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happiest of our lives—when we walked Ward's”-that fountain of curds and by your side in rank and file, white cream, and grave of urchin's pocketcollars, and red hands; the larger money. By the by, I could never learn youths leading on “the small boys," whether or not the same Molly was a and a melancholy usher bringing up mere myth, or ever clothed in solid flesh; the rear. But as years flew on, and and a learned pundit, who will certainly those youths and boys had grown to be a Bishop one of these days, mainmen's estate, how often have we met tains to this hour, that the unde deriby that winding stream “and fought vatur is to be found in-a moily cow; our battles o'er again,” rehearsed the however, it was the firm conviction of a jokes of Tommy Spence, or dwelt on school-fellow, whose ears had been well the fancied terrors of the great yet kind boxed by a solemn matron, for some Doctor.

mischievous pravk, that none save the But let me refer to the locus itself real Molly herself could have lent him

and see, as we rest on the brae that such an astounding blow. leads from Sandymount to Stranmillis, And thus, we may proceed from lock and look on the river, how the opposite to lock, and bridge to bridge, each sugfields rise from its reeds, with a gentle gestive of its own incidents—the river curve, that reminds one of the line of now verging from the canal, then seekbeauty ; and rich woods, grounds, and ing it again with varied bends ; here, mansions fill the distance and there, by bordering woods, drooping willows a long, black lighter is gliding down, reflected in the water, or tall sedges drawn by a reeking horse, and guided rustling on the brink, and wily coots by the sluggish figure that leans on the dodging under ; with houses greeting rudder's arm, and puffs at the soothing us at every angle ; gay datfodils turnweed.

ing their yellow blossoms to the sun, or We now descend, and make for the the modest daisy peeping from the first lock of the canal, inhaling the grass—there, by fiat marshes, green sweet scent of surrounding crops ; leap- meads, or springing corn ; and, finally, ing on the bent sally tree, whose model by the old bleach-green, its beetling is the tower of Pisa ; or starting little mills, and shining cloth. birds from the hedges of the lane. And But to me, at least, bow vivid are the when the lock is left behind, and the tender memories started by the last boatman's cottage, with its wild roses and memories of early home, absent friends, creeping honey-suckle, fairly passed; and buried dead-memories-but I will there is an instinctive pause at “ Molly say no more.

A.

Sonnet
ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS MOORE.

IERNE's long-loved Bard has sunk to rest !
From Time's worn shore his soul has ebbed away
To join that Ocean, where its birth-place lay;
But never can our Island of the West
Forget the melody her harp coufest,
When, at his touch, sweet tones of music flung
A charm delicious round whate'er he sung,
And wrapt him close to every Irish breast :
Dear was he then-Death makes him dearer now,
For Memory's angel, mourning, rustles by,
Leads to his rural grave, and while we bow
To drop one tear, heave one regretful sigh,
On each true heart inscribes the patriot yow,
In Irish bosoms MOORE can never die.

MY FIRST ARTICLE.

WAEN one has, somehow or other, got cation of going to see the Exhibition of the character of being a “good-natured Pictures--I had passed over the postman," it is astonishing, and yet amus. man, and half a dozen notes to remind ing, the hundreds of odd things he is me of my “promise" proved how relentasked to do. I have lately learned less the “ Northerns" were. that I have been admitted into that Should I write a novel ? Ah! that privileged class, without any wish or might do. “ Silence !" said conscience, ambition on my part, and during the frowningly. “ You write a novel. Do last year I have nursed babies for smil- you imagine yourself a Dickens, a Buling mammas, disentangled silk and wer, or a Scott.” I immediately slunk learned crochet for laughing daughters, away from my desk abashed, and the hunted up statistics and facts for pru- fair sheet of paper, with the captivating dent fathers, written essays for idle title at the head, was speedily in the fire; sons, got wild lads out of scrapes, stu- and as its fragments floated quietly up died with sensible ones, and been dub- the chimney, I speculated how very bed by maiden aunts “such a good- brilliant it might have been natured young man."

