At the time I arrived, the town was full of gloom and excitement, for it was but a few days previous that the Roman Catholics endeavoured to murder Gavazzi, while delivering one of his anti-Romanistic lectures, which, whatever their merits or demerits, were most certainly very injudicious, considering the elements of which the population of Montreal is composed; and it cannot be denied, that Signor Gavazzi’s lectures upon sacred subjects are delivered in a style partaking so much of the theatrical, that a person ignorant of the language of his address, might readily suppose that he was taking off John Kemble and Liston alternately, and therefore the uneducated Irish emigrants might very well conclude his sole object was to turn their creed into ridicule.  I certainly never heard or saw a person, lecturing on sacred subjects, whose tone and manner were so ridiculously yet painfully at variance with the solemnity due to such a theme.  The excitement produced, the constant calling out of the military, and the melancholy sequel, are too recent and well known to require recapitulation here.  It is but just to the French Romanists to state, that as a body they repudiated and took no part in the villanous attempt upon Gavazzi’s life; the assailants were almost exclusively Irish Romanists, who form nearly one-fifth of the population.  Would that they could leaven their faith with those Christian virtues of peacefulness and moderation which shine so creditably in their co-religionists of French origin.

While touching upon the subject of the military being called out in aid of the civil power, I am reminded of a passage extracted from some journal which a friend showed me, and which I consider so well expressed, that I make no apology for giving it at length.

“THE MOB.—­The mob is a demon fierce and ungovernable.  It will not listen to reason:  it will not be influenced by fear, or pity, or self-preservation.  It has no sense of justice.  Its energy is exerted in frenzied fits; its forbearance is apathy or ignorance.  It is a grievous error to suppose that this cruel, this worthless hydra has any political feeling.  In its triumph, it breaks windows; in its anger, it breaks heads.  Gratify it, and it creates a disturbance; disappoint it, and it grows furious; attempt to appease it, and it becomes outrageous; meet it boldly, and it turns away.  It is accessible to no feeling but one of personal suffering; it submits to no argument but that of the strong hand.  The point of the bayonet convinces; the edge of the sabre speaks keenly; the noise of musketry is listened to with respect; the roar of artillery is unanswerable.  How deep, how grievous, how burdensome is the responsibility that lies on him who would rouse this fury from its den!  It is astonishing, it is too little known, how much individual character is lost in the aggregate character of a multitude.  Men may be rational, moderate, peaceful, loyal, and sober, as individuals; yet heap them by the thousand,