that period art had not lent her assistance to render this spot so pre-eminently beautiful; the first impression received now at the sight of it is enchanting, but its wildness must then have attracted attention. The wanderer, who directed thither his footsteps, would probably have frighted from its resting-place some inhabitant of the air, or driven from its cover in the long grass the timid leveret. The woods then sheltered it as now, and the Thames glided past it as it has done for centuries, and the oaks reared their heads in all the freshness of youth; while in lieu of the shrub and the flower, the tangled bramble and the dark weed grew in all the wild luxuriance of uncultivated nature.

From a cavity in the hill, almost concealed by briars, a small spring bubbled forth, and after struggling with some stones which chance had thrown in its way, descended the bank rather rapidly, and mingled with the river. It requires no very strong effort of the imagination to picture forth the only event (most probably) of any importance which ever took place here. The noble and spirit-broken Shrewsbury meeting his antagonist with the fortitude of one who cared not for life, and feared not death; the lovely but guilty countess standing a willing spectator, and the gay reckless Villiers, who came to meet the probability of death, as one who neither hoped for nor feared an eternity-the clashing of swords, the gushing of blood, the shriek of the affrighted woman, and the expiring groans of the victim of her crimes, may be more easily imagined than described: but few now, while they admire the beauty of the place, ever think of the blood that stained the spring at Clifden. BEPPO.

ON KEEPING HIGH COMPANY.

Few errors are more common than a thought
That the gay butterny effulgence which
Adorns the great may be brush'd off and caught

By every clown whom Fortune haps to pitch
Against them; they, like moths, are dimm'd by such
Contact, but none grow brighter from the touch.

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RECOLLECTIONS OF MATURIN.

I HAVE a passion for cathedrals, abbeys, old Gothic ruins, and the round towers of Ireland; and if, as Hazlitt says, there is nothing in heaven or earth but poetry, that fire and water, wood and stone, are all poetry, the very higher order of the art is, to my imagination, a fine old cathedral, such as my favourite St. Patrick's;

whose branching roof

Self-poised, and scoped into ten thousand cells Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering and wandering on as loth to die,

Like thoughts, whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality!

Independently of the grandeur and beauty of this fine Gothic building, its nave, its aisles, and its monuments, it possesses the honourable distinction of being the church of Swift; the library attached to it was his favourite resort, and Swift's corner' is the name of a recess in a remote part of the room. From the window of this classic spot may be seen an interesting view of the cathedral. The library was founded by Primate Marsh, for the use of the good citizens of Dublin. It contains some curious books and manuscripts, and is the depository of a part of the collections of Stillingfleet and Stearne.

Old libraries afford a species of pleasure peculiar to themselves. In treading the boards of the Bodleian, you imagine you are not the person that an hour before lounged in High Street-you breathe a different atmosphere, and allow your imagination to run riot and revel in literary luxury. You sit where Milton sat, and open the volume he was wont to read. A stillness is preserved in the place, as if you feared to disturb the spirits of the past ages who repose in its recesses. Busts of illustrious members occupy each side of the room, placed on pedestals of marble. They are the tutelary guardians of the hallowed place,-the very household gods of the university. A bust, in my mind,

possesses a vast superiority (no matter how originating, as I am not now in a mood for dissertation, suppose it were from the palpable fulness with which it meets, and satisfies the eye and the touch,) over the finest portrait; a superiority which amply atones for the want of colour. Chantry's Scott is an illustration in point,this noble work being as superior to Raeburn's picture, as the living original is to inanimate marble.

It was at Marsh's library I first saw Maturin. He was reading near Swift's window, his countenance betraying an expression of melancholy that was distressing to look upon; but now and then a change-a fitful change, like the alternate gleaming and darkness of the conflicting passions of his own heroes-spread its transient lustre over his face; his looks brightened up into a tearful April sun-shine, his eyes beamed with that light which could only be quenched by death; and the poor curate became, for a few moments, the poet of Bertram and of Eva. He soon again relapsed into that habitual gloom which was too deep and settled to be ever completely dispelled. Genius in repose, and genius in action, appear as dissimilar as light and shade. Look at M**** hastening through Bond Street, and who could recognize what Sheridan compared to a particle of fire separated from the sun, ever fluttering to get back to the source of light and heat!'

