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reform, opinions are divided. would endow the college so liberally as to amplify its accommodations to the full extent of the spiritual wants of the Irish people, in a hope that the institution so favored would recompense the bounty of the nation, by adopting, in its course of instruction, a more comprehensive and a more generous system of theology. Some, hopeless of being able to improve that which is, in its very essence, evil, call out, whenever they speak of it, for justice and judgment, "cut it down; why cumbereth it the ground ?" Some, too conscientious to approve, too cautious to condemn, acquiesce, with a sigh, in measures which they would think it criminal to have originated, and do not protest against the annual trespass which they deplore, because it is now a habitual evil, and of forty years' continuance. All Protestants, however, of all parties, feel and confess that the maintenance of Maynooth, in its present condition, suggests matter for by no means comfortable reflection.

That this subject is not without difficulty, we freely admit; but the difficulty, so far from being insurmountable, is really not great, and appears formidable only, or chiefly, because it is not steadily looked at. It must, however, seem formidable, until a searching and comprehensive inquiry has been instituted into the constitution of the college, and into the cha racter of its instruction. This is indispensable as a pre-requisite to the attempt at reform. The inquiry ought not to be denied or delayed. Roman Catholics could not honorably object to it, because the charges preferred against the college are grave and many. Protestants have a right to demand it, because they have a right to be satisfied that they are not taxed, as has been strongly insisted, for the maintenance of a seminary where principles flagitious and abominable are recommended as religion. Justice demands the inquiry, that it may be ascertained, whether the state can indeed be pronounced an accessory to the commission of crime, by its patronage

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of a most vicious system of education?-whether it should be regarded as an accomplice of the culprit, whom, having first seduced into guilt, it punishes by ignomony or death.

These are cogent reasons for inquiry; against it we know of no valid objection. Timidity can create many which seem strong, and the weakest is not too feeble for indolence to be dismayed at it. All objections, however, in the least degree specious, have a vice which condemns them. They are all partial, or, as it may be said, one-sided. They have their origin in an insufficient consideration of the case a consideration which assembles all the possible difficulties and dangers of inquiry, and dismisses all its probable advantages. We freely admit that an inquiry, to be prosecuted with effect, would be toilsome and disagreeable, that it would furnish occasion and topic for some agitating harangues, and that it would furnish a pretext for entertaining or encouraging, for a time, extravagant expectations; but we are sure, conducted as it might now be, with the lights of late years to direct it, it would end in disabusing multitudes of Roman Catholics, and would pour a flood of beneficial light on the parties into which the Protestant po. pulation of the empire is divided.

Romanism profits very sensibly by being protected against inquiry. In her outward materiel, her visible form, her machinery, if we may so say, she can accommodate herself to the necessities of the times. She can adjust the array of her "sections" according to the prevailing humour of the day. We live in an age of light, as it is call

ed, and an age of utilitarian principle. Works of mercy and usefulness exceed in marketable value, works of mortification. Accordingly, squalor and mendicancy are withdrawn from the prominence assigned to them in happier days. Sisters of charity prosecute their benevolent labours in the city. Trappists and Josephians reclaim the rugged and ungenial soil in rural districts; and the economist and the agriculturist, and the liberal politician, are invited to judge of Romanism by the shows thus wisely contrived for them, and are often induced to say, with amiable indifference, that they have no time to inquire into dogmas, but are satisfied that doctrine cannot be wrong where the system works so admirably.

What they cannot do-what is not to be expected from persons busied in occupations such as theirs, and so engrossing, the state, because it has a clear duty, should take upon itself to accomplish. It can yet ascertain the character of Romanism as exhibited at Maynooth. It has yet the power to show Roman Catholics the doctrines they are responsible for holding, and the things they "ignorantly worship." This it can do-how long? It can do so now. Whether the period of power will be mercifully extended, we do not know. If it pass away unimproved, although we believe popery in Ireland will cease, because we believe it sustained by alien and unenduring supports, and unsuited to the times and to the natural character of the Irish people, we yet believe that it will endure long enough to inflict upon England sore vengeance for her neglect.

Ar length we behold once more the festive eve of Whitsuntide, on which each year we used to retire with our mother to a country house, situated some miles from the city, in one of the loveliest districts of Germany. My father's occupations detained him in town, and seldom permitted him to visit us on week days; yet he came regularly every Sunday evening to remain with us until Monday, and usually brought along with him as many guests as our fine commodious house could conveniently contain. A

merry time they made of it there, just like the life my parents lead in town during the winter, with card playing and endless feasting; for my father loved the pleasures of society and of the table. Our excellent mother, however, preferred the calm retirement of a country life, to which she had been from youth accustomed, to living in the city, although she never expressed such a preference before my father; she loved him too well not to accommodate herself to him in every respect, and that, too, in such a way

not afraid of venturing so far, for I was now a sensible girl of eleven years old, and Matilda was only a year younger; besides, our mother was pleased that we should play over the wood. By means of a large telescope in the green-house, she could, from time to time, look after us, and see what were our pursuits, and thus, as it were, held us under her eyes.

