The very privilege we now enjoy of marrying the choice of our own hearts, we have seen, was procured for us by the Land Reformer. By him have the vassals of the English tongue been emancipated, aristocracy vanquished, kings dethroned, and republican liberty established in this western world. By him must still greater triumphs be achieved for Europe, and by him must the authority of God over the earth be vindicated, and the free gift thereof, which he made equally to each and all of the human family, be revived and confirmed.

We do not wholly agree with the late Chancellor whom we have quoted, that under the genius of our institutions "every individual of every family has his equal rights." The truth is, that, when born, we are most unequal in consequence of unjust laws. Every individual has a right by nature to so much of the earth as he needs for his highest good, without price; this is a truth that cannot be doubted by the unprejudiced inquirer. How is this right of each guarantied in our own country? Behold a few who are born to great landed possessions, and the mass who are born to no possessions at all, and are not permitted to own any until they have been beggars for employment for many years, for the sake of the means of purchase; and in spite of all the hard work at the will of a master, and at such wages as he may choose to give, many are compelled to live without a home and die without a grave, leaving their bodies as nuisances to be buried by the public!

A health, then, to the Land Reformer; and may the time soon come, when each shall enjoy his right to the elements of nature, and be secured by the benevolence of our laws, the equal opportunity, and, so far as education will permit, equal means of fulfilling his destiny on earth!

THE WIND AND THE WEATHER COCK.

THE summer wind lightly was playing
Round the battlement high of the tower,
Where a vane, like a lady, was staying,
A lady vane perched in her bow'r.

To peep round the corner the sly wind would try;
But vanes, you know, never look in the wind's eye,
And, so she kept turning slyly away,

Thus they kept turning all through the day.

The summer's wind said, "she's coqueting.
But each belle has her points to be found;
Before evening, I'll venture on betting,

She will not then go, but come round."

So he tried from the east, and he tried from the west,
And the north and the south, to try which was best,
But still she kept turning slyly away,

Thus they kept playing all through the day.

At evening, her hard heart to soften,
He said, "You're of flint, I am sure;
But if vainly you're changing so often,
My favor you'll never secure,'
"Sweet sir," said the vane, it is you who begin,
When you change so often, in me 'tis no sin;

If you cease to flutter, and steadily sigh,
And will only be constant, I'm sure so will I."

YOUNG IRELAND-THE FELON'S TRACK.*

"HISTORY is the essence of innumerable biographies." So saith Carlyle, and truly. Yet, perhaps, never truer is this, than in the chronicle of a revolutionary struggle, or, as exhibited in the annals of a people constantly engaged in an agitation to effect the supremacy of a national will as the ruling trust of the governing power; or, in any political empire. In those movements the leading spirits, the popular rulers-which does not always mean the actual rulers, as is most evident in Rome, Hungary and Ireland-the men who are appointed to the helm, are those who enjoy the largest amount of confidence, and whose acts are assented to in the largest amount of sympathy from their fellow-meu; who exhibit in their persons, by their skill, power and determination, the wants and wishes of the multitude-whom the multitude, by an individuality of opinion, identify as holding and pronouncing their entire desires and ideas; therefore, by electricity of thought, they are the combined essence of the people, and their lives fill the history of the times. So it is, the life of William Tell is the history of the liberation of Switzerland. The lives of Rienzi and Massaniello unfold more of the glory, intrigues, fickleness, and fate of Italy, in their times, than if the entire chronicles of the Colonna, Orsini, Guelph, Guibelline, and a score of such, were hanging on the lips of the four winds of heaven. How much of European liberty is there not due to Luther? and in a later day how much is there not centred on Napoleon. Galileo's is the grand history of the grandest epoch on earth's record, after the coming of Christ-that of the immaculate power of free-will, and the right of opinion in support of truth against legion and ignorance. In Columbus's life, as in a Banquo mirror, history sees an endless region of events, and Washington's biography is the chronicle of American Independence. The spirit of the MAN of the day, is the history of all those of which he is the centre, for in him are centred all their hopes and fears. From the creation of the world to the present time, mark each mighty epoch. Come o'er those beacons as you would stepping stones in an unfordable stream-come o'er them steadily, and you have passed through the brain of centuries, and grasped the history of the world.

History itself is the cable by which time fastens the thoughts and actions of his particular eras to their proper moorings. If of the time gone by, it is the golden link with the present, and if the present, is the monument which truth piles up for the nobleness, worth, heroism, or genius of his era, holding out a bright example and a brilliant recompense, if good; and if of deeds wicked or unmanly, is a warning signpost, in the frigid region of which it is the solitary occupier. Like a "dangerous label, pointing out broken ice to the sleigh-driver on a frozen lake, it stands, ghostlike, warning, and shunned.