“An historical sketch," said Vanity; Now I dislike the name exceedingly, “ you can do that style of thing so well.” for it is almost a reproach, in my eyes Instantly was the desk resumed, the pen at least, and I had sternly resolved a traced the word “ Louisthe Fourteenth;" month ago to be as disobliging and cross and I thought over Rochefoucault for for the future as possible, until I got rid an apt sentence with which to comof my title of-honour or dishonour, mence, when the servant entered the whichever you may consider it ; but, room - “Macaulay's England, Sir, how fleeting was my resolution when from the library," said he ; and laying a summons came from my friend of the down the books, withdrew. It was “ Northern," to send them an article for quite enough for me, Macaulay's Engtheir new Magazine, as I was so“ good- land! the most captivating, lively, brilpatured as to promise it some time be- liant, and successful history ever writfore.”

ten-a model of style and eleganceWhether I ever promised or not, was “ Louis the Fourteenth” shared the a doubtful question; but they thought I fate of my unborn novel. had done so, and said as much.“ A pro- Vanity having thus been put to flight mise,” and “ you are so good-natured," by Prudence, sought refuge with Imathat was a compliment, or intended as gination, and the new allies very quickly such-should I comply? I hesitated, and assailed me with “ Why not write irresolution generally leads to folly, so poetry ?" Prudence said, “Don't be a here I am.

fool ; Modesty whispered, “ You had The fatal “yes” having been said, I better not try," and Memory arranged was seized with a new terror. What on for my inspection all the valentines I had earth should I write about? I nearly ever written ; so, with an involuntary had an attack of nervous fever, from shudder at the mutilation of the Engthe awful state of consideration into lish language exhibited in them, I which I was plunged for a week, and turned gloomily away, and forbade the secluded myself from all solicitation on conspirators to inention poetry again, the part of the triumvirate of the “ Nor. Envy, perceiving me in a moody huthern” with great pertinacity. I consi- mour, slily hinted that a Reviow would dered myself safe from intrusion, alas! I be just the article for my cloudy frame had left one vulnerable heel undefended, of mind, but Candour told me how open and like the ancient warrior, I suffered I was to criticism myself, and therefore for it. I had forgotten the post-office- I should forbear finding fault with though I admitted no visitors, though I others ; and I am glad to say the argutold the servant to take no messages, ment was successful, and Envy hurthough I had remained away from Lord riedly retreated, bearing away the last Belfast's Lectures with an ill grace, new povels which she had destined to though I had denied myself the gratifi- be the victims of my dissecting knife.

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The failure of this last hope had nearly leaders of the next day's “ Times," and disconcerted me altogether; I reflected Imagination having deserted Vanity and how many good and well written arti- made friends with Memory, the influence cles I met with daily; I teased myself of the others was materially weakened, when thinking whether the authors had and I pursued my approved project with ever experienced my difficulties, a phan. diligence, and as Prudence kept Imagitasmagoria of magazines floated be- nation in proper bounds, I hailed her as fore me, “ Blackwood,” the “ Univer- a useful companion to Memory; for I sity," " Fraser,"' “ Colburn,” “ Cham- cannot but think that scenery, to be well bers,” and “Household Words,” in a described, must be warmly coloured, and most bewildering array of colours and as Memory is apt, like a picture, to fade, types ; but all these quickly faded away, that we should tint the landscape as and the broad “hand” of the “ North- richly as we can, and thus be truer to ern” stared me in the face.

Nature. I recollect once, when looking at It was quite a mysterious object. Did a sunny landscape of Claude's, my comit invite me or repel me? Was the panion, a painter, in answer to a hasty open hand ready to welcome and to remark of mine about the quantity of greet the stranger ? or did that bloody light, as it were, poured over the scene, emblem warn me to beware of a rash took occasion to observe, that we should approach ? It had a peculiar fascina- always seize Nature when in her most tion for me, and exerted it so powerfully, beautiful aspect ; and leading me to a that, in fancy, it seemed visibly to grow window of the room in which we were, and increase, until it had assumed a desired me attentively to regard the gigantic size, fit for the Castle of Otran- plain before me. The shadow of a to, and was about to seize all the loose dark cloud lay over corn-field and memoranda lying about, when I started, wood, and the distant mountains were and it suddenly shrunk from its Brob- purpled with the sun's rich light.dignag dimensions to its former shape. io Watch," said he, “ for a moment."

