy, as you eat up all your potatoes on Saturday night, without remembering that you could not buy any on Sunday." I don't know how it is, but the more saucy that girl is,

the brighter grow her eyes! but don't tell Kathleen.

You know my master has been called over here to give evidence on what they name the intimidation committee. Intimidation, mother dear, means frighting; but as far as I can understand, I don't see who is to be frightened. I suppose it's the ould song, with variations-the Protestants again the Catholics, and the same turn about. Well, every dog must have its day, as I said to Counsellor Dan's own body-man. "Excuse my ignorance," says I, "but I heard my master axing What good your master has done for Ireland yet?" "Catholic emancipation," he says, quite glib; "no, thank ye," says I ; sure that was before he got into parliament.” Oh, you mane since," says he, "ay," says I," why," says he, " you know Rome wasn't built in a day; it takes time to get the better of his enemies; he has a dale-a great dale to do; but you see when onct he brings the King to reason, and settles the House of Lords, and takes the shine out of the bishops, and gets a few more of his friends and relations into the House of Commons, why thin, ye understand, thin he'll have time to settle himself quiet and easy, and comfortable, in some little place or other, with me you understand, for his Maitre d'otll, and thin, my dear friend, you may dipind upon it, something considerable will be done for Ireland."

Now, mother dear, you are at liberty to tell this to the priest, and it will be a great comfort to the parish to know that in the long run justice will be done to ould Ireland; it mayn't be in your time, or my time, but it 'ill surely be some time or other; for havn't I Counsellor Dan's own man's own word for it?

It would take an acre of paper to tell you the wonders of this town. Myself has seen the most of them; and oh, the golden splendour of the coaches, lined through and through with all manner of beautiful velvet; and the bishop's carriages all so grand, only it's little black aprons they wear, like stone masons; maybe it's out of aconomy they do it, to save their clothes. And the park; to see the ladies in that park of a sunny Sunday

in June; the Phanix is nothing to it, the ladies in it I mean, so neat, and so beautifully dressed, and their feet so well set out.

Lucy has the prettiest feet for a pattern I ever saw. I wish Kathleen could but see how tight her shoe fits. I must say the English bangs us, in regard of the neatness; you never see the ladies at the houses I've been staying at with my master, curled up to the nines with bits of dirty newspapers, of a morning. Indeed, to spake the truth, travelling makes a man see a dale of faults in his own country; and Lucy says so best, for if he don't see them, he can't mend them; but don't let on to Kathleen.

My masther has a bit of an Irish groom that's the means of bringing great ridicule upon the country, by his quare talk, and his quare ways. I could pass very well for English, but for him, he's so cruel ignorant; but no wonder, sure he's from Cork; I sent him to the post-office for letters, and he come back grinning like a fool, after knocking the post-house-man down; (it was at a place called Richmond this happened, where there's a morsel of a hill, that they make such a bother about, and you could pick it with a needle out of Howth, and it would never be missed; however, it's a purty big hill for the English,) and what did he knock the man down for? Why just because he wanted to charge him one and four-pence for a letter"And," says Teague," I see him give a bigger one to a man for three-pence." "Go back with him, Terence," says the masther to me, "and make an apology to the honest man, for his ignorance, and fetch me the letter." And so I did; I 'pologized dacently, and got the letter, and fetcht Teague away with me, and he grinning all the way, like a lime-kiln. And when he got home, he cut a caper before the masther, for all the world like the animals one Mister Bunn keeps at a big play-house to plase the gentry.

"I've done him," says he, "the tame nagur," says he, in his vulgar way, "I've done him," he says again,

so there's the worth of your money!" Did you ever hear tell of such an onagh? Oh, God for ever bless you, my darlint mother, for giving me the larning, which makes me able to hould up my head with the best of them. And sure, barring that Mr. James, of the Bannow School, takes none but tip-tops, 'id recommend you to send my little brother, Lanty, to him for one quarter, just to fit him for a gentleman; though Lucy says that's a bad trade, when there's nothing to support it; but don't tell Kathleen.

I layed by my pen after wiping it, not as I used long ago, when I was top boy, with Master Ben-in the sleeve of my jacket, but in a piece of folded, cut cloth Lucy gave me, to tache me deceney-the saucy slut-she said; and the reason, mother, to tell you the truth, that I layed it down was, that I heard Lucy laughing, and a dale of whispering in what they call the stillroom, though God knows, it's often the noisiest room in the house. I peeped in at the window, and saw— what do you think-a bit of an Eng lish baker trying a plain gold ring on Lucy's finger! Oh, mother, I never saw her eyes look so bright, and she blushing like a Bannow rose! I don't know what came over me, but I made a blow at the baker, forgetting the window, and smashed the glass and my hand to smithereens almost, (I hope you'll excuse the writing.) Sure enough it was no business of mine; and Kathleen and I promised-(for God's sake don't tell Kathleen)-but the little deceitful devil-there's no use in talking, but the English women are all jilts. I could have taken my bible oath, from the way Lucy went on, jeering and teasing the life out of me, which is the way the girls in our place do when they fancy a handsome boy like myself I could have sworn before the priest she liked me and then to hear her say--"You, indeed, Mister Paddy!- Marry an Irish valet, and live among savages!-I pitied your ignorance, and tried to improve you, and that's my reward, to be frightened to death by an Irish ogre ; and at such a time too;"-and off she goes like any lady into sterricks; and the baker falls on me, and I powerless, for there's no use in talking, I had a great regard

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for Lucy; but for your life dont let on to Kathleen.

