The Trekschuyt stopped at Delft, and proceeded no further. So here I rested, and feeling somewhat "peckish," proceeded to a house of entertainment, near where I landed. Knowing not a word of Dutch, and Dutch people in the interior knowing nothing of English or French, - unfortunately, the only modern languages I knew, I was under the necessity of acting upon the advice given me by a Rotterdam friend, of uttering the one word, "Bootram," which, he said, would at once bring forth a store of meat and drink in any house throughout Holland. So, entering a publichouse, I pronounced the potent word, and immediately proved its power. It was a kind of " open sesame. The landlady understood it on the instant ; but she rejoined by a jabber of unintelligible talk, at which I could only stare. She was a loquacious, hard-featured, wiry-haired, clock-case sort of woman, -well gone in years. I only looked, and again said, "Bootram." She moved off; but speedily returned again, somewhat piqued at my having given her no answer. She uttered some more Dutch, the purport of which I understood to be-whether I would have "Fleisch-bootram, fische-bootram, or caasbootram?" This was not bad English,-something like broad Scotch or broad Yorkshire; I said "Caasbootram." The landlady nodded; and in two minutes returned with the "bootram," the first I had seen. It consisted of thin slices of white and brown bread and butter, with layers of scraped or grated cheese between and I commend the extempore repast for its richness, its nourishment, and its cheapness. I afterwards partook of all the other kinds of "bootram," and gave the decided preference to the "Fischebootram," which consists of the usual thin slices of bread and butter, with lots of thin slices from the flesh of smoked eels. I have rarely tasted anything more delicate than this "bootram."

I had still a few hours to spare at Delft before the Trekschuyt left for Leyden, so I went out to see the wonders of the place. But I found only an old-fashioned, stagnant, decaying town, its streets and canal-wharves grown over with grass and weeds. It was the opulent, industrious, busy, courtly Delft no longer. Its thoroughfares are now empty, and its quays deserted; and little Dutch boys are idly pitching stones into the canal, watching the bubbles rise as they reach the mud at the bottom, where once merchantmen loaded and unloaded before the great warehouses of the East India Company, now looming in their empty greatness along the main quay.

Delft was once the great centre of the pottery manufacture of Europe, and gave the name of Delf or Delft ware to articles of that kind, which were principally produced there. But England has almost entirely supplanted Delft in this branch of manufacture, and I suppose that now the shops of Delft themselves are supplied mainly from Staffordshire. Only a coarse kind of brown ware is now produced here, which still finds its way to various parts of Holland. One thing still to be admired at Delft, is the rows of fine lime-trees along the canals, which throw a dense green shade over the deserted quays. Besides the old warehouses of the East India Company above mentioned, now used as the State Arsenal of Holland, Delft contains many stately old mansions, formerly the residences of great mer

chants of the place, but now tenanted by much meaner people. A very interesting place, in a line with the old India House, is the old palace, or Prinsenhof, of William I., Prince of Orange, in which he was assassinated. It is a plain brick building within a courtyard, and is at present used as a barrack for soldiers. The spot where the murder of the Prince took place, within a lobby at the foot of a flight of steps, is still pointed out by an assiduous female cicerone (who very much resembles the same class everywhere), and the marks of the balls, not improbably improved by art, are shown upon the adjoining walls. An inscription on stone, let into the wall above the holes, records the event in Dutch. In the New Church, not far off, is erected the handsome monument to the murdered Prince,-considered to be the finest object of monumental art in Holland. Next to it is the monument of the philosopher Grotius, who, when living, was consigned by the Dutch to a prison; but after death, his memory was thought worthy of being commemorated in a handsome monument. Such is often the world's recompense of the thinker: in life, ignominy-at death, a cenotaph!

The Oude Kerk, or Old Church, contains the monument of the famous Dutch Admiral Van Tromp, -he who swept the English seas with a broom at his mast-head,-who vanquished Blake in the Downs, in 1652, and sailed up the Thames in pursuit of the flying English ships,-who burnt one of our ships at Spithead, and for many years was the terror of the English coasts,--but who was finally vanquished by Admiral Blake, in an engagement off the Dutch coast, in which the Dutch warrior fell, crying,— "Courage, my boys! my course is ended with glory." The old hero was borne to land, and was here buried with all the honours his country could bestow upon his ashes; and his memory is still cherished by the people, as the conqueror in upwards of thirty naval engagements, and as one of the greatest heroes that Holland has ever produced. A monument to Lewenhoek, the eminent naturalist, -a man of quieter pursuits,-less known, but highly cherished by a few, also stands in the same church, not far removed from the tomb of the great naval hero.