As we approached the wood, I had gone a short distance to pluck a Forget-Me-Not which I wished to bring my mother, when I suddenly heard Matilda say to Alexis, "what's the matter, now? you need not be frightened;" and, upon turning round, I beheld a tall white figure rising from the mound which our mother had caused to be constructed for us on the edge of the wood, and slowly advancing towards us. It was a female, rather elderly, as I then considered, at least as old as our mother, whose thirty-second birth-day we were very soon to celebrate. This female was dressed neither as a lady nor a peasant; yet in such a peculiar way that I could make nothing of her. She wore a long, close-fitting white robe, very like a lady's, but she had no farthingale (a sort of short hooped petticoat without which no lady could beseen about forty years ago); besides, she had no hood on, and was neither frizzled nor powdered; her fair hair was parted and combed smooth on both sides, and tied behind in a thick sort of knot.

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At the present time she might have shewn herself anywhere in such attire, without attracting observation, yet, then she appeared to us exceedingly singular. Her countenance was white as her dress, and her dark blue eyes beamed with a melancholy smile, as she looked sorrowfully yet kindly towards us. All that our old attendant had ever told us of elves and fairies at this moment flashed on my mind, and from a whisper of Matilda's, I fancy she was not much better. Still I struggled for the credit of shewing myself a sensible girl-" Nonsense!" said I, "you know that there have not been any fairies this long time, and, even if there were, it is the wisest plan to be kind to them, and not to seem afraid; think of the three kings' daughters, the eldest of whom would not allow the poor old woman, who was really a fairy, to drink out of their water-pitchers, and out of whose mouths, ever after, there jumped a frog or a toad, every word they uttered."

Thereupon, though with some slight palpitation, I advanced resolutely towards this singular apparition, who did not look by any means so frightful, when near it, as at a distance; on the contrary, she seemed very handsome. I offered her my hand, and begged of her to sit down again on our grassy mound, seated myself beside her, and beckoned to my sister to do the same.

The stranger at first gazed at us with a curious and reserved air, with out speaking, then turned aside towards the stream which flowed past at some distance, and followed its course with her eyes until it lost itself in the distant mountains; she then looked towards heaven and smiled at the small rose-coloured and violet summer clouds bordered with gold, as they seemed slowly to pursue the stream; her lips moved as though she were speaking to them, but we could not catch a syllable; at first we children were somewhat disconcerted by this singular conduct of this strange female, yet, as she continued friendly, although silent, we soon grew accustomed to her, and began to play as usual, and to weave garlands of the white and yellow flowers that grow in clusters in the woods. Before we had furnished ourselves, the female began to assist us, and wove them far more expertly than we could; she knew also where to gather, close by, much nicer flowers than ours; at times, too, she spoke to us, and the tone of her voice sounded as sweet and lovely almost as our mother's own, when she would sing of an evening beneath the linden trees near our house.

By degrees she became more intimate and talkative; at last she told us little anecdotes and tales, such as we had never heard before of flowers, and the brook, and the wild waterfall in the hills, and of the clouds which overspread the heavens; it seemed as if all nature were human beings, and yet she spoke of nothing but flowers, and clouds, and brooks, and waterfalls.

As everything she told us sounded so extraordinary, and yet so pretty, we listened to her so earnestly that we never thought of the lateness of the hour, until the full moon rose like a fiery shield, right above the stream

We must go we must go!" cried I, hastily. "Our mother will be uneasy about us." But now Alexis began to cry, complaining that he was tired and cold, and wanting me to carry him home. This, however, I neither could

nor dared to do, for our mother had forbidden it. I was in great embarrassment, not knowing what to do, when the strange female snatched up the little fellow from the ground. Come, my dear boy," said she, "you are still young, and must be borne in tender arms; the time will come soon enough when thorns and briers will hurt your tender feet, and when you will have to find your own way over the rocks and raging torrents, poor little being ! even you shall not escape the common destiny; enjoy the sunshine, laugh and play, my little lamb, that does not yet know whither his path leads him."

Matilda and I were much alarmed at her words, and clung to her arms on both sides, whilst she moved rapidly across the meadow with Alexis. “The fox is bathing, they say," said she, pointing to the mist which, after the heat of the day, was rising from the grass: "the people say so; but don't believe it, children; I know who is yonder spreading out his delicate veil to bleach it in the moonlight; I know it well, but I dare not mention it." Having said this, she went on quicker than before, we ran along with her, for we were very much frightened at heart; we soon reached the garden-door, before the bill on which our house lay, and she now set Alexis down on his feet. Farther, I dare not," said she; "not into that great lighted house. In the dark wood, where night dwells, and the owl calls, there is my place, with the wild birds of the forest; on you, however, the rosy morning still smiles; may God protect you.' She turned away, and was soon lost from our view amid the darkness.

Our mother came down the hill to meet us, and along with her, old Bridget, who had attended her when a child, and who now lived, both summer and winter, at our country house. "You have staid out too long, my dear children," said she; "do not do so again; we should have been uneasy about you but that I saw you through the telescope, sitting quietly on the grassy mound who was the woman that sat along with you, and carried little Alick in her arms?"