638 
parently of quieting restless spirits, and, 
especially, because they believe the Union 
had been finally consummated with this 
understanding. Lord Londonderry is made 
to say, not that Emancipation was stipu- 
lated, but that the Catholics, and Irish lead- 
ers, were allowed to deceive themselves on 
this point. The panacea for all evils is io 
make the Irish English. 'The hero of the 
tale is the representative of English and 
Orange prejudices against Ireland. This 
change of sentiment is, of course, to be 
accomplished by the agency of love and the 
ladies. 
At school, and at college—in the streets, 
in the country, he is meeting, perpetually, 
with Irish, and always accompanied with 
something to heighten his disgusts. On his 
father’s death, he is left to the guardianship 
of Lord Londonderry, and a Mr. Keightley, 
a cousin, an Irishman, and descended from 
the early English colonists, who, whether 
Protestant or Catholic, amalgamate well 
with the original, and “ mere” Irish. The 
vulgarity of this guardian, or, at least, his 
obyious disregard of English proprieties, 
revolts the youth, and disgusts him with the 
very name of Keightley. At his first school 
vacation, he goes to visit his sister, then an 
invalid in Devonshire, and under the care 
of the wife of this Mr. Keightley, and his 
younger daughter. This daughter is a very 
extraordinary specimen of Irish vivacity— 
beautiful as a seraph, but her freedoms with 
his sister, are excessively offensive to the 
niceties of his dignity. When at Cam- 
bridge, he again encounters numbers of his 
countrymen, and again receives new dis- 
gusts, and, especially, from their forward 
and bragging manners. Coming to London, 
he dines with Croker, and meets with more 
Trishmen—chiefly those connected with the 
press—reporters, editors, leader-writers, 
&c., who were, of course, not likely to efface 
unfavourable impressions. The dinner 
affords an opportunity of shewing up the 
late admiralty secretary, and this is done at 
considerable length, and not unsuccessfully. 
‘The secretary is exhibited scribbling in the 
drawing-room, whilst the party are assem- 
bling, a sheet for Murray’s Quarterly— 
talking of one thing, and reviewing another 
—deprecating the very natural constructions 
of his guests—no affectation—the impera- 
tiveness of business, &c. After dinner, and 
at table, we find him doing the same thing, 
or something like it—begging the company 
to proceed with their conversation—they 
know he can very well follow two trains of 
thought ; and, when going to the drawing- 
room, suddenly recollecting and sending 
for his secretary, to tell him he shall want 
him in the morning, just to go to the Medi- 
terranean, and beg him to be ready, &c. 
This, it might be supposed, is intended to 
quiz the funny pretensions of the ex-secre- 
tary, but a great deal of it is evidently sober 
admiration of his extraordinary versatility 
and promptness. 
Monthly Review of Literature, 
{Dec. 
The youthful hero now comes into par- 
liament, and arranges for a political career, 
and the acceptance of office. His interview 
with the minister is attended with some un- 
satisfactery conversation, but the conse- 
quences are suddenly broken in upon by a 
little private fracas. He falls desperately in 
love with a married lady, or rather she— 
she is an Irish lady—falls desperately in 
love with him, and he has a narrow escape. 
Trish-like, she precipitates too much—he 
hangs back—her impatience breaks out— 
she bursts into unlady-like violence—flies 
from him and her husband, at once—throws 
herself into the arms of a Methodist preacher, 
and is overtaken by the raving husband (an 
Irishman, of course), who pistols the mise- 
rable preacher ; and then, binding the ma- 
niac wife to the corpse, shoots himself 
through the head. But though the hero (the 
Honourable Gerald Blount—we cannot do 
without his name) thus escapes—it is not 
without being drawn into a duel, in which 
he kills, or rather believes he kills, his an- 
tagonist. 
Luckily the peace of 1814 was just con- 
cluded, and he flies with his second, Cap- 
tain Flood, to Paris, to be out of the way 
for a time. Here, at Pére la Chaise, he 
enters into a conversation with a French 
lady, full of mystery—she knows every- 
thing about him, but he can get no clue for 
her. Napoleon returns ; and Blount, with 
the rest of the English, flies to Brest—sees 
the Pére la Chaise lady’s head, from a 
window—gets up the next morning too late 
for the packet—pursues it in a boat—climbs 
up the ship’s side—misses his hold—catches 
another glance of the lady, and falls into his 
own boat again. The next day he sails in 
another for Bristol—is overtaken by a storm 
—driven out of his course, and wrecked 
upon the Irish coast. After a marvellous 
escape, he is taken up exhausted on the 
beach—opens his eyes—sees again the fair 
vision—faints—is conveyed to a hut, and 
provided with, he knows not how, proper 
comforts, and a direction to remain quiet 
till the next afternoon. 
Finding, however, to his horror, that he 
is in Ireland, and on his brother’s property, 
his first thought is to get out of it; and, in 
spite of his unknown friend’s written direc- 
tion, mounts the coach which was passing 
for Dublin. The coachman is an old tenant 
of his brother’s, or his own, turned out by 
the tyranny of the agent ; and, while telling 
Blount the story, in a fit of emotion over- 
turns the coach, and smashes his own thigh, 
and breaks Blount’s arm. To Dublin, how- 
ever, he at last gets, by post, and is confined 
at Morrison’s for some time with his broken 
limb. By degrees he is able to look about 
the town, and is, reluctantly enough, com- 
pelled to confess its beauties. By-and-by, 
also, he attends a debate of the Catholic 
Association, and, by a little anachronism, 
listens to O’Connell and Shiel; is struck by 
the style of their discussions, and somewhat 
