him, but how it cam by its holy addition, except on account o' its name-father getting canoneezed in the Calton-hill calendar, my friend There will be better able to tell you. I will say for my townsmen, that if the working o' miracles be, as I am told, the chief grounds of canonization, there has been no lack o' them at the shrine of David Hume! What d'ye think, Mr. T—, ay? It was hard to say upon what the old man's satire bore hardest,--but the latter part was an evident fling at T, who, although a clergyman's son, is, I suppose, one of the school which predominates here. A-- continued:-" As for the square, I never could learn how it cam' by its sanctity, unless it was after my auld friend Andrew Crosbie the advocate, that built yon fine house wi' the pillars, that they're making a bank of." This kind of conversation kept us till we reached Mr. Deas's stair,--and we found him at home ;-but, as I have not much more room in this sheet, and cannot think of beginning a fourth, I must leave him and the delightful evening

that we passed at Canaan, till my next letter. I must not omit, however, to tell you, that A says, that this Crosbie was the original of Pleydell in Guy Mannering: if this be so, it will enlist an older hand in the composition of these immortal works than has ever been publicly noticed.

Tell Allan that I got his last letter, and am delighted to hear of his carriage job;-he need not be so uneasy about a good coachman, for if he himself knows his trade, his horses will not be long before they can trot to his patients' doors, without any other hint than being yoked! I shall write him immediately, but as he is under some woeful delusions about this town, which it is fit he should not be suffered longer to labour under, tell him in three words, that Bickers are abrogated, the Claugh is abolished, and Cowlies are no more. And in this goodly company, my dear Dick, I leave you for a week or two.

Ever yours, most sincerely,

T. Y.

lover's perjuries they say Jove laughs."—At poet's lapses, then, why should mortals be too serious? In this case it is impossible, because the delinquent has the double justification of love and poetry. However, there is prefixed to this number a general and final dedication of the entire work to the nobility and gentry of Ireland, which really looks as if it was brought to its termination in good earnest. Why this should be so, is not for us to say. The poet is still, and long may he continue so, in full possession of his fine faculties; and the wild moun

tains and valleys of his country are still rich in most melodious airs, which have escaped the accompaniments of Mr. Bishop. Whether, however, this is to be the last sound of the Irish harp, or whether it will produce another dulcet echo, its music has certainly established, for Ireland, a high name in vocal science, and the verse to which it has been "married" places its author amongst the very first lyric poets of any age or nation-even by the side of Horace and Anacreon. Beautiful as are many parts of his Lalla Rookh, and exquisite as we admit many of his epistles from America to be, it is to his songs that Moore must trust for immortality, and immortal he must be as long as English ladies can love, or Irish gentlemen can drink, which, we take it, is as much of immortality as any modern bard can consider himself equitably entitled to. The lyrist has, indeed, in this respect, a great advantage over the brotherhood of

Parnassus. The heart of every one takes its season of benevolence, and grows tired of satire-the mind will not for ever chill itself within the shade of ethics, and neither heart nor mind can sustain eternally the horrors or the heights of the epic aspirant. But the lyrist strays carelessly along the verges of the mountain. The echoes which he awakens, if not loud, are sweet; and the chords with which he produces them are heart-strings. He identifies himself with the passions of youth-he associates himself with the pleasures of manhood-he sighs melodious comfort in the bower-he sings most mirthful logic over the bottle, he resounds and sweetens the music of the chase; and whether with young or old--in bowers, or copses, or banquets-sighing with lovers, or carousing with Bacchanals, he entangles himself with the richest threads of our existence he is determined, at all events, to have a garland; and, when the season of the flowers is past, he jovially awaits its return, clustering his brows with the fruitage of the vineyard. In this last department, indeed, Moore has one living rival in the patriarch person of Captain Morris; but he has only one-there is no one else similis aut secundus. It is no disparagement to any one to admit Morris to a convivial competition. Bacchus in his wildest, merriest, and most classical moods, has not a more inspired idolater than the veceran laureate of the vintage-the snows of eighty winters have not withered a leaf of his laurels, and even Mont Blanc's "diadem" might melt in the sunshine of his perennial imagination. That time flies fast, the poet sings,' and That I think's a reason fair to fill my glass again,' will remain the standard justifications of every reveller who can blend wine, and wit, and music together, as long as the ivied god retains a single votary to hiccough over his orgies. Of course when we speak of the songs of Captain Morris, we speak only of those which he composed before the second bottle,-of those which age may hear without a blush, and to which youth may listen without any fear of the consequences. As the lyrist of love, however, Moore stands alone and unrivalled. Anacreon might rise from

6

his grave to hear him, and Lalagè herself, whether "dulce ridens," or "dulce loquens," might forget for him, for a moment, even the nightingale of Italy.

Of the songs contained in the present number, the one composed in memory of Mr. Grattan is the most elaborate, if not the happiest. But it is scarcely fair to consider it altogether as a song, because a note informs us that only the first two verses are intended to be sung. It is a poem, which the heart aided the head in dictating, and its subject well deserves the celebration. The first patriot of any country is worthy the commemoration of its first poet. In this beautiful and spirited production there is much of history-the leading points, both of Mr. Grattan's public and private character, are touched with the fidelity of an annalist. The utter darkness in which he found his country the glorious splendour which he flashed on it-the memorable epoch of 1782, when he obtained a free trade, a free constitution, and a final judicature-the rewards given him by an attesting parliament-the sweet simplicity of his domestic life, and the noble equanimity which he preserved, alike amid the shade òr the sunshine of popular versatility, are finely and judiciously illustrated. This monument, perennius ære, erected by the hands of friendship, patriotism, and genius, is more than an equivalent to the children of Grattan, for the heartless ingratitude with which his memory has been treated. Alas, in Ireland there is little hope, that even Hamlet's span of commemoration will be permitted to a " a great man." Athens was remarkable, and has become branded to all posterity, for the denunciation of the "bravest, the wisest, and the best" of her citizens; but Athens was civilized, and refinement too often polishes away the most substantial virtues of a national character.-What excuse, however, can the catholics of Ireland plead for having once, with savage ferocity, attempted the life of her Aristides! for having, before his ashes were cold, preferred to his candidate son, a man "without a name;" and for not even raising one poor stone in his honour, who rescued her from being a proverb and a bye-word among the nations! The

power,

A child with a thunderbolt only portrays.

