valet who has lived in noble families, and has a tolerable memory, will see how easy a thing it is to become an author; and, by writing-if he has so far profited by the charity schools as to be able to write-and, if not,

by coaxing some accomplished housemaid to help him-his Reminiscences will earn him deathless glory, and a place, in the Temple of Fame, only inferior to that of Mr. Kelly.

THE DYING BARD TO HIS FRIEND.

DEAR R—, I'm going—I'm dished—it is plain,
And you'll never laugh with me or at ine again;
My cares are wound up, and my troubles are past,
My pills are all swallowed, my draughts are all taken,-
The doctors declare that this night is my last;

bacon.

So you see that there's nothing can now save my
I must start before sunrise, while others may snore,
Though I think early rising a damnable bore;
But in cases like this there's no cure for the evil,
So for once I shall try to be serious and civil.
One thing's most annoying-I know not the road
That's to lead me along to my final abode;
And vainly I've asked for the point where it lay,'
Oh! not one that I spoke to had e'er gone that way:
However, I'll see, as my course I pursue,

To keep some smooth Swaddlers or Saints in my view;
They'll show me the path to a hair, never doubt it-
They've studied the maps, and they know all about it.

I shall take a sly peep at the moon as I pass,
To see if it's made of green cheese or of brass;
Or try to make out that strange spring that still guides
The freaks of the brain, or the turn of the tides:
For all that they say about laws of attraction
Explains not the matter to my satisfaction.

To that wonderful chamber my course shall be bent,
Where the things that are lost upon earth hath been sent.
Oh! strange is that place! it would bother one's brains
To know what that mighty museum contains:
There rests in its nook Royal York's hot oration,
With each long address of each dull corporation ;
Granny Eldon's salt tears, and the promised Report
Of the frauds and the faults of the Chancery Court:
The wits of O'Connell, his taste and good breeding,
With the thrice-spoken speeches that tired us in reading;
The fat of Lord Manners-Tom Ellis's sense-
And Norbury's hatred of puns and of pence:
Will Cobbett's late writings-his early opinions-
And Sir Gregor McGregor's extended dominions;
The Dublin Society's genius and science,

With the honour and faith of the Holy Alliance.
All these in this marvellous chamber are thrown-
But to me there's much more in the moon to be shown:
I must ramble much farther, and mark with due care
The beautiful vales and the streams that are there;
Or talk with the natives, and get information
About this most singular fortification,

Which the erudite German declares, in a cross style,
Assumes an appearance that now is quite hostile.

Some think the thing serious-some deem it a jest-
But I'll sift it through, and soon set it at rest.

*

Then, leaving the moon, midst the comets I'll steer,
And pay my respects-if the heat lets me near:
I must pick out some small one before it sets sail,
And count all the hairs and the sparks in its tail.
You know how the learned, the great, and the small,
Are puzzled to find what these things are at all.
Some deem them old worlds, from use worn out,
That, to keep the sky aired, are sent burning about;

Some think them mere Wills-of-the-Wisp that have hovered
O'er marshes but lately in Saturn discovered;

While others declare they're young suns running mad,
Or hells sent afloat with the souls that are bad;
But I'll look to my notes, and transmit you a lecture
That soon shall demolish this heap of conjecture.

By the stars I shall pass; and be sure, when I'm there,
I'll find how they've stuck them so thick in the air;
And, though climbing's a thing that I'm rather afraid of,
I'll venture a little to try what they're made of.
Some say they're cods' eyes ordered up from the main,
That, when properly tainted, shed light from on high:
Some think them old moons brought to use back again,
And cut up in small pieces to garnish the sky.

Of this I can judge-but it's said they preside

O'er the fortunes of some, from the first to the last; From the birth to the tomb they still govern or guide,

Through the struggles of life-till these struggles are past.

I know not how true this old doctrine may be,

Such airy vagaries were never my care;

But the star that the knowing ones picked out for me
Was one of most villainous aspect, I'll swear.

