of the calamities which like storm-clouds are gathering around his head. He would at least have lifted up clean hands to Heaven. But a doom, apparently too overwhelming to be conducted away, seems impen ding over a Government that has rendered itself the most hated of all the tyrannies that ever infested the earth or afflicted a people.

HE Nation newspaper puts the following question:-"What is it that will fulfil the designs of the great Napoleon, gratify the heart of France, win for the occupant of the French throne a fame and reverence equal to those which immortalize the memory of Napoleon I., and will give his

son a right to the throne of France which will be recognized and admitted from end to end of that country for ever?" These questions reveal the deep interest taken in the destinies of France by an Irish newspaper, and, we may also add, the curious and singular attachment cherished by its staff toward England. The questions are most important. The Tuileries acknowledge them to be so. France, feeling for her happiness a good deal more than the Nation newspaper feels for its birthplace, anxiously asks for a solution. Who is the Edipus? Where shall we find the new

Dodona, the modern Delphi? An answer is wanted not an echo. France is puzzled. The Emperor is not less anxious that he is silent. His Cabinet is prepared to pay handsomely the Balaam of the day. Evρηка. A prophet has appeared in Erin. An inspiration, richer than that which decreed the Immaculate Conception, has devolved its mantle on an Irish newspaper. He is no prophet of smooth things to us, nor of very easy things to France. Nevertheless he solves the difficulty, and developes its sublime prophecy, as follows:

"We say the destruction of the preponderating power of England and the occupation of London! Should Napoleon III. effect these things, his dynasty will be secure, for it will have acquired an indestructible hold on the hearts and affections of Frenchmen. The greatgrandson of the man who humbles perfide Albion and sends a French army into London will be the ruler of France in his day."

Thus decidedly the modern seer sends his glance down the ages. His prophecy is not very comforting to us, however assuring it may be to France. The writer of it was in all likelihood one of the recipients of the impartial and munificent liberality of England towards Ireland, in its hour of pestilence and famine. At all events, the Roman Catholics were, and they have not forgotten it. Such, nevertheless, is the coin with which he repays us! Such, also, is their grateful appreciation of the blessings of a reign of unprecedented popularity and virtue, and of those civil and religious privileges which are possessed by no other nation on earth! insignificance of the prophet may be his apology. But he is the organ of an inspiration perfectly familiar to us, and the teacher of a benighted coterie of miserable serfs who believe exactly as they are bid. The patriot

The

ism of the Nation is another name for treason. It organs and abettors are traitors. Their obscurity is their only protection. We quote the language of this miserable mischief-maker as a striking proof of the liberty of the press, untouched in this land even when it degenerates into unbounded license. Let the writer, mutatis mutandis, publish a tithe of such insulting suggestions, barefaced disloyalty, and dereliction of all social obligation, in France, that very power he invokes as retribution here would, in less than twenty-four hours, confiscate his establishment, and provide new and less comfortable quarters for the writer. He dare not utter in Paris the faintest whisper of his treason. The Nation

knows this as well as we do. But it is not France that the writer loves, but free and Protestant England that he and his party hate. He is willing to welcome to our shores a French despotism in order to gratify Romish hate.

We are not blind to our country's defects, nor unwilling to correct them. Our nation is not a paradise. Its people are not angels, but frail and erring men. Many an error has been committed in our policy; and, we are free to confess it, wrongs have been done to Ireland. But are we ready to barter the blessings we do not value as we ought? Would the régime of the Tuileries be a happy exchange for the mild rule of Windsor Castle? Are there twenty Englishmen, however inflamed by democratic vituperatives, who would give up their country to gratify the wild spirit of revenge? We blush to add there is an Irishry ready to do so. But it is some consolation that these are not the free and intelligent men of Ulster, but a herd of priest-ridden serfs of Paul Cullen, who, in obedience to his orders, have put out their eyes that they may see

white to be black, and stand willing-though we thank God they are powerless-to offer up England a sacrifice to the burning hate and insatiable domination of Rome. But Balaam's curse may be transmuted into a blessing as it falls, and the Roman Balak may discover how difficult it is to curse them whom God has blessed. The prophecy of the Nation, however, is about as reliable as its patriotism is pure. Napoleon has no desire to gratify his Trish admirers by taking that step on which the prophecy depends. It would be the extinction of his dynasty. The hostile force that entered England would never leave it. Its route would be its grave. The arm that launched it would be shattered by the terrible recoil. The experiment would cost Napoleon his throne. But there is no risk of the attempt. The Emperor has read too closely and well the history of his great uncle. Never was the First Consul so humbled as when he met England face to face. A charmed life was ours, and none felt this so powerfully as he who enlisted Europe on his side in order to break the spell. We believe the Emperor has no such design. We only lament that any party among ourselves should be found so recreant, so base and alien, as to suggest the crime, or so utterly in bondage to the Jesuits as to become the organ of a prophecy which is simply the offspring of an Ultramontane wish, tinged and coloured by Jesuit hate.