THE FELON'S TRACK, or a history of the late attempted ontbreak in IRELAND; embracing events in the Irish struggle, from the year 1843, to the close of 1848. By MICHAEL DOHENY, author of the American Revolution." New-York, W. H. Holbrooke, 181 Fulton-street.

The study of history must ever form one of the most intellectual and attractive studies to man. If true to its province it shall include all provinces of literature. It shall present all the amusement and interest of fiction; for the romantic realities of one thousand brains in their strife with the world, present more startling incidents and conflicting scenes than even the imagination of one brain could produce. It shall combine all the charm and instruction of biography; for it is nothing more or less than a picking of the grains from the chaff-the raising of a good and stately edifice from the choice materials of a thousand indifferent mansions. It shall be full of the grandeur of epic verse; for the record of everything noble in man, or extensive and beautiful in nature, is hallowed with poetry. The feeling, identification, and appreciation, is poetry, whether it be dashed off in rugged prose, or meted out in syllables harmonious. Poetry is not a jingle, fighting through eight or ten syllables of a line, like a bell tolling in a church tower at the end of the rope that pulls it, but it is the thought to explain which it is there. When the bell tolls a death-knell, we don't think of the means by which it is rung, or how far it is from the ground. There is poetry in it then. We identify ourselves with its purpose-we anconsciously thrill, chilly, at its unearthly tone. The very ivy leaves on the belfry tremble suspiciously, unlike their gay flutter on a marriage morn. The tombstones, which every day looked mere blocks of marble, now are an ungraved part of that which is beneath, come up to tell its pedigree to the new-comer. There is the poetry, the feeling, the identification; and there is not a living thing but which, truly appreciated, contains more poetry than ever Ossian thought or Shakspeare wrote.

Thus, the delight, fancy, magnanimity, and interest of poetry. Romance, and biographical narrative, bound and sculptured by Truth into the enduring temple of history-what can surpass it-what seduce more than it and than its, where the greater recompense?

We were led into these few introductory remarks by the work before us. It is, in a manner, a combination of those qualities, at least in design, which we consider as being all important in history. The work cannot accurately be, in itself, called one; but is a collection of stated and interesting facts, which make it a valuable chapter, or contribution to the annals of the country, whose misfortunes gave, at the same time, its inspiration and its record. It is from the pen of MICHAEL DOHENY, one who has had no meagre or insignificant share in those misfortunes, or in the struggle to retrieve them, which ended-no, not ended, heaven forbid but which combined evils, transiently enveloped in a dismal, but not altogether dispiriting gloom; and in explanation of which, as far as in him lies, he has given this "Felon's Track" to the world. It is, alternately titled, a journal of his adventures, and the movements of his party; sometimes in conjunction with the other leaders in their native hills, when forced to take their stand and fling their fortunes thereon— when, firstly, the passing of the "gagging act" in the British senate closed their lips from addressing their countrymen in the cities and towns in their usual strain; and, secondly, when the suspension of the habeas corpus threatened their personal safety. It is a journal of those times and movements, preceded by a review of the policy of many years previous, and the acts which more immediately led to the outbreak.

We propose to have a short chat with our readers on Mr. Doheny's book,

and Young Ireland; and to begin at the beginning, we perceive it is very gracefully dedicated to an Irishman of high rank in the representation of the American republic, and who has won no transient laurels beneath the stars and stripes. The opening at once shows the purport of the book, and the reason of its dedication. Addressing General James Shields, Mr. Doheny says:

"There is nothing connected with this sad fragment of history, either in fact or hope, to suggest any association with your name or achievements. But as my main object is to show that Ireland's failure was not owing to native recreancy or cowardice, I feel satisfied, that of all living men, your position and character will best sustain the sole aim of my present labor and ambition."

