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me with their number and their strength. Ten volumes a day would not have contained them! Where was the time to write them on my arrival I thought of nothing but a good dinner; and at my departure, of nothing but a good walk. I felt that a new paradise awaited me at the door, and I hastened to enjoy it.”

The eloquent Rousseau ! And this is not mere eloquence; it is truth, a matter of fact, I know it. I! And who am I? Not one indeed who can share the transports of his imagination, but an humble plodding man, a common-place fellow, who had the foresight to carry with him pens and paper, and the wilful industry to write a sketch of all he saw and all he felt. Ah! how unlike Rousseau !

The poet Keats walked in the Highlands, not with the joyousness, the rapture of the young Rousseau, but in that hallowed pleasure of the soul, which, in its fulness, is akin to pain. The following extract of a poem, not published in his works, proves bis intensity of feeling. even to the dread of madness. It was written while on his journey, soon after his pilgrimage to the birth-place of Burns, not for the gaze of the world, but as a record for himself of the temper of his mind at the time. It is a sure index to the more serious traits in his character: but Keats, neither in writing nor in speaking, could affect a sentiment,—his gentle spirit knew not how to counterfeit. I leave it, with-· out comment on its beauties, to the reader, and to his melancholy, as he thinks upon so young a poet dying of a broken heart.

There is a charm in footing slow

Across a silent plain,
Where patriot battle has been fought,

Where glory had the gain :
There is a pleasure on the heath,

Where Druids old have been,
Where mantles gray have rustled by,

And swept the nettles green:
There is a joy in every spot,

Made known in days of old,
New to the feet, although each tale

A hundred times be told.
Ay, if a madman could have leave

To pass a healthful day,
To tell his forehead's swoon and faint,

When first began decay.
One hour half idiot he stands

By mossy water-fall,
But in the very next he reads

His soul's memorial.
He reads it on the mountain's height,

Where chance he may sit down
Upon rough marble diadem-

That hill's eternal crown!
Yet be his anchor e'er so fast,

Room is there for a prayer,
That man may never lose his mind

On mountains black and bare :
That he may stray, league after league,

Some great birth-place to find,
And keep his vision clear from speck,
His inward sight unblind!



Translated from the original Spanish, printed at Buenos Ayres, 1818.

'Tis the voice of a Nation waking

From her long, long sleep, to be frec-
'Tis the sound of the fetters breaking

At the watchword “Liberty!"
The laurel-leaves hang o'er her,

The gallant victor's prize:
And see how low before her,
In the dust, the lion lies!
Chorus.--Eternal glory crown us !

Eternal laurels bloom,
To deck our heads with honour,

Or flourish o'er our tomb.
On the steps of the heroes treading

See the god of the fight at hand!
The light of his glory shedding

On his own devoted band.
Our Incas tombs before ye

Upheave to meet your tread,
As if that tramp of glory
Had roused the sleeping dead.

Chorus.-Eternal, &c.
Saw ye the Tyrant shedding

The blood of the pure and free?
Heard ye his footstep treading

On thy golden sands, Potose ?
Saw ye his red eye watching

As the ravenous beast bis prey?
And the strong arm fiercely snatching
The flower of our land away?

Chorus.-Eternal, &c.
Argentines! by the pride of our nation,

By the hopes and joys of the free,
We will huri the proud from his station,

And bring down the haughty knee.
Even now our banners streaming

Where fell the conquer'd foe,
In the summer sun, bright gleaming,
Your march of glory show.

Chorus.-Eternal, &c.
Hark! o'er the wide waves sounding,

Columbia! Columbia!-thy name,
While from pole to pole rebounding,

“ Columbia!” the nations proclaim.
Thy glorious throne is planting

Over oppression's grave;
And a thousand tongues are chanting
" Health to the free and the brave."

Chorus.-Eternal, &c.

E. T.

Several of the original stanzas of the above song are omitted, as containing chiely a bare enumeration of towns and provinces in any way signalized during the contest. The music adapted to it is extremely beautiful and animated, and the translator regrets it has never yet been published in England.