Oh no-not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns,

Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrin'd

O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns

Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

The following extract is from' another and a very different kind of song set to one of Ireland's merriest planxties, and composed in honour of her far famed Potsheen Whiskey, which we are told once superseded even the "divine marasquino" on the lips of royalty. The second verse cannot well be understood by the English reader without some little explanation. The unfortunate Irish peasant who cannot well pay the exorbitant rent of an absentee landlord,

the fangs of the "middle man," or and is quivering under agent, betakes himself to the loftiest and most unfrequented mountains, where he manufactures the magic. beverage, by the smuggled sale of which, he hopes to disencumber himself. His small uncouth rustic still, and the green turf, which he is obliged to use in the process, gives it the smoke flavour, which is allud

flow on,

Yet-'tisn't less potent for being unlaw,

ful.

Their excuses, sometimes, when detected and arraigned, are most amusing. The writer of this once saw one of them put upon his trial, which he had contrived to evade at the previous assizes, under pretence of the indisposition of a witness; the real cause was his fear of the then going judge of assize. To his great discomfiture, however, the same judge chose the ensuing circuit. When arraigned, Baron M'Clelland addressed him-"Well, my lad. I remember you, what have you got to say for yourself this time?" "In troth, little enough, my lord, for you kilt my witness!". "I kill your witness, fellow-what do you mean? "No offince at all my lord, but sorrow a word of lie there's in it-we were all so flustrated at the last assizes, that my poor Paddy would'nt touch a drop ever since, except the parliament, and it finished him fairly ―my lord, you know well it'd pison the devil." Appeals of this sort are by no means unfrequent. The following are the two last stanzas of the Irish "John Barley Corn:”

What, though it may taste of the smoke of

that flame,

Which in silence extracted its virtue for

bidden

Fill up there's a fire in some hearts I could name,

So

Which may work too its charm, though now lawless and hidden.

drink of the cup-for oh there's a spell

in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality

Talk of the cordial, that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

We are not fond of accusing poets, and particularly such poets as Mr. Moore, of any thing like plagiarism. He is too original to become an imitator of any one-too rich in his own stores to draw upon the coffers of another, but there certainly is a singular, and rather suspicious coincidence in one of the songs of this number, and the lines which we annex, and which are selected from a pretty, and rather unjustly neglected poem, published by Murray in 1813.

Ne'er ask the hour-what is it to us

How time deals out his treasures? The golden moments, lent us thus,

Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. If counting them over could add to their blisses,

I'd number each glorious second; But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's

kisses,

Too quick and sweet to be reckon❜d. Then fill the cup-what is it to us

How Time his circle measures? The fairy hours we call up thus,

Obey no wand but Pleasure's!

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,
Set up, among his smiling flowers,
Till Care, one summer's morning,
A dial, by way of warning.

lude are these:
The parallel lines to which we al-

Fronting the ocean, but beyond the ken
Of public view and sounds of murm'ring

On which the sweetest light of summer shone

A rude and brief inscription mark'd the

stone

To count, with passing shade, the hours,
I placed the dial 'mid the flowers;
That one by one, came forth and died,
Blooming and withering by its side.
Mortal, let the sight impart
Its pensive moral to thy heart.

The coincidence cannot fail to strike the reader; it may, however, certainly be altogether accidental. The name of the poem is "The Missionary."-There are a number of other very beautiful poems, which our limits will not allow us to select. The poem called the "Parallel" is extremely touching, and quite characteristic of the author. In taking our leave of this volume, which we recommend to all who have "music in their souls," we cannot conclude better than by noticing the great simplicity and beauty of the air to which the words, "Oh banquet not," are set, and by quoting the following fine hymn, which we wish the Neapolitans could have heard in their ranks, before they relinquished the last hope of freedom for the land of song.

THE design which I imparted to you a month or two since, of unfolding some of our mysteries and feelings, has it seems created some sensation, and has really carried as great a panic into parts of our circle, as was felt among the wives and daughters of Darius, when the famed Alexander was about to penetrate the Persian camp.

The two following extracts from notes received, among several others, will describe the hopes and fears with which it has filled both aged and youthful breasts, which would otherwise have remained in listlessness or repose.

"Lady Frances, sincerely hopes that Sir W. in the prosecution of his task, will not advert to the malicious

and malevolent story relating to Lord

-'s Opera box. She assures him, that the sentiments of purity and independence which fill her heart would prevent her acceptance of the overtures of a man of forty-five, solely on account of the pleasure derived from his comfortable, and certainly very elegant, box at the Opéra."

“In conclusion, Lady H. P—r is sure, that Sir W- will throw a veil over the impossibility her ladyship and daughter have hitherto experienced of getting into Almack's.— Could he not give a hint, in his next writing, of the bravery and merits of her late husband, and of her own elegant receptions of the fashionable world. She thinks he might have