A pleasant run of two hours in the Trekschuyt, through a rich, flat district, presenting the same features as I have above described,-country houses, villages, windmills, gardens, green pastures, and canals spanned by bridges, stretching in all directions,

brought us within sight of Leyden, with its tall spires, standing black against the setting sun; and soon after, the boat-load of passengers was landed on the grassy banks of the canal, immediately outside one of the ancient gates of that venerable city.

HEART BREATHINGS.

THERE is a great charm in the revelations of the inner life. It is a charm, though, which derives its freshness from the reflections it affords us of ourselves, not from anything novel it can tell of others. The man who bares his bosom to the world, can only reveal scars which others carry with them, and which they are either too timid or too sensible to show; he may be a hero, inspiring young warriors by showing them the traces of old conflicts; or a beggar exhibiting his wounds for gain. The interest is that on which the honour of the revelation stands; and in large and small poets, as well as in sturdy veterans and cheating beggars, it is the motive which sanctions or desecrates the action. It is not for the public, much less the journalist, to pry too searchingly into

the private heart: but when the private heart is exposed to public view, and all its sins and failings, as well as its virtues, made evident, it is for the public to condemn if they see fit, and for the journalist to upbraid if he deems it necessary.

Such thoughts are suggested by several little books of verses lying before us, from which we take two.* Poems, by Henry Hogg, is a modest book. The inner life of Mr. Hogg flows in a healthy stream, and he has none of the tricks of the stage-lover to enlist the reader's sympathy. Though not highly polished, nor full, his earnestness and goodness of sentiment are refreshing. The "Prologue" bespeaks the chastity of his muse:

I would that I could love thee more,
And loving more grow like to thee!
As star to star on heaven's shore,
As wave to wave upon the sea.

And walking in the shadowy woods,
All lofty thoughts thy mind employ;
And thy dark eyes, like April buds,

Rain down rich tears of silent joy.

I brought thee there the orchis wild,
Speedwell and fair anemone;

From solemn shades, where, like a child,
The ivy clasps the towering tree.

I would that I could love thee more,
And so reflect thy image, sweet
As skies upon the lake, before

The greensward sloping at our feet.

And yet I know that my wild lay,

Is harsher than from thy heart springs;
Thy golden thoughts that float away,
Upborne upon diviner wings.

And like the wind among the trees,

That shakes, and sighs, and dies ere long;
So are my lays: yet take thou these
As pledges of a nobler song.

Mr. Hogg succeeds best in narrative poetry. There are several tales in this volume which would do credit to books of higher pretensions. The story of "Ellen," is especially touching it is like some of the domestic tales of Gilbert Earle,-full of home truth and plaintive beauty. This passage-where Ellen, waiting for the return of her lover, gains hope of his arrival from every change of the seasons,--is quietly delicate :

And so by steadfast hope, and long desire;
By cycles of the moon, and change of stars;
By death of flowers and shortening of days,
She watched the autumn coming round again.
The early autumn with its calm blue skies;
The dew-wrapt autumn, with its misty dawns;
Its lingering sunsets, and bright harvest moons,
And reapers reaping in the golden fields.

Sad and slow

She traced her steps unto her chamber: then
In heaviness of sorrow stood and gazed,
By the half-open window on the lake:
Down from her eyelids stole large crystal tears,
That might have fallen off the lily leaves

When in the morn the wind shakes out the dew.

The lover's return, the happy union and the quiet country house, are drawn with a fidelity to nature which does honour to the heart of the author; and there are few passages, even in works of greater endeavour, which excel the brief and pious description of Walter's death :-

The classical fragment called Orpheus, suggests the author's capacity for more than he has accomplished here, and recalls to our memory Mr. Reade's fine poem of Arethusa; The Complaint, a Tennysonian fragment, in which the age of chivalry is contrasted with the age of thought, deserves more praise for its intention than its excellence; but the Sea Kings, Arthur, and the Last Dream, are each of them poetical, and fitly associated with smaller poems of much merit. We congratulate Mr. Hogg on the healthiness of his muse, and the high aims which these revelations of his inner life suggest in reference to himself.