The story of Maturin is as romantic as some of his own fictions. He loved in boy-hood, and was wedded to his first-love. He entered the university at fifteen, and obtained college-honours and a scholarship, and was distinguished for his eloquence in the historical society, at that period the nursery of Irish talent. From real affluence and luxury his family was suddenly reduced to absolute poverty, and young Maturin became tutor to a few college students, who attended him daily at his house. At this time he was curate of St. Peter's, and, besides his other struggling exertions, was of course obliged to devote himself to the arduous duties which belonged to that humble situation. He fulfilled the trust reposed in him, and his memory will

ever be held in honour in this country. It is, after all, a disheartening reflection, that, with the exception of a very few instances on record, that are very remarkable for their very singularity, the vast debt which the world owes to its greatest and best benefactors,-the men of genius who have illumined, delighted, and adorned it,

should be paid in the cold and profitless oblations of posthumous renown. This sort of tribute, good for nothing but testifying the unavailing reverence, the tardy regret of the survivors, must be gathered in mere anticipation, by the living philosopher and poet, whose mental second-sight may reveal the orient glory beginning to tinge the horizon in the distance, but it also descries the death-shroud wrapped and wreathed about his own spectral form, interposed between the seer and his visionary triumph. The prophet must perish before that glory is realised. These, however, are the hard conditions, generally speaking, on which genius is content to pursue its own proud and solitary walk, through this dark and selfish world, towards the home of its rest, and the pure and eternal fountains of its inspiration. For the present, my recollections have borrowed a sad and sober colouring from the subject on which they have fallen, not very analagous to the buoyant spirit in which they set out at the commencement. They are however not unlike a section of human existence itself-beginning in reckless gaiety and infantine frolic, and ending in bitter tears and withered hopes, with a dreary waste spread out before it. Dublin, Nov. 1829.

J. S.

EXTRACTS FROM THE COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF A LITERARY LOUNGER.-NO. XI.

FORENSIC WIT.

THE Irish law courts, even since the retirement of Lord Norbury, are more frequently the scene of mirth than ours. It is no wonder that the theatre is neglected, since broad farce is so frequently enacted in the halls of justice. Now and then, however, Irish judges and

lawyers perpetrate a good pun. The other day, Mr., Bunn, the proprietor of the theatre royal, was brought into court for refusing to pay an actress her full salary for her services during Lent. Was the house closed?' asked the judge. Yes, my lord,' replied Mr. O'Connell, the manager made the doors fast during passion week.'

Old Bailey wit is seldom as good as this. The other day a man was tried in the New Court for stealing a pair of boots from a shop-door in the Strand. 'What did he say when caught?' asked Mr. Phillips. That he took them merely out of a joke,' replied the prosecutor. And pray how far did he carry the joke?' queried the counsel. About forty yards,' answered the witness.

MOTTOES FOR SUN DIALS.

MORNING SUN.-Tempus volat.

Oh! early passenger, look up-be wise,
And think how, night and day, Time onward flies.
NOON.-Dum tempus habemus, operemur bonum.
Life steals away-this hour, oh man, is lent thee,
Patient to work the work of Him who sent thee.'
SETTING SUN.-Redibo, tu nunquam.
Haste, traveller, the sun is sinking now;
He shall return again-but never thou!

CHRISTMAS DAY.

According to some authors, the festival of Christmas was first established by Pope Julius in 336, in opposition to the idolatrous worship which the heathens paid to the reviving sun, Sol novus; and Saint Augustin exhorts the faithful to celebrate this holy day, not as the Pagans did, in honour of the sun, but to the glory of Him who created this splendid luminary.

DEFINITION OF A DENTIST.

The following is the only epigram furnished by the whole of the Annuals for 1830. It appears in The Gem,' and is a translation from the French :

A dentist, love, makes teeth of bone,

For those whom fate has left without;

And finds provision for his own,

By pulling other people's out.'

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