A very curious paper might be made by any one who, after an absence of some years from Ireland, should chronicle his new impressions of the country, and compare them with his old ones. The changes time works everywhere, even in a brief space, are remarkable, but particularly so in a land where everything is in a state of transition--where the violence with which all subjects are treated, the excited tone people are wont to assume on every topic, are continually producing their effects on society--dismembering old alliances--begetting new combinations. Such is the case with us here; and every year evidences by the strange anomalies it presents in politics, parties, public feeling, and private habits, how little chance there is for a prophet to make a character by his predictions regarding Ireland. He would, indeed, be a skilful chemist who would attempt the analysis of our complex nature; but far greater and more gifted must he be, who, from any consideration of the elements, would venture to pronounce on the probable results of their action and re-action, and declare what we shall be some twenty years hence. Oh, for a good Irish “Rip van Winkle,” who would at least let us look on the two pictures--what we were, and what we are. He should be a Clare man--none others have the same shrewd insight into character, the same intuitive knowledge of life; none others detect, like them, the flaws and fractures in human nature. There may be more mathematical genius in Cork, and more classic lore in Kerry; there may be, I know there is, a more astute and patient pains-taking spirit of calculation in the northern counties; but for the man who is only to have one rapid glance at the game, and say how it fares--to throw a quick _coup-d'oeil_ on the board, and declare the winner, Clare for ever! Were I a lawgiver, I would admit any attorney to practise who should produce sufficient evidence of his having served half the usual time of apprenticeship in Ennis. The Pontine marshes are not so prolific of fever, as the air of that country of ready-witted intelligence and smartness; and now, ere I return from my digression, let me solemnly declare, that, for the opinion here expressed, I have not received any money or moneys, nor do I expect to receive such, or any place, pension, or other reward, from Tom Steele or any one else concerned. Well, we have not got this same western “Rip van Winkle,” nor do I think we are likely to do so, for this simple reason, that if he were a Clare man, he 'd never have been caught “napping;” so, now, let us look about us and see if, on the very surface of events, we shall not find something to our purpose. But where to begin, that's the question: no clue is left to the absentee of a few years by which to guide his path. He may look in vain even for the old land-marks which he remembered in boyhood; for somehow he finds them all in masquerade.