Firstlings, by William Whitworth, is also a healthy book, though of less literary merit than the preceding. Mr. Whitworth is evidently an observer of the world,-a watcher of events,-and he lifts up his voice for the progress of the people. Political rather than sentimental, the verses here presented breathe the aspirations of an ardent soul cleaving to the good and true. It is a small voice that speaks, and though neither of sufficient volume nor sufficient force to rouse up the trampled nations of Europe to a mutual struggle for liberty, it is none the less creditable to a heart which beats honestly and for noble aims. His idea of the muse's task is set forth in this dedication to Joseph Dare

To tune the pulsings of the strong swart age,
And twine fresh garlands round his iron limbs;
To breathe into his spirit noble hymns,
And soothe with gentle words his whirl and rage:

To wed the Heroic and the Beautiful

Of the far ages with To-day's stern tasks;
And clothe with ideal charms and pleasant masks
The facts of common life so bare and dull:
This is the service poet-souls should share;
This is the toil that richest guerdon reaps;
For this the glorious heights and tragic deeps
Send forth an echoing cry that fills the air.

The bard's all-hallowing lyre I may not scize,
Nor dwell with him the cold world's reach beyond;
I may not to the sovereign voice respond,
With these imperfect, broken utterances.

Yet still, good friend, I do my best right fain, And full of trust as hope and youth allied; And, offering thee these Firstlings, I confide That what thou well approv'st will not be all in vain. Some of the breathings of Mr. Whitworth's lyre, are scarcely as musical as criticism demands, and some serious faults of rhyme and metre glare out upon us in more places than one. We like the tone of thought, however, which prompts such lines as those of The Epoch of Revolution, wherein the harp rings out a bold music to a nervous sweep of the fingers. We extract a passage from a short piece called The Ending Scene: it will furnish the reader with materials for thought :

The inward moulds the outward; thoughts shape deeds;
'Tis the free soul unyokes the fettered throng.
And aye, 'tis inward slavery that breeds

All outward forms of tyranny and wrong.
Shake off that worst yoke: in thyself be strong,
And o'er thee shall no power prevail. Subdue
Base passions, menial thoughts: far from thee flung
Be aught mean or unmanly. To the view
Of men, sincere, as to thyself thou art,
Stand forth a true exemplar of the better part.

Look in thyself for guidance, and through all
Cares, crosses, changes,-ordeals that test
True spirits,-through whatever may befal,
With one clear purpose in thy life confest,
Hold by thyself! Let all thy deeds attest

Thy truth of heart. O, steadfast as a star
Above the vain world's reach; shrined in thy breast
Be what thou feelest true. All brave and bear
For that; with courage naught may daunt or tempt,
So shall thou walk erect, from life's chief ills exempt.

On

THE "HERD OF IMITATORS." LOOK at the multitude of books which issue from the press, and ask-How many of these contain an original idea, promulgate a discovery, or enlarge the boundaries of knowledge? Not one in a thousand! Books are principally made up of commentaries upon other books; and they do not so much tell us new things, as relate the old in some new style. The highest literary ability is employed in criticising the books written by others, in making commentaries upon them, in recompiling them anew, and in arranging them in new forms. How many literary men has the single collection of Shakspere's Plays thus employed! We have still glossaries, commen. taries, criticisms, and reviews of Shakspere's Plays, as if they had been written only yesterday. And this one subject is still full of work for generations of literary men to come. The chief art of the litterateur consists in telling in a clever manner, and in setting in a new light, ideas and facts which have been long before known. The most favourite writers are not those who put forth new ideas. At first, the original writer is shunned as a dangerous man. He is not understood; he is suspected; he is often hooted. But when the literary mind has become familiar with his ideas, when they have ceased to be new, then are they quoted in other books, and their author's name is cited in margins and foot-notes. Then do many writers lard their lean books with the fat of the old author's works; and then does the old author's soul migrate from book to book, endowed as it were with an almost undying spirit, which vibrates through the literature of all time. Not many are so honest as old Montaigne was, who said,-"The places and books which I see again, always give me a fresh novelty; we make them our own." reading a book, a poem, a play, how often do you fall upon a borrowed thought, a purloined phrase, an appropriated sentiment; but you do not feel disposed to cry stop thief," because it is the way of all bookmen. They appropriate; and yet they insist upon copyright. If they could only secure a copyright in what was their own,-if all their borrowed ideas and quotations were taken away, how many books, in any generation, would be entitled to a copyright? Voltaire once wrote to D'Alembert, — "Here has the President de Brosses been making a book, in which that which he has stolen is good enough, but that which is his own is detestable." And yet the President would, like other men, take his stand upon his copyright. What books have been written out of and upon Plutarch's Lives! What disquisitions upon Homer, and translations of his Iliad! Books upon books. Upon a few books, whole libraries have been written. Thousands upon thousands of books have been written upon The BookBiblion-Bible. Erasmus wrote a commentary upon Ovid's Elegy on a Walnut Tree. Rabelais composed many treatises on Hippocrates' and Galen's writings. Johnson's books and essays were nearly all about other books and essays. Macaulay's most brilliant writings are on the subjects suggested by other books. There are some single pages of books which have formed the subject of dissertations over and over again, and furnished matter for many volumes of books. And these authors,-what a fuss the world makes about them, alive and dead! Cities quarrel for the honour of having given birth to them. Basle and Rotterdam both derive a glory from the fame of Erasmus. Stratford-on-Avon and Eastcheap have known Shakspere. Lichfield glories in having given birth to Johnson. Intimately associated in our minds are Ferney and Voltaire, Vaucluse and Petrarch, Lake Leman and Byron, Wartzburg and

