GENEROUS-HEARTED IRISHMAN.

I was once strolling of a forenoon in a large field near Dublin, looking at the volunteers of the city, who were on that day, going through their military evolutions, but, taking at the time, the refreshments of sausage, neat's tongue, &c. and a drink of their cantins. A man came up to me in the field, with a long slice of bread and meat in one hand, and a pen-knife in the other; not seeing me to have any thing to eat myself, he invited me to partake with him, and was about divide his morsel with me. had previously eaten what I had brought out with me in my pocket, and answered, I thanked him, but (with all the stiffness of any formal Englishman, I had already dined. "Oh," replied the open-hearted Irishman, casting his eyes over the hundreds and thousands in the adjoming vale, and on the opposite hill, "I wish I had the means of making all these people dine also."-Walker's Fragments. SINGULAR METHOD OF CATCHING OY

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and his body, till he has thus collected a sufficient pile against his breast, or, till after many minutes, when the English waiting above begin to fear that he will rise no more, and when he begins to feel himself getting out of breath, he springs up at once, to the astonishment and relief of the spectators. His oysters are taken from his arm, he is helped into the boat, a dram is given him, and another takes his turn at the same painful and perilous exercise, Walker's Fragments.

STERS IN MINORCA.

A man, commeuding himself first, perhaps, to the protection of Saint Antonio, or Nicholas, plunges from a boat to the depth of forty or fifty, or sometimes of nearly a hundred feet, with a hatchet slung to his right wrist; with this be severs the oysters from the rocks, and sticks them between his left arm

FAMILY PRIDE.

Family pride has within the last half century been so completely vanquished by the pride of wealth, that it is now only in some place: to be found in its genuine state. An anecdote, which displayed it in colours sufficiently ludicrous was lately related to me by a lady, who frequently visited the Island of Arran, on the western coast of Sco!land, of which the Duke of Hamil ton is chief proprietor, and most of the inhabitants are of his name. Among these an old couple, whose miserable but bespoke the extreme of poverty and wretchedness, attracted the attention of my friend, and shared her bounty. On returning to the island, she found that the only daughter of these poor haltstarved creatures had, during her absence, the good fortune to be very well married; and the first time she met the mother, she congratulated her on the circumstance Janet, to her surprize, appeared extremely mortified. "Is your son-in-law not then so rich as has been reported?" asked the lady. "O yes, madam, he is very rich if that were all!” "Has he not then a good character?" "Oh, the best of characters! there is not a better young man in all Scotland-but for all that " "He does not make a good husband, I suppose." "A good husband! why, madam, he

GLENDALLOCH, or Glyn of the Double Lake, is situated in Wicklow, a county which pre ents an abridgement of all that is pleasing in nature. This particular Glyn is surrounded on all sides, except to the east, by stupendous mountains, whose vast perpendicular height throws a gloom on the vale below, well suited to inspire religious dread and horror. It has, therefore, been from the most distant times, haunted with those spectres of illusive fancy, which delight to hover in the gloom of ignorance and superstition. It is said to have been an asylum of the Druids, who. fled from Roman tyranny. It was afterwards the refuge of the Monks, who established there a different religious rule, in which mind and body were bound in the same bondage of five years silence, severe fasts, obedience unto death, and this Lake became their dead sea. Here, however, was the school of the West, an ark that preserved the remains of literature from the deluge of barbarism which overspread the rest of Europe. Here, the ancient Britons took refuge from the Saxons, and the native Irish from the incursions of the Danes. On the round

And silence of the evening hour,
Hangs o'er Glendalloch's hallow'd tow'r;
A mighty grave-stone set by time,
That, midst these ruins, stands sublime,
To point the else forgotten heap,
Where princes, and where prelates sleep:
Where Tuathal rests th' unnoted head,
And Keivin finds a softer bed,
Sods of the verdant soil that springs,
Within the sepulchre of kings.

HERE, in the circling mountain's shade, In this vast vault by nature made, Whose tow'ring roof excludes the skies, With savage Kyles stupendous size, While Lugduff heaves his moory height And giant Broccagh bars the light: HERE, when the British spirit broke Had fled from Nero's iron yoke, And sought this dreary, dark abode, To save their altars, and their GodFrom cavern black with mystic gloom, (Cradle of science, and its tomb) Where magic had its early birth, Which drew the sun and moon to earth

tower of Glendalłoch, was often blown the horn of war. Amidst a silent and melancholy waste, it still raises its head above the surrounding fragments, as if moralizing on the ruins of our country, and the wreck of its legislative independence. We think of Marius, when he said to the lictor, Go, and tell that you have seen Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage!""

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From hollow'd rock and devious cell
Where mystery was fond to dwell,
And in the dark, and deep profound,
To keep th' eternal secret bound,
(Recorded by no written art,
The deep memorial of the heart)
In flowing robes of spotless white,
Th' arch-Druid issued forth to light,
Brow-bound with leaf of holy oak,
That never felt the woodman's stroke 1
Like to the new discover'd moon,
Behind his head, the crescent shone ;
While flaming from his snowy vest,
The plate of judgment clasp'd his breast.
Around him, press'd th' illumin'd throng,
Above him, rose the light of song;
And from the rocks and woods around,
Return'd the fleet-wing'd sons of sound.