In each mood and each motion it led me astray,
At least it's but seldom I went the right way.

*

Let your answer come soon, for the chances are many,
That, if not sent in haste, I shall never get any:
And, now that I'm leaving your world far behind me,
I'm sure I don't know where a letter may find me.
The address, and all that, I must leave to your care;
But, howe'er you direct it, just add an- elsewhere:
For like soldiers they shift in these regions, 'tis said—
At least they all say so who talk of the dead.
Ah! there's an advantage we papists have surely-
On a change of the scene we can reckon securely;

There's the hell of the fathers,' the hell of the damned,'
And the limbo,' where poor little children are crammed;
And others while you, a poor Protestant dunce,
Must pack up, and march to head-quarters at once.
Of the comforts of scorching your church has bereft you,
Not a choice or a chance of new lodgings is left
But my fingers now shrink from the task of inditing,
Farewell!-keep this letter-and don't forget writing.

you:

THE HERMIT IN IRELAND.-NO, VII.

A COMMON CASE.

'What's done we fairly may compute, But never what's resisted.'

Let us learn, then, to be indulgent in our mode of judging; let us be gentle in our censuring and not pronounce the final sentence of harshness until all the circumstances come clearly and unsuspiciously before us.

It is in this spirit that I should like strangers, particularly those residing at a distance, to decide upon the conduct and the character of my ill-treated and calumniated countrymen-I mean the Irish peasantry. This measure of simple equity has never been conceded to them: they have been, for years, the easy victims of misrepresentation-sufferers from partial exaggeration—and those who were sedulous in blazoning forth their excesses were at all times studious to conceal from the world the causes which produced such melancholy effects. Many of the wretched characters in question have, no doubt, committed serious offences; but some of these, though not easily justified, may be readily palliated. Glaring injustice, continued oppression, and bitter insult, will sometimes drive men of the best disposition to deeds of desperation. The peasantry of Ireland have had their wrongsthey have had their provocations; and, when we speak of their faults, let this be kept in remembrance.

dren of Frailty) feelingly expresses FRIENDLY Reader, I am one of it, those wayward creatures, who, disregarding the sneers of the heartless cynic, or the denunciations of the gloomy misanthrope, can venture, even in our own evil days, to think favourably of poor human nature. Of course, like all other prejudiced persons, I feel gratified by every thing that accords with my own peculiar notions; and, consequently, irritated by any thing to the contrary. An act of passing generosity, or a trait of simple philanthropy, affords me, at all times, a heartfelt delight; but a detected instance of treachery, cruelty, or selfishness, presses upon my spirits with weight peculiarly painful. Probably those who are the more immediate sufferers feel not more keenly on these occasions than I do. Such things come as a sort of withering blast over the hopes that I had been previously forming of mankind; they operate as the uprooters of longcherished predilections-amiable, it may be admitted, though probably grounded in weakness. Where in stances of depravity occur, I am in general eager to trace the details; and it gives me a melancholy sort of consolation when I can discover any circumstance that can arise in the shape of palliation, any feature that can serve as a mitigation, not of the punishment, but of the guilt incurred; something to show that the ill-fated criminal is not entirely lost to feeling, to shame, and to religion. I imagine there are few cases of this kind, in which some such redeeming feature may not be found; and this should teach all of us, if possible, to avoid hasty and indiscriminate condemnation. When we hear of men who stand charged with great and glaring transgressions, let us pause before we make them out as wretches abandoned by Heaven, and lost to every hope of amendment. We know not the motives, the secret spring of action, we saw not the struggles that may have agitated the spirit of the culprit. As the poet (and he was himself one of the chil

The little history which follows was gathered during a late ramble. The case of the sufferer is a melancholy, but, I am afraid, a common one.

*

In the entire barony of Monabeg there was not, for many years, a man who was more lamented at his death than Charley Russell-one who was better spoken of at his wake, or whose funeral was more numerously attended. He was born in the barony. Through the course of a long life he had conducted himself with fairness and respectability; and, though for some years past he