In the hinder end of harvest upon All Hallow ene
Quhen our *gude nichbours rydis (now gif I reid richt)
Some bucklit on a benwood and some on a bene,
Ay trottand into troupes fra the twilicht.

KING JAMES VI. Some years ago, I had the pleasure of passing an All Hallow Eve at the house of a substantial farmer in the vicinity of the town of Sligo. I had been wandering the whole day about the beautiful and romantic glen of Knock-na-ree, and entered the hospitable abode of my worthy Milesian friend just as the dim twilight was melting into the dark gloom of an autumnal evening.

A sparkling turf-fire enlivened the hearth, and a number of the neighbouring young rustics were mingled with the ruddy children of mine host about the room; while the elder folks encircled the glittering blaze, or crouched beneath the immense chimney that jutted far out into the room. Large pieces of hung beef and rusty bacon adorned the walls, a spinning-wheel was turned up under the ladder which ascended to the loft, the white wooden piggins and well-soured trenchers were placed in neat array on the well-filled shelves, and the huge dresser proudly exhibited its store of shining pewter to the admiring eyes of the youthful peasants. A door, which stood ajar in one corner, purposely betrayed the treasures of “ the best room ;" a double chest of drawers, a polished oaken table, and several antique and quaintly-figured chairs reflected the beams of the burning turf, and faintly illumined the sacred apartment.

The buxom good wife, arrayed in a striped linsey.wolsey gown, was regaling her friends with merry lamb's-wool, while her lively children and their young guests indulged in the usual superstitions and quaint customs of All Hallow Eve. Three of the eldest lasses were lurking in a dark corner busily employed in kneading a cake with their left thumbs. Not a sound escaped from their clenched lips; the work proceeded in mute solemnity; a single word would have broken the charm, and destroyed their ardent hopes of beholding their future husbands in their dreams after having partaken of the mystic dumb-cake.

While this work was going on silently in the corner, a group of sturdy boys in the centre of the floor were indulging in all the uproar of boisterous merriment at the glorious game of snap-apple. A burning candle was affixed to one end of a short skewer, and a ripe ruddycheeked apple stuck at the other. The skewer was suspended by its middle with a piece of strong cord from the dusky ceiling, and being gently put in motion, the eager boys thronged tumultuously forward to catch the delicious apple in their mouths as it performed its swinging evolutions. Many a furzy head was set in a blaze, and many loud laughs and chirruping exclamations emanated from the merry group before the prize was carried off. Several young girls were roasting pairs of matrimonial apples on the hearth. One they dignified with the lordly title of “The Baron," and the other was supposed to be his lady-wife. And truly it was a bitter satire on the married state.

• The fairies.

The scorching apples resembled many a foolish couple in the land. Such sputtering and foaming—such angry fuming at each other—such prodigious perspirations--such vindictive tones and contemptuous hissings on both sides, and then such melting quietness for a moment, interrupted by a sudden swelling-up, or a burly look, that renewed the sputtering and fuming, until both were utterly exhausted! The married folks looked on and laughed prodigiously, ever and anon exchanging those most eloquent and volume-speaking looks, which often pass between man and wife.

Some of the younger children were wandering about in the cold moonlight, zealously seeking for protecting “angry weed,” to charm them against the fearful displeasure of their parents, for the ensuing year. The revered and grey-tressed patriarch of the family, with fearful inquisitive looks and quivering lips, silently tottered about on his crutches, to inspect the lusty " livelongs” which each of his beloved grandchildren had suspended from the roof on Midsummer Eve. If the plant still looked green and healthy, his countenance lighted up into a faint smile, and a pious ejaculation escaped from his thin lips; but if he met with one which showed the sickly syn.p.oms of decay, how wofully would the fond old man look round for the child who had hung it up, impressed with the heart-sickening certainty, that the sunk eye and pale cheek of his little darling were sorrowful foretokens of the untimely death predicted by the fatal livelong.