"He, who from elemental strife "Spoke all these worlds to light and life, "Who guides them thro' th' abyss above, "In circles of celestial love, "Has this vast panorame design'd "A mirror of th' eternal mind. "To view of superficial eyes, "In broken parts, this mirror lies, "And knowledge to these points apply'd, "Are lucid specks of human pride. "From beams of truth, distorted, cross'd, "The image of our God is lost. "Those, only those, become divine, "The fractur'd parts who can combine. "Nature to them, and them alone, "Reflects from ev'ry part but ONE. "Their eagle eye around them cast, "Descries the future from the past. "Justice will not annihilate "What goodness did at first create. "The mirror sully'd with the breath, "Suffers slight change-it is not Death, "That shadows yon bright orb of day; "See! while I speak, the orient ray "Breaks, sudden, thro' the darksome scene, "And heav'r regains its blue serene. "And soon the mild propitious pow'r, "That consecrates the evening hour, "Shall bend again her silver bow, "Again her softer day shall throw, "Smooth the dark brow of savage Kyle, "And grim Glendalloch teach to smile. "Now-Druids-hail the joyous light"Fear God-be bold-and do the right."

He ceas'd-their chorus sweet and strong, Roll'd its full stream of sainted song.

"O Fountain of our sacred fire, "To whom our kindred souls aspire, "(Struck from the vast chaotic dark, "As from these flints we strike the spark,) "Thou Lord of life, and light, and joy, "Great to preserve, but not destroy, "On us thy favour'd offspring shine, "Who know their God, must grow divine; "And when thy radiant course is done, "Thou shadow of another sun, "Shall fade into his brighter sky, “And time become eternity.”

But past, long past the DRUID reign; The CROSS o'ertopt the Pagan fane;→→→ To this remote asylum flew A Priesthood of another hue, More like the raven than the dove, Tho' murmuring much of faith and love.

A lazy sullen virtue slept O'er the dull lake-around it crept,

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The self-tormenting anchorite,
And shunn'd th' approach of cheerful light;
Yet darkly long'd to hoard a name,
And, in the cavern, grop'd for fame.

Where nature reign'd in solemn state, There Superstition chose her seat→→→ Her vot'ries knew with subtle art, Thro' wond'ring eyes to chain the heart, By terrors of the scene to draw, And tame the savage to their law; Then seat themselves on nature's throne, And make her mighty spell their own, The charming sorc'ry of the place, Gave miracle a local grace, And from the mountain top sublime, The genius of our changeful clime, A sort of pleasing panic threw, Which felt each passing phantom true.

We see the hooded fathers take, Their silent circuit round the lake, Silent, except a wailful song, Extorted by the leathern thong. Cronan, Cornloch, Lochann, Dogain, Superiors of th' obedient train, Envelop'd in their cowls, they move, And shun the God of light and love. Who leads the black procession on? St. Keivin's living skeleton; That travels thro' this vale of tears Beneath the yoke of six-score years. Sustains his steps a crozier wand, Extended stiff one wither'd hand, To which the blackbird flew distress'd, And found a kind protecting nest: There dropt her eggs, while outstretch'd stood

The hand-'till she had hatch'd her brood.

Hark, what a peal-sonorous, clear, Strikes, from yon tow'r the tingling ear! (No more of fire the worshipp'd tower, The holy water quench'd its power) And now from every floor, a bell Tolls Father Martin's funeral knell:

Who slipt his foot on holy ground,
And plung'd into the lake profound;
Or by a load of life oppress'd,
Sought refuge in its peaceful breast.

What, did not peace delighted dwell, A hermit of the mountain cell?

No-'twas a cage of iron rule, Of pride and selfishness the school, Of dark desires, and doubts profane, And harsh repentings, late but vain. To fast-to watch-to scourge to praiseThe golden legend of their days: To idolize a stick or bone And turn the bread of life to stone ; Till marr'd and mock'd by miracles, Great Nature from her laws rebels; And man becomes, by monkish art, A prodigy without a heart. No friend sincere, no smiling wife, The blessing and the balm of life; And knowledge, by a forg'd decree, Still stands an interdicted tree.

Majestic tree that proudly waves, Thy branching words thy letter leaves ; Whether with strength that time commands, An oak of ages-Homer-stands; Or Milton-high topt mountain pine, Aspiring to the light divine; Or laurel of perennial greenThe Shakespeare of the living scene; Whate'er thy form, in prose sublime, Or train'd by art, and prun'd by rhyme, All hail thou priest-forbidden tree! For God had bless'd and made thee free. God did the foodful blessing give, That man might eat of it, and live; But they who have usurp'd his throne, To keep his paradise their own; Have spread around a demon's breath, And nam'd thee Upas tree of death. Thy root is truth, thy stem is perver, And virtue thy consummate flow'r; Receive the circling nations vows, And the world's garland deck thy boughs.

From the bleak Scandinavian shore, The DANE his raven standard bore; It rose, amidst the whitening foam, Whene'er the robber hated home; And as he plough'd the wat'ry way, The raven seem'd to scent its prey, Stretching the gloomy om'nous wing, For all the carnage war would bring. "Twas HERE the christian savage stond, To seal his faith in flames and blood. The sword of midnight murder fell, On the calm sleepers of the cell.