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happiest of our lives-when we walked by your side in rank and file, white collars, and red hands; the larger youths leading on "the small boys," and a melancholy usher bringing up the rear. But as years flew on, and those youths and boys had grown to men's estate, how often have we met by that winding stream "and fought our battles o'er again," rehearsed the jokes of Tommy Spence, or dwelt on the fancied terrors of the great yet kind Doctor.

But let me refer to the locus itself -and see, as we rest on the brae that leads from Sandymount to Stranmillis, and look on the river, how the opposite fields rise from its reeds, with a gentle curve, that reminds one of the line of beauty; and rich woods, grounds, and mansions fill the distance-and there, a löng, black lighter is gliding down, drawn by a reeking horse, and guided by the sluggish figure that leans on the rudder's arm, and puffs at the soothing weed.

We now descend, and make for the first lock of the canal, inhaling the sweet scent of surrounding crops; leaping on the bent sally tree, whose model is the tower of Pisa; or starting little birds from the hedges of the lane. And when the lock is left behind, and the boatman's cottage, with its wild roses and creeping honey-suckle, fairly passed; there is an instinctive pause at “ Molly

Ward's"-that fountain of curds and cream, and grave of urchin's pocketmoney. By the by, I could never learn whether or not the same Molly was a mere myth, or ever clothed in solid flesh; and a learned pundit, who will certainly be a Bishop one of these days, maintains to this hour, that the unde derivatur is to be found in-a moily cow; however, it was the firm conviction of a school-fellow, whose ears had been well boxed by a solemn matron, for some mischievous prank, that none save the real Molly herself could have lent him such an astounding blow.

And thus, we may proceed from lock to lock, and bridge to bridge, each suggestive of its own incidents-the river now verging from the canal, then seeking it again with varied bends; here, by bordering woods, drooping willows reflected in the water, or tall sedges rustling on the brink, and wily coots dodging under; with houses greeting us at every angle; gay daffodils turning their yellow blossoms to the sun, or the modest daisy peeping from the grass-there, by flat marshes, green meads, or springing corn; and, finally, by the old bleach-green, its beetling mills, and shining cloth.

But to me, at least, bow vivid are the tender memories started by the lastmemories of early home, absent friends, and buried dead-memories-but I will say no more.

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 confest,

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 vow,
In Irish bosoms MOORE can never die.

A.

MY FIRST ARTICLE.

WHEN one has, somehow or other, got the character of being a "good-natured man," it is astonishing, and yet amusing, the hundreds of odd things he is asked to do. I have lately learned that I have been admitted into that privileged class, without any wish or ambition on my part, and during the last year I have nursed babies for smil ing mammas, disentangled silk and learned crochet for laughing daughters, hunted up statistics and facts for prudent fathers, written essays for idle sons, got wild lads out of scrapes, studied with sensible ones, and been dubbed by maiden aunts "such a good natured young man."

Now I dislike the name exceedingly, for it is almost a reproach, in my eyes at least, and I had sternly resolved a month ago to be as disobliging and cross for the future as possible, until I got rid of my title of honour or dishonour, whichever you may consider it; but, how fleeting was my resolution when a summons came from my friend of the Northern," to send them an article for their new Magazine, as I was so “goodnatured as to promise it some time before."

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Whether I ever promised or not, was a doubtful question; but they thought I had done so, and said as much. "A promise," and "you are so good-natured," that was a compliment, or intended as such-should I comply? I hesitated, and irresolution generally leads to folly, so here I am.

The fatal "yes" having been said, I was seized with a new terror. What on earth should I write about? I nearly had an attack of nervous fever, from the awful state of consideration into which I was plunged for a week, and secluded myself from all solicitation on the part of the triumvirate of the "Northern" with great pertinacity. I considered myself safe from intrusion, alas! I had left one vulnerable heel undefended, and like the ancient warrior, I suffered for it. I had forgotten the post-officethough I admitted no visitors, though I told the servant to take no messages, though I had remained away from Lord Belfast's Lectures with an ill grace, though I had denied myself the gratifi

cation of going to see the Exhibition of Pictures I had passed over the postman, and half a dozen notes to remind me of my "promise" proved how relentless the "Northerns" were.

Should I write a novel? Ah! that might do. "Silence!" said conscience, frowningly. "You write a novel. Do you imagine yourself a Dickens, a Bulwer, or a Scott." I immediately slunk away from my desk abashed, and the fair sheet of paper, with the captivating title at the head, was speedily in the fire; and as its fragments floated quietly up the chimney, I speculated how very brilliant it might have been.

"

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"An historical sketch," said Vanity; you can do that style of thing so well.' Instantly was the desk resumed, the pen traced the word " Louis the Fourteenth;" and I thought over Rochefoucault for an apt sentence with which to commence, when the servant entered the room Macaulay's England, Sir, from the library," said he; and laying down the books, withdrew. It was quite enough for me, Macaulay's England! the most captivating, lively, brilliant, and successful history ever written-a model of style and elegance"Louis the Fourteenth" shared the fate of my unborn novel.

