mained awhile irresolute in the centre of Indifference, but finally, by an 'Everlasting Yea,' came out reconciled to the conditions of life, exclaiming, 'Poor, wandering, wayward man! Art thou not tried and beaten with stripes, even as I am! Ever, whether thou bear the royal mantle or the beggar's gabardine, art thou not so weary, so heavy laden; and thy Bed of Rest is but a grave. Oh, my brother! my brother! why cannot I shelter thee in my bosom, and wipe away all tears from thy eyes?' He banished that 'black spot in our sunshine,' the 'Shadow of Ourselves,' and cried, 'there is in man a Higher than love of Happiness; he can do without Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessedness.' Was it not to preach forth this same Higher that sages and martyrs, the Poet and the Priest, in all times, have spoken and suffered, leaving testimony, through life and through death, of the Godlike that is in man, and how in the Godlike only has he strength and freedom?'

Thus was it that he worked his way through the external world into the very soul of the world. Through such a school of Experience did he pass, by which his mind was so disciplined that he could comprehend the sublimest truths, which he gave to the world in huge Clothes Philosophy. The fanciful Biography is not without, at least, a symbolical meaning, an ideal significance. It is perhaps the true history of every strong and earnest mind in its progressive developement, in its advance to the highest region of thought. We may be accused in all this of favoring Transcendentalism, but we earnestly beseech the opposer of Transcendantalism to be perfectly sure that he rightly understands what he would oppose. We dare not declare ourself a Transcendentalist, still less dare we declare that we

are not one:

At length, after the Biography closes, the Clothes Philosophy is resumed. We must pass by the 'perennial suit' of George Fox; Church-Clothes that 'have gone sorrowfully out at elbows, or have become ' mere hollow shapes or masks, under which no living Figure or Spirit any longer dwells;' 'Symbols' in and through which 'man consciously and unconsciously lives, works, and has his being, which 'superannuated and worn out (in this Ragfair of a world) are dropping everywhere, to hoodwink, to halter, to tether you; nay, if you do not shake them aside, threatening to accumulate, and perhaps produce suffocation;' 'Helotaye,' in which chapter he seems to give an awful thrust at those who advocate war on the ground of over-population; Society, 'where Friendship, Communion, has become an incredible tradition, and your holy Sacramental Supper is a smoking Tavern Dinner, with Cook for Evangelist, where your Priest has no tongue but for plate-living;'' Body Politic,' which the Soul Politic having departed, must be 'decently interred, to avoid putrescence;' 'Liberals, Economists, Utilita-rians marching with its bier, and chaunting loud pæans, towards the funeral pile, where, amid wailings from some, and saturnalian revelries from the most, the venerable corpse is to be burned; the Indictment which Poverty and vice brings against lazy wealth, that it has left them cast out and trod-den under foot of Want, Darkness, and the Devil;' the regeneration of society, when the new Phoenix shall rise out of the ashes of the old, and 'God's universe' shall become a 'Symbol of the Godlike,' 'Immensity a Temple,' Man's History a perpetual Evangel,' the singing together of the 'Morning Stars' the real Organ-music;'-we must pass by all these, which, notwithstanding the terrific satirical spirit which pervades them, are not without a deep interest, and hasten to that sublime chapter, strangely, yet significantly enough entitled, 'Natural Supernaturalism.'

We have now arrived with the author to the last step in his philosophy. He endeavors to divest the soul of man of its ideas of Time and Space, but

how effectually he has done it, we cannot judge for others: much will depend upon the speculative faculty of the individual reader. We can only give the closing paragraphs, which cannot be too often quoted or too often read.

'Oh Heaven! it is mysterious-it is awful to consider that we not only carry each a future Ghost within him: but we are, in every deed, ghosts! These Limbs, whence had we them; this stormy Force; this life-blood, with its burning Passions? They are dust and shadow; a shadow-system gathered round about me; wherein through some moments or years, the Divine Essence is to be revealed in the Flesh. That warrior on his strong warhouse, fire flashes through his eyes, force dwells in his arm and heart; but warrior and war-horse are a vision, a revealed force-nothing more. Stately they tread the Earth as if it were a firm substance: fool! the Earth is but a film; it cracks in twain, and warrior and war-horse sink beyond plummetssounding. Plummets! Phantasy herself will not follow them. A little while and they were not; a little while and they are not, their very ashes are not.