Mother, darlint, I wish I was home again; it's a mighty fine place, but the Irish are thought nothing of here. I don't know why we think such a dale about the English; I'm sure they don't return the compliment-another proof of their bad manners.

Kathleen's eyes are brown, mother, and to my thinking, brown eyes have not the sharp conceited look of blue-blue are uncommon sharp. Well, I don't know but if Kathleen was made up like them English, she'd be as well looking after all! And I mind the time when at bat or marbles, she'd give up to me; she'd a mighty sweet temper; and if she'd put on English shoes—but no; the English girls beats the Irish clean out about the ancles. Still what does that signify; sure if they're stout they'l last the longer-and the sweet smile of Kathleen! Mother, mother, I was a baste to forget the tears she shed, at the corner of the turning just fornint the cottage, going down to Blackhall-and the new car upon starting, and I going on it as far as Taghmon! and thin how she purtended that it was the sun in her eyes dazzled her, until whin she saw me fairly on the car, she hid her face on your shoulder, to hide her sorrow. FOR YOUR LIFE, mother, don't tell Kathleen a word about Lucy. Oh, my fancy was taken with the one, but my heart was with the other. Mother, I'm thinking I'll go home at onest; and if I don't, why, I'll soon write again. God's blessin' be about every one of you. What do you think they have in the farmyards here but steps of stairs, for the fowls to step easy to roost! Think of that! God for ever bless you; and my remembrances to the Bannow boatman. I hope he thinks of tomorrow, as he has got a new boat. I'm sorry enough to hear that the times are bad with the Bannow postman. Sure the gentry shouldn't forget that he as good as walked twice round the world, and not for sport either, but to bring them con vaniences, before Carrick was turned grand into a post town. My duty to the priest; and, mother, Heaven's blessing on you, mother, and don't let Kathleen forget yours and hers ever constant and affectionate to command,

TERENCE RYLEY.

WE have seldom met a work, in which the reader is so likely to change his opinion, or the reviewer his purpose, often during its perusal, as this. A theory which, looking to its logical foundation, is replete with specious fallacy; and, considering its probable uses, capable of the most pernicious applications, is in the hands of its noble author made the vehicle of much useful, just, and pleasing reflection. And so far as it is possible to make false reasoning subservient to truth, leading only to such inferences as must be cordially approved by the Christian. But it is an unfortunate condition of human philosophy, that he who even inadvertently shakes the foundations of truth, by rash speculation, has it not in his power to counteract the evil by mere affirmations of right opinion, or warnings as to possible misapplication; the misdirected arrow will pursue its own course, though the archer may have designed another. The noble author has clearly described the proper limits of natural theology, but his reasoning leads to different results. That class, (and it is now a numerous class) which is ever too happy to discover any substitute for revelation, will zealously adopt the reasonings of his discourse, and rank its professions with the specious candor of Gibbon. They will observe that the noble lord's notices of revelation are not highly indicative of Christian zeal, and that he has manifested more readiness to attack its "friends," and betray the weak points in its evidence, than he has been successful in constructing the science by which he avers that it is to be upheld. In the close of his discourse the noble writer, in language less respectful than he would apply to the errors of an infidel philosophe, deprecates the fears of the "friends of revelation," that natural religion might be made a substitute for revelation. Can it be possible that a well-read philosopher should be igno

rant that it has been the almost uniform weapon of infidel philosophy? Can the great luminary of the Glasgow weaver, and the cockney radical, be ignorant that the shallow creed which he has undertaken to consolidate into a science, is the actual apology for the Deism of that large and busy-minded tribe?

The annals of science exhibit a few great names remotely scattered upon its long roll. We can pass down ages from Aristotle, or Archimedes, to Galileo, Bacon, and Newton, selecting a small but illustrious catalogue of justly venerated names. But in this voluminous record, how numerous the list of pretenders to similar renown-how many the names, which were famous in their day, and forgotten with the ingenious inventions to which they were attached-the specious theory and the empirical system-the science based upon assumption-the reasoning deduced from mere words. If, instead of a vain endeavour to extend the argument of Boyle and Durham, of Newton and Paley, into a most illusory and unprofitable science, Lord Brougham had employed his splendid powers, his natural sagacity, his extensive acquirement and various taste, to an investigation into the moral and intellectual history of this vast and varied mass of minds-if he had applied himself to ascertain the curious and yet unexplored theory of such a waste of talent, and so much unprofitable and pernicious abuse of ingenuity-he would not only have added an important chapter to human knowledge, but he might have read a salutary lesson, useful to many, and most useful to himself.

He might have taught the world the importance of preserving, with anxious and stern caution, the foundations of right reason, instead of lending an illustrious sanction to its abuse. He would have applied, probably, an active and sagacious understanding to