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equipage, green carriage, green liveries, and turbulent Popish steeds, prancing over a Protestant pavement to the terror of Protestant passengers. a nuisance that in the good old times would have been put down by Act of Parliament-these and other provocations of equal publicity, have exposed this learned culprit to the deep and irrevocable detestation of a numerous class of his Majesty's hating subjects in Ireland. And the feeling is duly communicated to the public. The loyal press of Dublin teems with the most astounding imputations upon his character and motives. As a dish for the periodical libellers of the day, O'Connell is quite a cut-and-come-again, from the crazy Churchman, foaming over the apprehended fall of tithes, down to the political striplings of the College, who, instead of trying their youthful genius upon the cardinal virtues, or "the lawfulness of killing Cæsar," devote their hours of classic leisure to the more laudable task of demonstrating, for the comfort of the Orange lodges, that "Counsellor O'Connell carries on a treasonable correspondence with Captain Rock.” But the Counseller, who happens to know a little more of the law of high treason than his accusers, has the good sense to laugh at them and their threats of the hangman. Now that all practical attempts upon life have been abandoned, he bears the rest with true Christian patience and contempt; and whenever any of his defamers recant "in extremis" and die good Catholics, as the most bigoted among them are said to

*I allude to what was really a shocking occurrence. A Corporation has been defined to be "a thing having neither a body to be kicked nor a soul to be damned." With this definition before him, Mr. O'Connell did not imagine that he exceeded the limits of public debate in calling the Dublin Corporation a "beggarly Corporation." One of its most needy members [Mr. d'Esterre], however, either volunteered or was incited to think otherwise, and called upon the speaker to apologize or fight. To Mr. O'Connell, a life of vital importance to a numerous family, and of great importance to the best part of the Irish public, the alternative was dreadful. He saw the ferocity of the transaction in its full light, but he committed his conduct to the decision of his friends, and a duel ensued. The aggressor was killed. Had the result been different, his claims would probably not have been overlooked by the patrons of the time (1815); at least such is understood to have been the expectation under which he provoked his fate.

do, if the fact be duly certified by his friend, Mr. Denis Scully,* who has quite an instinct for collecting materials touching this portion of secret history, O'Connell, I am assured, not only forgives them all their libels, but contributes liberally toward setting on foot a few expiatory masses for their souls.†

O'CONNELL IN 1829.

Ir was on a calm autumn evening that I had returned from a walk to the splendid seat of Lord Powerscourt, in the county of Wicklow. I had sat down at the inn of the little village where I was sojourning, and had placed myself in the window, to while away an hour in observing the "passing events" of the place. The market was over; the people had gradually passed to their homes; the busy hum of the day was fast dying away; and a few straggling groups scattered here and there through the long, wide street of the town-the only one it boasted-were almost the only persons who arrested my eye. The sun was sinking, and threw his lingering beams into the neat but ill-furnished apartment where I was sitting. To avoid the glare of his beams, I changed my position, and this gave me a more uninterrupted view of the long street above referred to, which threw its termination into the green fields of the country.

Casting my eyes in this direction, I beheld a chariot-andfour coming toward me, enveloped in a complete cloud of dust, and the panting horses of which were urged on with tremen

The catholic barrister, a gentleman quite clever and important enough to be treated of apart. For the present, I shall merely record of him that one of his favorite theories is, that no rank Orangeman ever "dies game." He can tell you the exact moment when Doctor Duigenan began to roar out for a priest. He has a large stock of mortuary anecdotes illustrating his general doctrine, and he relates them with true Sardonic vivacity.

To this sketch, originally published in July, 1823, I annex a later portrait, by Mr. Curran, with additions by Mr. Sheil, which appeared in March, 1829, after Mr. O'Connell's being elected M. P. for Clare, and on the eve of catholic emancipation, carried in the following month, by Wellington.- M.

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dous rapidity. Struck with the unexpected arrival of such a vehicle in that place, I leaned out of the window to observe its destination, and beheld it still rolling hurriedly along, and sweeping round the angle of the street toward the inn with an increased violence. If my reader has been much used to travelling, he will be aware that the moment a postillion comes in sight of an inn, he is sure to call forth the mettle of his horses -perhaps to show off the blood of his cattle. This was the case at present, and a quick gallop brought the vehicle in thundering noise to the door, where, Shenstone says, is to be found "the warmest welcome." The animals were sharply checked, the door was flung open, and the occupier threw himself hurriedly out.

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Bring out four horses instantly," was the command he uttered in the loud voice of haste and authority.