So has it been from the beginning, so will it be to the end. Generation after generation takes to itself the Form of a Body; and forth-issuing from Cimmerian night, on Heaven's mission, APPEARS. What Force and Fire is *in each re-expends: one grinding in the mill of Industry; one, hunter-like, climbing the giddy Alpine heights of Science; one madly dashed in pieces on the rocks of Strife, in war with his fellow;- and then the Heaven sent is recalled; his earthly vesture falls away, and son even to sense becomes a vanished shadow. Thus, like some wild-flowing, wild-thundering train of Heaven's Artillery, does the mysterious MANKIND thunder and flow, in long-drawn, quick-succeeding grandeur, through the unknown deep. Thus, like a God-created, fire-breathing Spirit-host, we emerge from the Inane, haste stormfully across the astonished earth; then plunge again into the Inane. Earth's mountains are levelled and her seas filled up in our passage. Can the earth, which is but death and a vision, resist Spirits which have reality, and are alive? On the hardest adamant some foot-print of us is stamped in the last Rear of the host will read traces of the earliest van. But whence! A Heaven whither? Sense knows not; Faith knows not; only that it is through mystery to mystery, from God to God!

"We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is soundest with a sleep.""

After saying much, not altogether idly, about dandies and tailors, he closes with a fearful contrast between the wealthy fashionable class of England and the Irish poor. He has a curse for Pelham and the frequenters of Almack's, while his heart is bleeding for the destitute and oppressed, especially for the wretched of Ireland; and rightly too. Poor scathed, downtrodden, enslaved, bleeding, starving, heart-broken, despairing Ireland, like the fleece of Gideon, is dry, while all surrounding Europe is moistened with the dew of social and political revolution.

To the best of our feeble ability we have thus endeavored to explain the most enigmatical of all Carlyle's works. We have not done this for the sake of those who have from the beginning read and studied him well, but to remove, if possible, the prejudices of many who may have been alarmed by the cry of obscurity or Transcendentalism, and to induce them to cultivate an acquaintance with an author who, if he does nothing more, will certainly arouse their thinking faculty. With all his satire he is no hater of the world; his very satire is prompted by love of his kind. He spares not error and injustice wherever they may be found, but no one loves mankind better. He has the very highest respect for the laborer, whether he work with hand, heart or head, but curses with his whole soul those false social and political institutions which compel the laborer to starve, while the few riot on the fruits of his toil.

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His book is one of the few which, amid all the present froth ocean of literature, is destined to last. We can say to him in the language of Herr Diogenes, O, thou who art able to write a Book, which once in two centuries or oftener there is a man gifted to do, envy not him whom they name City-Builder, and inexpressibly pity him whom they name Conqueror or City-Burner! Thou art a great conqueror and victor; but of the true sort, namely, over the Devil: thou, too, hast built what will outlast all marble and metal, and be a wonder-bringing City of the Mind, a Temple and Seminary and Prophetic Mount, whereto all kindness will pilgrim.'

OLD IRELAND AND YOUNG IRELAND.

JOHN MITCHEL.

We publish in this number of our Review a faithfully executed likeness of John Mitchel, the "Irish Felon" by act of Parliament, and we append in accordance with form and precedent the simple particulars of his biography, furnished by his brother now in this city, and therefore to be fully relied on.

We have but one object in view in this proceeding and that is, to show the honest, deep and lasting interest we take in Ireland, her patriots, and her people. We have been slow to express our opinions, because we wished to be sure of their soundness. The time for their expression is now come, and we fling our banner to the breeze. On its folds are inscribed the simple but inspiring words, "Justice for Ireland." It is the wish of our heart, and it shall henceforth be the only thought of our mind; and in sunshine and storm; through weal and woe; for good or ill; we shall advocate it untill Heaven smile on our invocation and man accords the boon.

The consideration of this momentous question cannot in reason or humanity be denied us. In times past it has been the custom of monarchial countries to interfere by force of arms in the domestic affairs of other countries, as their interest or caprice suggested. This was brutal and unjust, and we denounce the means as base as the end was usually unworthy. But in times present, it cannot be questioned that democratic communities may, and of right ought to display a generous and justifiable sympathy for the welfare of mankind oppressed, and they proclaim, therefore, this right to give utterance to their opinion; voice to their censure; and aid and advice to the victims of tyranny and abuse all over the world. This is our chart signed by humanity, and endorsed by reason, and we acknowledge no other allegiance.

The condition of Ireland-this is the grand topic we propose to treat, and briefly, for our limits are narrow. The biography of John Mitchel, one of the latest martyrs, is only the peg on which we shall hang our remarks; but it is a strong one, though, and will support us to the end. The condition of Ireland, then, what is it? It is very simple, but very horrible. Of a population of eight millions, three millions are paupers, plunged

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in destitution and misery. Of the rest, four millions and upwards by superior faculties, and with superior means and unceasing efforts, manage barely to get a livelihood. A few thousand proprietors revel in excessive opulence.