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Vanity having thus been put to flight by Prudence, sought refuge with Imagination, and the new allies very quickly assailed me with Why not write poetry?" Prudence said, "Don't be a fool;" Modesty whispered, "You had better not try," and Memory arranged for my inspection all the valentines I had ever written; so, with an involuntary shudder at the mutilation of the English language exhibited in them, I turned gloomily away, and forbade the conspirators to mention poetry again.

Envy, perceiving me in a moody humour, slily hinted that a Review would be just the article for my cloudy frame of mind, but Candour told me how open I was to criticism myself, and therefore I should forbear finding fault with others; and I am glad to say the argument was successful, and Envy hurriedly retreated, bearing away the last new novels which she had destined to be the victims of my dissecting knife.

The failure of this last hope had nearly disconcerted me altogether; I reflected how many good and well written articles I met with daily; I teased myself when thinking whether the authors had ever experienced my difficulties, a phantasmagoria of magazines floated before me, 66 Blackwood," the "University," "Fraser," "Colburn," ""Chambers," and "Household Words," in a most bewildering array of colours and types; but all these quickly faded away, and the broad "hand" of the "Northern" stared me in the face.

It was quite a mysterious object. Did it invite me or repel me? Was the open hand ready to welcome and to greet the stranger? or did that bloody emblem warn me to beware of a rash approach? It had a peculiar fascination for me, and exerted it so powerfully, that, in fancy, it seemed visibly to grow and increase, until it had assumed a gigantic size, fit for the Castle of Otranto, and was about to seize all the loose memoranda lying about, when I started, and it suddenly shrunk from its Brobdignag dimensions to its former shape.

I was nearly at my wits-end-that is, if I have any at all-when Prudence mildly suggested that I should call in Memory to my aid, and write a descriptive article; I jumped at her proposal, had reseated myself, was turning up my note-books, when Ambition made his appearance in the field; Vanity had found this new ally, and came determined to conquer. The "veni, vidi, vici" air of the important trio, for Imagination was of course ready to assist, almost disconcerted me; and the eloquent speeches of Ambition, delivered with all the fire of D'Israeli, the gracefulness of Lord Derby, and not without a spice of the logic of Lord John Russell, and the vivacity of Lord Palmerston, when backed by the promptings of Vanity, more powerful, too often, than those of reason and judgment, and assisted by the pictures which the artist Imagination had drawn on the spot, with almost as much readiness as the special correspondents of the "Illustrated London News," were nearly effective in compelling the retreat of Prudence and her friend Memory.

Fortunately, however, for my peace of mind, the topics which Ambition incited me to attempt were touched on with singular skill and rare talent in the

leaders of the next day's “Times,” and Imagination having deserted Vanity and made friends with Memory, the influence of the others was materially weakened, and I pursued my approved project with diligence, and as Prudence kept Imagination in proper bounds, I hailed her as a useful companion to Memory; for I cannot but think that scenery, to be well described, must be warmly coloured, and as Memory is apt, like a picture, to fade, that we should tint the landscape as richly as we can, and thus be truer to Nature. Irecollect once, when looking at a sunny landscape of Claude's, my companion, a painter, in answer to a hasty remark of mine about the quantity of light, as it were, poured over the scene, took occasion to observe, that we should always seize Nature when in her most beautiful aspect; and leading me to a window of the room in which we were, desired me attentively to regard the plain before me. The shadow of a dark cloud lay over corn-field and wood, and the distant mountains were purpled with the sun's rich light.— "Watch," said he, "for a moment." The cloud passed away, the light streamed down gloriously, the corn-fields were golden in the beams, the trees were sparkling with the dazzling rays, the birds which had been silent trilled clearly and uninterruptedly their joyous songs; it was, indeed, a change.

"Is there too much light in Claude, now?" he asked; and convinced by his proof, I retracted my wrong opinion, while he explained that he thought the great painter wished to show us in his glorious pictures how God shone on the face of the world. So in writing, we must let the spirit, the soul of the universe, illuminate everything.

I mused so long over this idea of descriptive writing, that my actual progress with my manuscript was very small, and as I found my thoughts were straying, like motes in the sun-beams dancing up and down, here and there and everywhere, I pushed the papers aside, and indulged my fancy.

Whether, reader, you will ever see me again in these pages, will be a question for Felix, Criticus, and Prudentius, only I advise you to look out next month, and perchance the ladies, with their ready wit, which never fails them, may after a little consideration discover My First Article." G. N. M.

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R. L.

.

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!

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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.

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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.

To others do, as in your heart,

You wish them aye to act their part;

Take counsel of your God on high,

Go! Fight for truth-and bravely try

To break that earthly ban,

Which o'er the world in murkness looms,

So deadening in its awful glooms,

The wrongs of man to man!

FELIX.

R.Z

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