The inmate of the carriage was about five feet eleven and a half inches high, and wore a portly, stout, hale, and agreeable appearance. His shoulders were broad, and his legs stoutly built, and, as he at that moment stood, one arm in his sidepocket, the other thrust into a waistcoat, which was almost completely unbuttoned from the heat of the day, he would have made a good figure for the rapid but fine-finishing pencil of Harlowe. His head was covered with a light fur-cap, which, partly thrown back, displayed that breadth of forehead

*The readers of fiction will be reminded of one of Miss Edgeworth's stories, in which she makes an Irish postillion, whose horses were weak and weary after a long journey, rally them up as he entered a gentleman's demesne, which he called having "a gallop for the avenue.' -M.

George Henry Harlowe, born in London in 1787, was first the pupil and afterward the rival of Sir Thomas Lawrence, the eminent portrait-painter. He painted some clever historical pictures, of which the best known is "The Trial of Queen Catherine," in which there are portraits of Mrs. Siddons, with her brothers, John and Charles Kemble, and other theatrical celebrities. Of this even an engraving is rare and valuable. The original hangs, neglected and uncared for, in a store-loft, in Soho Square, at London, belonging to a pianoforte maker. After visiting Italy, where his accuracy as a copyist, and his remarkable facility in original works, excited much admiration, and obtained him, at Rome and at Florence, the highest honors artists could bestow on him, Harlowe returned to London, and died there, a few months after, in 1819. His skill, in rapidly sketching a likeness and in seizing the character of a face, has rarely been equalled.-M.

which I have never yet seen absent from real talent. His eyes, appeared to me, at that instant, to be between a light-blue and a gray color. His face was pale and sallow, as if the turmoil of business, the shade of care, or the study of midnight, had chased away the glow of health and youth. Around his mouth played a cast of sarcasm, which, to a quick eye, at once betrayed satire; and it appeared as if the lips could be easily resolved into the risus sardonicus. His head was somewhat larger than that which a modern doctrine denominates the "medium size;" and it was well supported by a stout and wellfoundationed pedestal, which was based on a breast, full, round, prominent, and capacious. The eye was shaded by a brow which I thought would be more congenial to sunshine than storm; and the nose was neither Grecian nor Roman, but was large enough to readily admit him into the chosen band of that "immortal rebel" (as Lord Byron called Cromwell) who chose his body-guard with capacious lungs and noses, as affording greater capability of undergoing toil and hardship. Altogether he appeared to possess strong physical powers.

He was dressed in an olive-brown surtout, black trowsers, and black waistcoat. His cravat was carelessly tied, and the knot almost undone, from the heat of the day; and as he stood with his hand across his bosom, and his eyes bent on the ground, he was the very picture of a "public character," hurrying away on some important matter which required all of personal exertion and mental energy. Often as I have seen him since, I have never beheld him in so striking or pictorial an attitude.

"Quick with the horses!" was his hurried ejaculation as he recovered himself from his revery, and flung himself into his carriage. The whip was cracked, and away went the chariot with the same cloud of dust, and the same tremendous pace. I did not see him pay any money. He did not enter the inn. He called for no refreshment, nor did he utter a word to any person around him. He seemed to be obeyed by instinct; and while I marked the chariot thundering along the street, which had all its then spectators turned on the cloud-enveloped vehicle, my curiosity was intensely excited, and I instantly

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descended to learn the name of the extraordinary stranger. Most mal-apropos, however, were my inquiries. Unfortunately, the landlord was out; the waiter could not tell me his name; and the hostler "knew nothing whatsomever of him, except that he was in the most uncommonest hurry." A short time, however, satisfied my curiosity.

The next day brought me to the capital of the county where I was then on a visit. It was the assize time. Very fond of oratory, I went to the courthouse to hear the forensic eloquence of the "Home Circuit." I had scarcely seated myself, when the same grayish eye, broad forehead, portly figure, and strong tone of voice, arrested my attention. He was just on the moment of addressing the jury, and I anxiously waited to hear the speech of a man who had already so strongly interested me. After looking at the judge steadily for a moment, he began his speech exactly in the following pronunciation: "My Lurrd-Gentlemen of the jury."

"Who speaks?" instantly demanded I. "Counsellor O'Connell," was the reply. "Why, he only arrived last night?"

"Late last night, and has had scarcely a moment to con over his brief. But listen."

I at once fixed my attention. As I do not write short-hand, I can not give the detail of his speech; but his delivery I can criticise, and can here write down.

Were O'Connell addressing a mixed assembly where the lower orders predominated, I scarcely know any one who would have such a power of wielding the passions. He has a knack of speaking to a mob which I have never heard exceeded. His manner has at times the rhodomontade of Hunt ;* but he is infinitely superior, of course, to this well-known democrat in choice of language and power of expression. The same remark may apply, were I to draw any comparison between him and another well-known mob-speaker, Cobbett.t

* Henry Hunt, for some years the leader of the "Radical Reform" party in England.-M.

+ William Cobbett, who will be remembered as the most inconsistent politician, and the most nervous writer of English prose, his time produced.-M.