This, with a difference only of figures, is the actual condition of England, France, Germany, and all Europe; everywhere the lower classes are impoverished and abused by the upper classes; and all by the same means, and in the same manner that is, by laws of taxation which fall on the necessaries and luxuries of life imported from abroad, and produced at home-and which render their price so considerable as to cut the poor effectually off from their purchase, whilst the enormous and iniquitous revenue thus raised, is wholly appropriated by the rich-either in the shape of salaries for offices which they create, or in that of profits from enterprises, manufacturing, commercial, and banking, which they establish. These infamies the people of Europe begin to understand, and hence their great and desperate efforts making to overthrow them.

But there are misfortunes peculiar to Ireland. She is a conquered country, and in modern times has been treated by her merciless vanquisher with more barbarity than a Roman province was in ancient history. Let us consider this for a moment. The policy of England towards Ireland has ever been heartless, selfish, and impolitic. She has never sought an enlightened profit from its possession, but on the contrary she has always displayed a shallow fear lest Ireland's prosperity might effect her own. And what have been the hideous means she has deliberately and for centuries employed?

She has, first, made use of her Irish province merely as a source of government patronage, as Rome of old sent out her Pro consuls, and discontented politicians, to enrich their coffers by the plunder of her helpless conquests; so England has constantly flooded Ireland with hungry officials whose sole purpose was spoiliation, and not the welfare of the unhappy land they governed.

The object of all English laws for ages past has been, then, to extort by any means, no matter how odious, revenue for her government stipendiaries. The second means, still more effectual, adopted at an early day to keep Ireland down, was, to give up her broad and fertile lands to the English aristocracy. This is the monster grievance under which Ireland labors. Government pillage she could survive, but the terrible tyranny of English landlords crushes her to the earth. Their object is just the same as the government from which they received their original titles-not the well-being of the miserable tenants, but their robbery. Revenue-revenue, is written on both sides of the label flying from the beaks of the double-headed English vulture-the British government, and the British landlord-which flapping its ponderous wings over the prostrate body of its prey, has for centuries battened on its vitals. Good God! is this vampire-process never to cease? In the face of the intelligence, the humanity and the civilization of the 19th century, will England dare to prolong her cruelty, and her folly? We appeal not to her heart, for she is dead to all sensibility for Ireland; but we address her understanding, and we shall do it in language, and with a boldness that she must notice and answer.

We demand of her what are the results at this day of her Irish policy? Her game is played out; there is no more plunder left, and instead of a source of wealth and strength, Ireland has become an expense and burden to her. This is the end of the inhuman system pursued towards her, and it is at last proved to be not only cruel, but unwise and ruinous. England must support Ireland, when she can no longer support her own people at home, and retribution threatens to overtake her. And what course does she now madly take to arrest the evil? Does she confess her faults and crimes, and change her policy? No, ever brutal and besotted, she gives herself up to the guidance of an iron-hearted soldier in his dotage-the Duke of Wellington, and she essays by gag-laws and muskets to smother the groans and sobs of agony which escape the convulsive breasts of her expiring victim! What will be the end of it? What from the beginning of the world has ever been the end of injustice, and violence! defeat, disgrace and ruin.

It now remains to be seen whether a faction as bloody as they are blind, shall lead England to her perdition, and give Ireland up to butchery; or whether the wise and prudent counsels of an enlightened and sagacious statesman, Sir Robert Peel, shall prevail and save both countries from mutual desolation? It was the infamous Tory faction of England that drove her American colonies to rebellion. It was the same who hunted revolutionary France into forced subjection under the barren sceptre of Louis XVIII; and where, at this day, are the traces of a policy that has piled up a debt in England that lays like a huge mountain on her enterprise and drains her industry of its last resources. Is England to be forever degraded and misled by her aristocracy-her Torics and her Whigs-children of the same family, fighting only between themselves for the common spoil, but uniting ever against the true and only heir, the people? Is there not in that conntry of intelligent men, of true hearts, and lofty mind, one who dares denounce their iniquity and their folly and rescue England and Ireland from their ruthless grasp? You, Sir Robert Peel, who defied their power and spurned their resistance in 1845-you, who repealed the corn-laws, and saved England from revolution-you, who by birth, belong to the great middle-class, who are pure minded men, but Tory-ledand you, who sympathise with the suffering millions of England-will not you, the only English statesman who ever manifested a disposition to legislate for Ireland in a spirit of wisdom and benevolence-will you not, now, come forward with your vast knowledge, great experience and consummate ability, and save both countries, England and Ireland, from deadly and exterminating slaughter? The struggle, how useless! and the result can be none other than unsatisfactory and incomplete. What can avert it? How may it be prevented? ented? Nothing so easy, and the remedy consists in three words which we have already pronounced, -" Justice to Ireland."

In what does this justice consist? This is the vital question, and we shall answer it with clearness and truth. It consists, in a word, in the reversal of all past injustice, and the abandonment of the atrocious system which has hitherto been pursued. First, the English parliament should govern IreJand for the benefit of the Irish, and for the advantage of the English them