Luther, Abbotsford and Scott, Weimar and Goethe. Why all this regard for literature? Because it represents the wit, the learning, the intelligence, and the wisdom of our race. The literature of every age is but the index and measure of its civilization.

FOOD OF THE ANCIENTS.

THE diversity of substances which we find in the catalogue of articles of food, is as great as the variety with which the art or the science of cookery prepares them; the notions of the ancients on this most important subject are worthy of remark. Their taste regarding meat was various. Beef they considered the most substantial food; hence it constituted the chief nourishment of their athlete. Camels' and dromedaries' flesh was much esteemed, their heels more especially. Donkey-flesh was in high repute; Mæcenas, according to Pliny, delighted in it; and the wild ass, brought from Africa, was compared to venison. In more modern times we find Chancellor Dupret having asses fattened for his table. The hog and the wild boar appear to have been held in great estimation. Their mode of killing swine was as refined in barbarity as in epicurism. Plutarch tells us that the gravid sow was actually trampled to death, to form a delicious mass fit for the gods. At other times, pigs were slaughtered with red-hot spits, that the blood might not be lost; stuffing a pig with assafoetida and various small animals, was a luxury called "porcus Trojanus;" alluding, no doubt, to the warriors who were concealed in the Trojan horse. Young bears, dogs, and foxes, (the latter more esteemed when fed upon grapes,) were also much admired by the Romans; who were also so fond of various birds, that some consular families assumed the names of those they most esteemed. Catius tells us how to drown fowls in Falernian wine, to render them more luscious and tender. Pheasants were brought over from Colchis, and deemed at one time such a rarity, that one of the Ptolemies bitterly lamented his having never tasted any. Peacocks were carefully reared in the island of Samos, and sold at such a high price, that Varro informs us they fetched yearly upwards of 2000l. of our money. The guinea fowl was considered delicious; but, wretched people! the Romans knew not the turkey, a gift which we moderns owe to the Jesuits. could vilify the disciples of Loyola after this infor mation! The ostrich was much relished; Heliogabalus delighted in their brains, and Apicius especially commends them. The modern gastronome is perhaps not aware that it is to the ancients he owes his delicious fattened duck and goose-livers,--the inestimable foies gras of France. The swan was also fattened by the Romans, who first deprived it of sight; and cranes were by no means despised by people of taste. While the feathered creation was doomed to form part of ancient delights, the waters yielded their share of enjoyments, and several fishes were immortalized. The murana Helena was educated in their ponds, and rendered so tame that he came to be killed at the tinkling of his master's bell or the sound of his voice. Hirtius ceded six thousand of these fish to Cæsar as a great favour, and Vitellius delighted in their roe. The fame of the lamprey, or the mustela of Ausonius and Pliny, is generally known; and the sturgeon, the acipenser sturio, was brought to table with triumphant pomp: but the turbot, one of which was brought to Domitian from Ancona, was considered such a present from the gods, that this emperor assembled the senate to admire it. Soles were also so delectable, that, punning on the word solea, they were called the soles of the gods: the dorad, sparus auratus, was consecrated to Venus;