A troop of the youngest boys were kneeling round a bucket of icecold water, into which the old people, from time to time, threw small pieces of coin, for the shivering younglings to pick up from the bottom with their freezing lips. Some of the maidens were pouring molten lead through the bow of a rusty key into a bowl of pure fountainwater, and tracing indistinct semblances to different objects in the various shapes which the lead assumed. If any of them happened to cast the likeness of a ship, her future lord was doomed to be a hardy sailor. If fancy could warp a misshapen lump of the cooled metal into the similitude of a horse, a helmet, or a sword, the happy lass tempted her fate no farther, but merrily danced away, rich in the dear hope of being wedded to a gallant soldier. If the dim resemblance accorded not with her sympathies or inclinations, the dissatisfied and pouting girl would try her luck again, again to be defeated in her hopes : until at length, wearied and disgusted, she rose from the mystic well with a sad heart and a heavy brow, to seek for consolation, and promises of better fortune in a different rite.

During one of those moments of universal silence which often happen in the most roystering assemblages, a loud and rather melodious voice was heard at a little distance gaily chanting an old beggarman's song, to one of the merriest tunes that ever flowed from the lips of mirth and happiness.

In a few moments the children came tumbling in, and joyfully announced the unexpected arrival of Larry Donovan. The welcome information was received with an unanimous burst of enthusiastic rapture, which had hardly subsided when Larry Donovan, the ancient buchaugh, mounted on a grey drowsy-looking, lop-eared ass, made his appearance at the open door-way. "Men, women, and children were all collected about the threshold to greet the arrival of the whitebearded, jovial beggarman, who continued to troll his old song amid the hearty kead-mille-a-faltha's,* that were showered upon him from every quarter. He vigorously raised himself from his pad, and reaching over the heads of the delighted youngsters, warmly grasped the trembling, out-stretched hand of the old patriarch. This action betrayed a pair of thin misshapen legs that dangled impotently behind Larry's muscular calves, under whose efficient covert they had hitherto been concealed. “ Who have you there, Larry” cried twenty voices at once." Och! boys, boys," replied the happy mendicant. “I'll engage my fellow traveller and kinsman here, will make every one of your young hearts dance with joy this merry night:—who did you think, boys, I'd mount upon my Rory and bring along with me to the huuse of revelry and feasting, but honest Dennis O'Neil, the old piper of Innismury." Dennis now showed his grizzled face, over the broad shoulder of his companion, and struck into the heart of the tune of Larry Donovan's much loved song, pealing forth such cheering notes from his pipes, as he entered the house, that every eye beamed with transport and every toe was set in merry

motion. The floor was quickly cleared for dancing, and after Larry and the piper had quafted a piogin of pure Pothient between them, the latter gave the signal for the lads and lasses to take their places. Every brow was beaming with joy and expectation, the young men were looking lovingly into the blue eyes of their maiden partners, when, after a moments pause, the top couple started off to the galloping measures of " Kiss in the Furze.“

I had now an opportunity of more particularly surveying the figure and appearance of the buchaugh. He was a tall handsome looking old fellow, with a bright eagle glance, a high unfurrowed forehead, a full cheek and a profusion of long white locks floating carelessly down his back and bosom. He was wrapped up in a coarse blue cloak, fastened at his breast with a wooden skewer. A broad leathern belt was buckled round bis middle, to which his little meal-can, and flat whiskey bottle were carefully fastened, and a nut-brown doothien or stunted tobacco pipe, was twisted in the band of his old slouched hat. He was engaged in deep confab with the aged grandsire of the family, but his ear was still attentive to the rapid flow of the tune, and he regularly beat time with the iron point of his oaken pike.

As soon as the dance was ended, preparations for the supper were set about with infinite vigour and alacrity. A neighbour's son disappeared for a few seconds, and returned with a colossal “ cobler's nob,”I which, Meleager like, he presented on bended knee to our host's eldest daughter, the blooming little Alice, and gave the signal for every youth to salute his willing partner by imprinting a warm kiss on the ripe luscious cheek of the blushing damsel.

Thie young man's gift was immediately ushered into an iron pot, a kish of turf and a fresh log were brought in-the good wife spitted a fine turkey, and a quarter of fat kid (which, when drest, tasted as delicious as fawn's flesh), and little Nicodemus, our host's youngest boy, with a mortified and reluctant air, took his allotted station in the chim

* Kead-mille-a-faltha, a hundred thousand welcomes. † Puthien, very strong wbiskey. # Pig's head.

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