Before coming immediately to "Young Ireland," we will cast our eye backwards, in a hasty review of affairs from Catholic Emancipation downward. The unbounded joy which followed the struggle so misunderstood and exaggerated, called "The Emancipation," was, in no little manner, ruinous to the future freedom of Ireland. Ruinous, inasmuch as that, in the first fit of popular intoxication, it placed unlimited power in the hands of a man, whose destiny, no doubt, would have worked out for itself a brighter and a higher climax, had it not been thus inopportunely and indiscreetly placed in an immature zenith of political leadership. In that struggle, the wonderful sagacity, power, and political craft of that manDaniel O'Connell-became manifest. He had a degraded people-degraded in having to obey their religion to preserve their lives and property-to fashion to his purpose. He had to encounter in his enemies, power, dexterity, and daring; yet, ere the struggle was over, he proved that he outwitted the most cunning, and outbrazened the most intolerant. He succeeded in deceiving his opponents, and " of all the great qualities displayed in that wonderful struggle, that which was most prized, was the cunning of evasion," the influence of which has since been a bane to the country. In their flush of insanity, the people styled him "Liberator;" consigning to oblivion all those who had preceded him in the struggle for their national rights. They raised the giant hate and envy of the Protestant race, which has since proved to be the most enduring and stubborn connecting-link with England, and which John Mitchel was steadily sundering. And to crown their madness, they reared up an annual tribute-put gold into the balance with his patriotism, gave up thinking for themselves, and paid him for being their proxy. It is needless to point out how unfortunate that monument was to the future prospects of the country. An eagle is as much degraded in a golden cage as in an iron one. They are both one to the bird. A cage is a cage; and the expanding pride of the natural monarch of the air becomes so mopish in its thraldom, that at last its movements are merely mechanical, occasionally fluttering its wings to attract passing attention, stooping for its carrion, or listlessly seated on the manufactured branches ornamenting the centre of his prison. Such was O'Connell's fate. His grand soul, which of itself would have soared to immortality, was chained down with the golden bands which sophistry calls a "tribute." His speeches, instead of being the natural instinct and inspiration of truth, became the efforts of the paid advocate. His die-aways and new associations became periodical, and, as a matter of course. In fact, all his actions became mechanical. His fluttering, his retirements, and his stooping for the carrion,

followed regularly. He was wound up like a clock, and had to strike to let all know he was there. His course went on like the gradations of the hours, heightening as it came to the twelfth, which was very loud, and gave notice of an approaching interest in number ONE. Thus it was, and the people-alas, at a very late hour-became undeceived. To follow O'Connell's career is not our intention; suffice, it was as wonderful as it was unparalleled and deceptive. He entered the British Senate, stormed it, till its most able representatives listened in silence and awe to the Irish leader. He reared enemies on all sides, and frightened them with his audacity and skill. He contracted the increasing hate and distrust of the Protestants as a mass, and all denominations save the Catholics. He begat societies with the fecundity of a rabbit. Earned the steady watch. fulness and opposition of the government. Was more than once arrested on a charge of sedition. Became a public demi-god-an idol paid for putting his foot upon any one who had genius or daring enough to aspire to a place in the popular will. And, lastly, started the late "Repeal Association," built Conciliation Hall, and dazzled the people's eyes with the antagonistic mottoes--"Ireland for the Irish," "God save the Queen." This last association looked so like a daguerreotype of its predecessors, that it met with but little success at first, and needs must have fallen stillborn, were it not that O'Connell's audacity and wariness provoked the government to proscription, and a menace was held out by Lord Ebrington, that no one should be employed by the government who followed in his path. The government-hating and opposition-loving spirit of the land was aroused, and the Repeal ranks and treasury at the same time were soon filled.

But there was fast growing, both in strength and in the love and confidence of the country, a party who were soon destined to shed a glory on their era the nestlings who were soon to take wing, and soar untrammeled by any other will save that which Omnipotence alone endowed them with. They were the party denominated "YOUNG IRELAND," and whose name is since world-wide, as synonomous with genius, and whose enemies have even been betrayed into rapture with their oratory and their bloodlightening lyrics. It was not long before they showed a growing spirit of antagonism to the usual hum-drum proceedings of "the Hall." They were young spirits, full of enthusiasm and sincerity; believing in self-reiiance, and a glorious deliverance. They had no cant, no duplicity, no chicanery. Bursting with love, genius, and energy, they could not brook silence when Truth demanded utterance. When dissimulation was visible, they would crush it fearlessly, no matter who the dissembler. After the God of Life, Honor and Justice, were their household deities. This party had an organ characterized by all those qualities for which they are celebrated-"The Nation"-the publication of which marks a new era in the bistory of Ireland. The talent of that journal-the combined energies of the Young Ireland party-soon raised it to such a pinnacle in Ireland, that it argued a downright ignorance, and want of appreciation of literature, to be without it: nor did its real merits or reputation stay until it was second to no literary or politica. ournal in Europe, at the same time that it was steadily rearing a trans-atlantic fame.

The founder of this party, and the first who " dared" to cross the path of O'Connell, was the young and glorious THOMAS DAVIS, far the greatest man of the day, of his own or any other party in Ireland. It seemed