Who

the labrus scarus was called the brain of Jupiter, and Apuleius and Epicharmus maintain that its very entrails would be relished in Olympus. The garum,

or celebrated fish-sauce of the Romans, was principally made out of the sciana umbra and the mackerel; the entrails and blood being macerated in brine until they became putrid. Galen affirms that this disgusting preparation was so precious, that a measure of about three of our pints fetched two thousand silver pieces. So delightful was the effluvium of the garum considered, that Martial informs us it was carried about in onyx smelling. bottles. But our luxurious civic chiefs are not aware that the red mullet-for such I believe was the mullus -was held in such a distinguished category among genteel fishes, that three of them, although of small size, were known to fetch upwards of 2001. They were more appreciated when brought alive, and gradually allowed to die, immersed in the delicious garum; when the Romans feasted their eyes in the anticipated delight of eating them, by gazing on the dying creature as he changed colour like an expiring dolphin. Snails were also a great dainty. Fulvius Herpinus was immortalized for the discovery of the art of fattening them on bran and other articles; and Horace informs us they were served up, broiled upon silver gridirons, to give a relish to wine. Oysters were brought from our coast to Rome: and frozen oysters were much extolled. Grasshoppers, locusts, and various insects, were equally acceptable to our first gastronomic legislators. Acorns, similar to those now eaten in Spain, formed part of a Roman dessert; the best were brought from Naples and Tarentum. It does not appear that the ancients had a great variety in their vegetable diet; condiments to stimulate the sluggish appetite seemed to be their principal research.-Dr. Millingen.

SCIENTIFIC AND POETIC FAME.

The fame which attends either past or present scientific discoverers is of a totally different kind from that which surrounds genuine poets and literary

men.

The public interest lies in the discoveries or inventions themselves, as things for knowledge and use; but the men who made them are not in uniform admiration associated with them. Are gunpowder, the telescope, the steam-engine, the electric telegraph, the planetary system, and the earth's formation, associated with those who discovered or invented them in the same invariable, unforgetful, and impassioned manner as Hamlet, Paradise Lost, &c. &c. are with their respective authors? Poetry is far more than science a thing of humanity and for humanity, and its prerogative is to connect in an immortality of admiration and love the poem with the poet; scientific genius does not lay hold of a man's complete individuality, it does not absorb his identity along with all the characteristics of his nature and the associations of his life; but poetic genius does, and receives into its own constitution the whole being of the man, to act upon all his readers. Besides, the poet, from the very nature of his office, touches humanity at all points, whereas the scientific man only addresses the understanding. Let it not be imagined, however, that in our comparisons we set small poets and litterateurs against men eminent for science. We have seen this done on the other side, when flashy and frothy contributors to literary journals were estimated alongside of Newton, Cuvier, Buckland, &c. We might as fairly put science-retailers and geological stonebreakers for schools against Shakspere, Milton, Byron, and Wordsworth. Let the small be set against the small, and the great against the great, and poetry at once carries off the palm from science.-Eclectic Review.

WHETHER AND WHITHER.
WHETHER, with toil-drops sodden,

In reeking dens to burrow like the slave,-
Endlessly one path trodden

Toward the rank, anticipated grave;

Still labouring, still needy,

And all the heart's impulses harshly driven,
Ever to one task, greedy

That bread-to-morrow's bread-be barely given,
Or, in a stalwart vessel

To follow in the track of mighty seas,
Awhile with storms to wrestle,

In sunshine bask, or freshen in the breeze,
Till gained the promised haven,

Where willing plenty blooms without a bound,
God's blessing humbly craven,

There plant the vine, and till the grateful ground. "Skilless, and all unready,"

The Sceptic cries, "to such a work art thou;
Puny thy limbs, nor steady

Thy thewless arm to guide the arrowed plough:
The sallow child of cities,

What canst thou know of grain, of tree, or soil ?
The heart that truly pities

Would lead thee back to thy accustomed toil."

66

Courage and Hope shall serve us

To imitate the farmer's healthful lore,
And Independence nerve us

To efforts sterner, nobler than before.
He whom rude health rejoices

A double task may gladly, safely dare;
Cheered by our children's voices,

What hand would flinch, what heart would know despair?"

Whither, then, hope relying,

On many wings shall we our vessel guide?
Canadian frosts defying,

Or where Columbia exalts her pride?
Where golden grains lie bedded

In parched Australia's rocks and sullen sand?
Or where, with waters threaded,

New Zealand blossoms like a charmed land?