I was nearly at my wits-end—that The cloud passed away, the light streamis, if I have any at all—when Prudence ed down gloriously, the corn-fields mildly suggested that I should call in were golden in the beams, the trees Memory to my aid, and write a descrip- were sparkling with the dazzling rays, tive article ; I jumped at her proposal, the birds which had been silent trilled bad reseated myself, was turning up clearly and uninterruptedly their joymy note-books, when Ambition made ous songs; it was, indeed, a change. his appearance in the field ; Vanity had “Is there too much light in Claude, found this new ally, and came deter- now?” he asked ; and convinced by his mined to conquer. The“ veni, vidi, vici" proof, I retracted my wrong opinion, air of the important trio, for Imagina- while he explained that he thought the tion was of course ready to assist, al. great painter wished to show us in his most disconcerted me; and the eloquent glorious pictures how God shone on the speeches of Ambition, delivered with all face of the world. So in writing, we the fire of D’Israeli, the gracefulness of must let the spirit, the soul of the uniLord Derby, and not without a spice of verse, illuminate everything. the logic of Lord John Russell, and the I mused so long over this idea of devivacity of Lord Palmerston, when scriptive writing, that my actual probacked by the promptings of Vanity, gress with my manuscript was very small, more powerful, too often, than those of and as I found my thoughts were strayreason and judgment, and assisted by ing, like motes in the sun-beamsdancing the pictures which the artist Imagina- up and down, bere and there and everytion had drawn on the spot, with almost where, I pushed the papers aside, and as much readiness as the special corres. indulged my fancy. pondents of the “ Illustrated London Whether, reader, you will ever see News," were nearly effective in compel- me again in these pages, will be a quesling the retreat of Prudence and her tion for Felix, Criticus, and Prudentius, friend Memory.

only I advise you to look out next Fortunately, however, for my peace month, and perchance the ladies, with of mind, the topics which Ambition in their ready wit, which never fails thein, cited me to attempt were touched on inay after a little consideration discover with singular skill and rare talent in the “My First Article.” G. N. M.

R.L

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THE WRONGS OF MAN TO MAN.

O'ER Earth's fair face lies hung a shroud,
A dark, a sombre, midnight cloud,
Which spreads its gloomy foldings vast
Alike o'er Present and o’er Past,

And when that mist we scan,
From its black depths in thousands rise
Gaunt spectral shapes with hollow eyes,

The wrongs of man to man!

I view that long, that endless train
Move slowly on, while Want and Pain,
The heralds of the gloomy hour,
Proclaim how Mammon's giant power

Has framed a wondrous plan
To banish joy from human kind,
To keep the soul in darkness blind,

A wrong of man to man !

I see the Planter and the Slave,
I mark humanity's dark grave,
I hear the shrieks, the tortured cries,
Which from the maddened Blacks arise,

I see blood's hated ban,
And, sickened, turn my gaze away
From horrors of the present day,

From wrongs of man to man!

I mark a bloody battle-field,
I know the harvest War must yield;
I see opposing armies meet,
I list the onset, the retreat,

And marvel mortals can
Choose frowning War for smiling Peace ;
I pray such sorrows soon may cease,

This wrong of man to man !

A prison's walls, all dim and gray,
Now into cloudland pass away,
The wail of want, of woe, and crime,
Chills the good spirit of the time

Which leads this Age's van ;
While, in each child's grim hardened face,
Musing and sad, again I trace

A wrong of man to man !

Teach them, ye rich! Good will endure, Prevent the evil-leave the cure ;

Train them up well in virtue's way,
Nor lead their youthful steps astray,

Work, ponder, think and plan;
For Ignorance and Crime are twin,
To kill those monsters huge begin,

These wrongs of man to man.

Now gather swift in blackness hurled,
The wrongs of mankind through the world,
The conscience trodden down oppressed,
Honour bound silent in the breast,

While, marching in the van,
The Law of Force--the Law of Might
Strides boldly on, in strength o'er right-

All wrongs of man to man!

Dungeons give up their captives pale,
I list each anguished bosom's wail ;
Graves yield their dead, they come, they come,
No longer silent laid and dumb-

Each eager face I scan
A victim there of every age,
The poet, scholar, hero, sage,

Wronged men by brother man.

Rush swiftly by, and, side by side,
Dark scowling Envy, stately Pride ;
I see the angry feeling swell
Yon poor man's heart, I heed it well-

The rich, hot passions fan.
I know how both are in the wrong,
And seek to tell my thoughts in song,

Of wrongs of man to man.

Come nearer, Brothers! We are men,
To dust we all return again;
Like souls are ours—then let us be
Unto each other kind and free,

Do good whene'er we can.
So let us try to let the light
Break through those darksome clouds of night,

The wrongs of man to man.

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