Whether-grow old dependent,

And leave our children heirs to misery,
Or, honest pride ascendant,

On some far shore to plant the household tree?
Whither-across the waters,

With quenchless hearts, and hope-inspired eyes,
Brave sons and blooming daughters!
Whither to bid our new, our honest homestead
rise?

WILLIAM DUTHIE.

REMEMBER HOME.

Some men devote themselves so exclusively to their business as to almost entirely neglect their domestic and social relations. A gentleman of this class having failed, was asked what he intended to do? "I am going home to get acquainted with my wife and children," said he.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

IRISH SONGS.

Those songs whose every tone,

When bard and minstrel long have past, Shall still in sweetness all their own, Embalmed by fame undying last.

MOORE.

IRELAND, like Scotland, is rich in native music, and it is unmistakeably national and characteristic; you could not, by any possibility, confound a Swiss or a French national air with an Irish one; neither could you mistake an Irish air for a Scotch one, though some airs are common to both countries. But take such an air as "Coolun," for instance, or 66 Cruiskin Lan," or even such as "Boyne Water," or "Garry Owen," the types of a multitude of Irish airs of similar character, and you will at once admit the strongly marked character and nationality of Irish music.

There is one remarkable feature in the Irish national music, seemingly as much at variance with the character of the Irish people as the passionate, loving, humorous, and often frisky songs of the Scotch, are seemingly at variance with the Scotch character,we mean the pervading tone of melancholy, amounting often to despair, which characterises Irish songs and music. The Irishman is popularly held to be a rollicking, witty, impulsive, mobile, many-sided being, but if we are to regard the songs of a people-the songs that are sung round the hearth, by mothers to their children, by young men and maidens, by old men and bards-as the true expression of that people's feelings, then it would seem that deep mournfulness and sorrow were at the root of the apparently happy and light-hearted Irish character, and that the humour and fun of the Irishman were but his surface expression, put on as if to conceal the sadness and mournfulness which lie at the bottom of his nature.

But the meaning of this is easily understood; we have the key to it in Irish history. Irish music only echoes the sufferings of Ireland's people; it tells the tale of their wrongs, of their defeats, and of their sorrows; it is a voice of wailing and of woe resounding from the past, and, alas! it is also but too characteristic of Ireland's present state. How could Irish music be mirthful when her people have had so much cause for sadness? How could Irish song be triumphant when it echoes but the wailings of defeat? Ireland has had no victories, at least for

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herself; she has often conquered in foreign battlefields, but it has been for England or for France. On Irish soil the Irish have almost invariably suffered; they have been invaded, conquered, and dispossessed, the agonies of their invasion having been prolonged through many centuries. If they rebelled, they were crushed; if they took up arms for a favourite English king, as they did for James II., it was only to be defeated. Struggles never brought fame or glory to Ireland, but only completer ruin and deeper sorrow. The Irish clung by their soil, by the "dear green land" which they loved; but the conquerors, though comparatively few in number, were too strong for them, and the Irish were again and again dispossessed, banished, and hunted from their native places.

Thus Irish history is but a dismal record of sorrows, of lamentations, and of defeats; and thus Irish song, which has been born of the popular life and experience, is but their echo and their voice. The bards and minstrels, and after them the Irish harpers and pipers, wandered from house to house among the people, keeping alive the memory of their wrongs; they celebrated the glory of their patriots, the valour of their chiefs, the beauty of their women, and the glory of olden times. These bards cherished the patriotic spirit of the people, and in consequence rendered themselves obnoxious to the then constituted authorities-the Anglo-Norman parliaments of the conquerors. By the statutes of Kilkenny it was even made penal to entertain any Irish bard, minstrel, or story-teller, "who perverted the imagination by romantic tales." But no laws could put down the native Irish music, which continued, with their native language, to which it was wedded, to be the joy, the hope, and the consolation of the Irish people.

There are many beautiful lively airs to be found among the Irish melodies, but even in these you almost invariably find that a sudden note of sorrow projects itself,-as, for instance, in the beautifully simple and lively air of "Nora Creina,"-a melancholy chord, which, like the forlorn note of the nightingale occurring in the midst of its exulting burst of music, hastily brings back gloomy feelings, and dashes the exalting thoughts to earth again. These snatches of sorrow in the midst of Irish airs remind us of Moore's song, in which he speaks of the

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes.