your hearts, darlins. Who knows what the landlord may do when I see him myself, and show him these resates-every penny paid him by my own family. Let me go, a-cushla; it does cut me to the heart to lave yees the way yees are in, even for a while; but its far worse to see your poor wasted faces, widout havin' it in my power to do anything for yees."

He then kissed them again, one by one; and pressing the affectionate partner of his sorrows to his breaking heart, he bade God bless them, and set out in the twilight of a bitter March morning. He had not gone many yards from the door when little Alley ran after him in tears; he felt her hand upon the skirt of his coat, which she plucked with a smile of affection which neither tears nor sorrow could repress. "Father, kiss me again," said she. He stooped down and kissed her tenderly. The child then ascended a green ditch, and Owen, as he looked back, saw her standing upon it; her fair tresses were tossed by the blast about her face, as with straining eyes she watched him receding from her view. Kathleen and the other children stood at the door, and also with deep sorrow watched his form, until the angle of the bridle road rendered him no longer visible; after which they returned slowly to the fire and wept bitterly!

We believe no men are capable of bearing greater toil or privation than the Irish. Owen's viaticum was only two or three oaten cakes tied in a little handkerchief, and a few shillings to pay for his bed. With this small stock of food and money, an oaken stick in his haud, and his wife's kerchief tied about his waist, he undertook a journey of an hundred and eighty miles in quest of a landlord who, so for from being acquainted with the distresses of his tenantry, scarcely knew even their names, and not one of them in person. # (To be concluded in our next.)

Plutarch compares envious persons to cupping glasses, which ever draw the worst humours after them; they are like flies which resort only to the raw and corrupt parts of the body; or if they light on a sound part, never cease blowing upon it till they have disposed it to putrefaction.

Thistles, though noxious things in themselves, are usually signs of an excellent ground whereon they grow; so bashfulness, though it be a weakness and betrayer of the mind, is yet generally an argument of a soul ingeniously and virtuously

inclined.

Jealousy may be compared to a poisoned arrow, so envenomed, that if it even prick the skin it is very dangerous, but if it draw blood it is irrecoverably deadly.

Those bodies are usually the most healthful, that break out in their youth, and sometimes the souls of men prove the sounder, for having vented themselves in their younger days.

Men that live always to themselves, had need to have a well-timbered bottom, for if once their selfish bark prove leaky, they will find few to stop the breaches.

The ancients had a most excellent emblem; whereby they used to express a true and sincere friendship. They pictured it in the shape of a young man, very fair, bare-headed, and meanly attired; on the outside of his garment was written, vive et mori, "To live and die;" on his forehead, æstate et hyeme, "In summer and winter;" his breast was open, so that his heart might be seen; and with his finger he pointed to his heart, where was written, prope longe, "Far and near." But such kind of friends are rather scarce.

Light injuries are made none by disregarding them; which, if revenged, grow burdensome and grievous, living to hurt us, when they might die to secure us.

There needs no greater commendation of a sober life, than that most men covet to be reputed temperate, though they be strangers to the practice thereof. Drunkards and gluttons are tubs to hold wash and grains for swine, and reservatories for offals.

Every man knows how to row in a calm: an indifferent pilot will guide a ship well in smooth water. To repress our rising passion in the midst of provocation, will prove that we can handle the helm in a storm.

Ill favoured men whose minds are intellectual, are like dark lanterns: we regard not so much the body because of the lustre of that which dwelleth in it.

The power of beauty is universally acknowledged, and may be termed Nature's letter of recommendation: nevertheless, he might make a sorry bargain who would buy a watch because of the goodliness of the case.

STATISTICS.

EMPLOYMENT OF THE IRISH LABOURER."

There are in Ireland FIVE millions of English acres of waste land, whose lowest elevation is 203 feet above the level of the sea, at low water. Their best manure, limestone gravel, lies in central hills, with every facility to improvement by watercarriage. The bogs of Ireland differ from the boggy, moory, and fenny lands of England, with regard to the facility of reclaiming, and still more in point of value. In other countries reclaiming requires considerable skill, and is expensive: in Ireland nature has been so bountiful that little skill and small expense will do. If the proprietors of waste lands in Ireland will come fairly forward, give the people long leases, and let them at a fair rate proportionate to their yearly produce, so that each party would have a mutual interest in their improvement, as is the case in Italy and France; and if they would also allow a primary expenditure of three pounds an acre, the people will willingly give their present waste labour without any charge, in expectation of future independence. Thus, on the very principle which leads so many of our coun trymen into the wilds of America-the hope of bettering their condition might thousands of poor, hungry, neglected brethren be comfortably employed, and the country rise in value. physically and morally.-Bryan's Practical View.

IRISH MINSTRELSY.

MAC CABE'S ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF CAROLAN,
TRANSLATED BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Woe is my portion! unremitting woe!
Idly and wildly in my grief I rave;

Thy song, my Turlogh, shall be sung no more— Thro' festive halls no more thy strains shall flow:

The thrilling music of thy harp is o'erThe hand that waked it moulders in the grave. I start at dawn-I mark the country's gloomO'er the green hills a heavy cloud appears ;Aid me, kind heaven, to bear my bitter doom, To check my murmurs and restrain my tears. Oh! gracious God! how lonely are my days,

At night sleep comes not to these wearied eyes, Nor beams one hope my sinking heart to raiseIn Turlogh's grave each hope that chcer'd me lies. Oh! ye blest spirits, dwelling with your God, Hymning his praise as ages roll along, Receive my Turlogh in your bright abode, And bid him aid you in your sacred song.

THE EDITOR TO THE PUBLIC.

Even a Penny Editor has his consequence, his griefs, and his annoyances. Some people want long articles, and some want short; some want funny stories, and some want serious subjects; some say we are too heavy, and others too light; and while we are listening with submissive consideration to whatever may be said of us by our friends, opinions " wide as the poles asunder," walk in at our door in company, and Knock each other's heads! Our only consolation is, that the sale of FIFTEEN THOUSAND in FOUR DAYS practically convinces us that Irishmen are neither deficient in pence or spirit. We have also received gratuitous and unlooked for offers of assistance from gentlemen of high consideration in town.

Qur, readers are informed that FIFTY-Two numbers will form a Volume-and more than one volume, we trust, will be issued, We would be sorry to make our little Journal a modium for inflicting on the public the petty jealousies of trade: but an ungenerous attempt has been made to crush us, and we look significantly for IRISH support.

DUBLIN.

A FEW years ago, at a public meeting in the city of Glasgow,
a worthy old man who had made a sort of tour throughout
Ireland, dilated in a speech upon its miserable condition,
painted it in dark and gloomy colours, and concluded with a
warm and earnest appeal to those present, to "take pity on
that unhappy country." This roused the blood of one of the
He could not sit still
audience and he was an Irishman!
and hear the land of his birth caricatured, or permit any one
to go away with false impressions; and so, in parliamentary
phrase, he "got on his legs," and in glowing and energetic
terms rebutted the charge of Ireland being a miserable and a
degraded country. DUBLIN, he told them, was one of the
finest cities of Europe, having a greater number of benevo-
lent institutions than any one of a similar size throughout the
world; while with genuine Irish eloquence he enlarged upon
the politeness and hospitality of its inhabitants, the splendonr
of its public buildings, and the variety of its literary and sci-
entific associations. When he concluded, a dissenting and
well-known clergyman of Glasgow, an intelligent and liberal
man, started to his feet, and exclaimed,

"Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
"Who never to himself hath said,
"This my own, my native land!"

Thunders of applause followed, and the honest and outspoken defender of his native metropolis sat down amid the approbation of a large audience.

Now look at the wood-cut, and say if, even in this indistinct view, Dublin does not deserve the appellation of "a fine city?" True, it wants something which London and Edinburgh have; we are told that our metropolis wants the business and the bustle of the English, and the singular and romantic air of the Scottish metropolis. But in our miniature way, we are much more busy and bustling here than in the "great city." London is the elephant of cities, enormous but calm, and performing its mighty efforts with such habits of regular and unostentatious strength that we only become

man.

conscious of what is doing, by reflection upon what has been and must be done. It is true, that in the great thoroughfare from Charing Cross to Whitechapel there is a rushing sound of men and carriages and horses, travelling to and fro: but this is emphatically the great thoroughfare, and what are four or five miles of street compared with the huge mass of London? In "the city," the calmness and utter absence of outside show, where we know there is such prodigious business, and prodigious wealth, seems very extraordinary to an IrishAnd again in Edinburgh, beautiful and romantic as it is, its old town huddled upon the hill, and guarded by the fortress which, perched on high, frowns upon all around, and fills the eye from whatever point you view the place, or its new town, swelling away round the base of the rock, built of rale stone," and justifying in some degree the appellation which the modern Athenians have assumed, the "city of palaces;" even it, can it boast of such a view as one may have, standing upon Carlisle Bridge, and looking eastwards, westwards, northwards and southwards? First, the long continued line of quays extending right through the centre of the city, from Ringsend point to the Military road, a distance of nearly three miles. In the direction of the Bay, the Custom-house (see our first number) rising at a little distance in all the beauty of truly classical architecture, and surrounded by ships and other vessels of considerable size, which approach quite close to the bridge; to the west, the bridges crowded with busy mortale passing and repussing; in the distant perspective, the Four Courts, and different churches, whose domes and spires are seen towering above the intervening buildings; while still further off, the Wellington Testimonial (occupying the fore ground in our wood-cut,) may be distinctly observed, To the north, rising above the trees in the Phoenix Park.

Sackville-street, one of the most splendid streets in Europe, having in its centre the noble pillar erected in memory of the immortal Nelson; on the left of it, the Post Office, a specimen of elegant and chaste architecture, while southwards is Trinity College and the Bank.

What associations does that noble building, with its handsome dome-the FOUR COURTS-create in the mind? Every man in Dublin knows what a delightful place the hall of the

Four Courts is; so diversified, and apparently confused; exhibiting a motley group of barristers, bailiffs, attorneys, men and women, collected from all parts, divided into smaller circles, the component members of which are severally engaged in disputing, asseverating, and denying-in fighting over again in the hall, that which has been decided in the court; or in making fresh preparations for a renewal of legal strife. And what eloquence has echoed within it-what wit has made its walls to ring again—what feeling has roused every emotion of the heart! Passing onwards, let us walk along the quays, cross one of the bridges, and stand at the open iron gate that leads into Trinity College. Here we are moored, as it were, at the confluence of sundry human tides, and hundreds and thousands are passing by. Before us is the equestrian statue of king William; and in the indistinct smoky distance, the Castle, and to our right, that majestic pile of building, THE Bank. What a change has passed upon the circumstances and associations of all these! Within that massive structure, were wont to be uttered, the splendid antitheses of Grattan, the caustic wit of Curran, the oily and glozing amplifications of Castlereagh, the puns of John Toler, the wit of Bushe, the blunders and the bulls of the Momus of our Irish Olympus, Sir Boyle Roche. It is now three o'clock; some thirty-four or thirty-five years ago, we remember standing at the same place, and at the same hour, not to witness the rush of clerks and men of business, with thoughts intent upon drafts and checks, and paper, and gold: but to see the array of lords and commons as they entered their legislative halls. See! there comes the duke's coach turning round from Nassau-street, you may see the strawberry-leaved coronet, and the baboon supporters. Boys, let us give a shout for the Duke of Leinster! Methinks some one behind me cries out, Yes! and another for Lord Edward Fitzgerald! hurrah, boys, let us all cry, crom-a-boo! Whose carriage is this dashing down Dame-street, with six horses all hot and blown, as if coming from a distance, and the outriders in white? That's Toм CONNOLLY of Castletown, a man above a Castle price or pension. And whose is that splendid equipage with its running footmen coming slowly along in proud parade, and its owner sitting so stiff and so lordly? Oh! that's the proud Earl of B, a specimen of the French "Vielle Court," very haughty, very profligate, and very brave. But who is this little man ascending the colonnade, whose recognition every one seems anxious to gain? The patriot of '82!-HENRY GRATTAN! His prominent Frenchified features; his little body and long stride; his port so particular; his bearing like his mind, so antithetical and ambitious; were you and he accidentally to meet under a shed, while avoiding a shower of rain, you would say, here is either a singular or a great man! But who is this other little man, smirking and smiling, with chin protruded, and keen black eye, cast up towards the skies, as if he was saying some witty or saucy thing to one above him? Oh! JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN! If in figure and proportion he is far below a man, in wit and humour, and force and eloquence, he is as far above! What a pity that an angel's intellect should be given to preside over a will and affections so uncertain and so unsound! But stay, the vision is vanishing—the Bank is ejecting nothing but clerks, and merchants, and messengers! Let us turn away, and look down Westmoreland-street, towards Carlisle Bridge. Again we say, no city in Europe can match such a view! But let us pass onwards, up Sackville-street, and turn round till we reach Summer-hill. This is the Clifton of Dublin, and from the windows of one of these houses, what a view may be obtained. The mountains in the back ground, reminding us of Wicklow and its thousand and one enchantments! the remarkable eminence aptly termed Sugar-loaf; the serrated back of Bray-head; the three-topped promontory of Killiney; the spangling villas of Kingstown, enclosing its fair harbour; and above all, the bay-the beautiful bay-basking in the clear sunshine, and bearing on its broad bosom the numerous sail ships and steamers entering or leaving the harbour.

Our wood-cut represents in its foreground the handsome bridge, called Sarah-bridge, sometimes termed the Irish RIALTO, and the span of which is, in fact, seven feet wider than the famous Venetian bridge. The view does not admit the King's bridge, erected by subscription in honour of the late king's visit to Ireland. That was a gay and a proud time, when Irish hearts evinced how they could feel at the thought of a monarch being on their soil, and residing in their metropolis. And proudly and nobly did Hɛ bear himself amid the thousands who shouted around, in that spacious

park, near the entrance of which the massive pillar, called the Wellington Testimonial, stands. This park is very improperly termed the Phanix Park, that being a gross corruption from the old Irish name; but the use of the name is so universally established, that it would be folly to attempt

to remove it.

In the mean time, we conclude, hoping that DUBLIN and IRELAND may soon be (what they ought to be) a happy metropolis and a happy nation.

LEGENDS AND STORIES OF IRELAND.

THE LANDLORD AND TENANT.
Concluded from page 16.

Our scene now changes to the metropolis. One evening, about half past six o'clock, a toil-worn man turned his steps to a splendid mansion in Mountjoy-square; his appearance was drooping, fatigued, and feeble. As he went along he examined the numbers on the respective doors, until he reached one-before which he stopped for a moment; he then stepped out upon the street, and looked through the windows, as if willing to ascertain whether there was any chance of his object being attained. Whilst in this situation a carriage rolled rapidly up, and stopped with a sudden check that nearly threw the horses on their haunches. In an instant the thundering knock of the servant intimated the arrival of some person of rank; the hall door was opened, and Owen, availing himself of that opportunity, entered the hall. Such a visitor, however, was too remarkable to escape notice. The hand of the menial was rudely placed against his breast; and as the usual impertinent interrogatories were put to him, the pampered ruffian kept pushing him back, until the afflicted man stood upon the upper step leading to the door.

"For the sake of God, let me speak but two words to him. I'm his tenant; and I know he's too much of a jintleman to turn away a man that has lived upon his honor's estate-father and son-for upwards of a hundred years. My name's Owen-"

"You can't see him, my good fellow, at this hour. Go to Mr. M, his agent: we have company to dinner. Go you're very teasing, man-get along!"

As he uttered the last word, he pushed Owen back, who, forgetting that the stairs were behind him, fell, received a severe cut, and was so completely stunned, that he lay senseless and bleeding. Another carriage drove up as the fellow, now much alarmed, attempted to raise him up; and, by the orders of the gentleman who came in it, he was brought into the hall. The circumstance now made some noise. It was whispered about that one of Mr. —'s tenants, a drunken man from the country, wanted to break in forcibly to see him; but then it was also asserted, that his scull was broken, and that he lay dead in the hall. The company above stairs immediately assembled about him, and by the means of restoratives, he soon recovered, though the blood streamed copiously

from the wound in the back of his head.

"Who are you, my good man?" said Mr. S.

Owen looked about him rather vacantly, but he soon collected himself, and replied, in a mournful and touching tone of voice-" I am one of your honor's tenants, Sir, from Tubber Derg; my name is Owen McCarthy, your honorthat is, if you be Mr. -."

"And pray what brought you to town, McCarthy?"

"I wanted to make an humble appeal to your honor's feelings in regard of my bit of farm. I and my poor family, your honor, have been broken down by the hard times and the sickness of the sason.-God knows how they are."

"Is it that you wish to speak to me about it? but, my good man, I refer all these matters to my agent-go to him; he, of course, knows them best; and whatever is right and proper to be done for you, Carty, he will do it. Sinclair, give him a crown, and send him to the Dispensary to get his head dressed. I say, Carty, go to my agent; he knows whether your claim is just or not, and will attend to it accordingly."

"Plase your honour, I've been wid him, and he says he can do nothin' whatsomever for me. I went two or three times, and could'nt see him, he was so busy; and when I did get a word or two wid him, he tould me there was more offered for my land than I'm payin'; and that, if I did not pay up, I must be put out-God help me!"

"But I tell you, Carty, I never interfere between him and my tenants."

Och, indeed, and it would be well both for your honor's tinants and yourself, if you did, Sir. Your honor ought to know, Sir, more about us, and how we're thrated. I'm an honest man, Sir, and I tell you so for your good."

"And pray, Sir," said the agent, stepping forward, for he had arrived a few minutes before, and heard the last observation of McCarthy pray, how are they treated, you that know so well, and are so honest a man?-as for honesty, you might have referred to me for that, I think," he added.

«Mr. M—,” said Owen, “we're thrated very badly— Sir, you need'nt look at-you've broken the half of them by severity: you've turn'd the tinants against yerself and his honor here; and I tell you now, though your to the fore, that in the coorse of a short time, there'ill be bad work upon the estate, except his honor here looks to his own affairs, and hears the complaints of the people; look at these resates, yer honor, they'll show you, Sir

66

Carty, I can hear no such language against the gentleman to whom I entrust the management of my property; of course I refer the matter solely to him-I can do nothing in it."

Kathleen, avourneen!" exclaimed the poor man, as he looked up despairingly to heaven-" and ye, poor darlins of my heart! is this the news I'm to have for yees whin I go home? As you hope for mercy, Sir, don't turn your ear from my petition, that I'd humbly make to yourself. Cowld, and hunger, and hardship are at home before me, yer honor. If you'd be plazed to look at these resates, you'd see that I was always industrious, and 'twas sickness and the hard times"

"And your own honesty, industry, and good conduct," said the agent, giving a dark and malignant sneer at him. "Carty, it shall be my business to see that you shall not spread a bad spirit through the tenantry much longer. Sir, you have heard the fellow's admission. It is an implied threat that he will give us much serious trouble. There is not such another incendiary on your property-not one, upon my ho

nour."

"Sir," said a servant, "dinner's on the table."

"Sinclair," said his landlord, "give him another crown, and tell him to trouble me no more." Saying which he and the agent went up to the drawing-room, and, in a moment, Owen saw a large party sweep down stairs, full of glee and vivacity, among whom both himself and his distresses were -as completely forgotten as if they had never existed.

He now slowly departed, scarcely knowing whether the money, which the house steward had given him, was in his hand or not. A cold, sorrowful weight lay upon his heart; the din of the town deadened his affliction into a stupor; but an overwhelming sense of his disappointment, and a conviction of the agent's diabolical falsehood, entered, like barbed arrows, into his heart.

On leaving the steps, he looked up to heaven in the distraction of his agonizing thoughts: the clouds were black and lowering; the wind stormy, and as it carried them on its dark wing along the sky, he wished, if it were the will of God, that his head lay in the quiet grave yard where the ashes of his forefathers reposed in peace. But he again remembered his Kathleen and their children, and the large tears of anguish, deep and bitter, rolled slowly down his cheeks.

On

We will not trace him into an hospital, whither the wound on his head occasioned him to be sent, but simply state, that, on the week after this, a man with his head bound in a handkerchief, lame, bent, and evidently labouring under severe illness or great affliction, might be seen toiling slowly up the little hill that commanded a view of Tubber Derg. reaching the top, he sat down to rest for a few minutes, but his eye was eargerly turned to the house which contained all that was dear to him on this earth. The sun was setting, and shone with half his disk visible, in that dim and cheerless splendour which produces in almost every temperament a feeling of melancholy. His house which, in far happier days, formed so beautiful and conspicuous an object in the view, was now, from the darkness of its walls, scarcely discernable. The position of the sun, too, rendered it more difficult to be seen; and Owen, for it was he, shaded his eyes with his hand to survey it more distinctly. Many a harrowing thought and remembrance passed through his mind, as his eye traced its dim outline in the fading light. He had done his duty-he had gone to the fountain-head, with a hope that his simple

story of affliction might be heard; but all was fruitless: the only gleam of hope that opened upon their misery, was now passed into darkness and despair for ever He pressed his aching forehead with distraction as he thought of this then clasped his hands bitterly, and groaned aloud.

At length he rose, and proceeded with great difficulty, for the short rest had stiffened his weak and fatigued joints. As he approached home his heart sank; and as he ascended the blood-red stream which covered the bridle way that led to his house, what with fatigue and affliction, his agitation weakened him so much that he stopped and leaned on his staff several times, that he might take breath.

"It's too dark, maybe, for them to see me, or poor Kathleen would send the darlins to give me the she dha veha. (The welcome.) Kathleen, avourneen machree, how my heart beats wid long to see you, asthore, and to see the weeny crathurs-glory be to Him that has left them to me-praise and glory to His name!"

He was now within a few perches of the door; but a sudden misgiving shot across his heart when he saw it shut, and no appearance of smoke from the chimney, nor a stir of life about the house. He advanced

"Mother of glory, what's this!—but, wait, let me rap again Kathleen Kathleen-are you widin, avourneen? OwenAlley arn't yees widin, childher? Alley sure I'm come back to yees!" and he rapped more loudly than before. A dark breeze swept through the bushes as he spoke, but no voice nor sound proceeded from the house-all was still as death within. "Alley!" he called once more to his little favourite -"I'm come home wid something for you, asthore; I did'nt forget you, alannah-I brought it from Dublin all the way -Alley!" but the chill murmur of the blast was the only reply."

Perhaps the most intense of all that he knew of misery is that which he then felt; but this state of suspense was soon terminated by the appearance of a neighbour who was pas sing.

66

Why, thin, Owen, but yer welcome home agin, my poor fellow; and I'm sorry that I hav'nt betther news for you, and so are all of us.'

He whom he addressed had almost lost the power of speech:

"Frank," said he, and he wrung his hand, "Whatwhat? was death among them? for the sake of heaven spake?"

The severe pressure which he received in return ran like a shock of paralysis to his heart. "Owen, you must be a man; every one pities yees, and may the Almighty pity and support yees!, She is, indeed, Owen, gone-the weeny fair haired child, your favorite, Alley, is gone. Yestherday she was berrid; and dacently the nabors attindid the place, and sent in, as far as they had it, both mate and drink to Kathleen and the other ones. Now, Owen, you have heard it; trust in God, and be a man."

A deep and convulsive throe shook him to the heart. "Gone! the fair-haired one!-Alley!-Alley !—the pride of both our hearts-the sweet, the quiet and the sorrowful child, that seldom played wid the rest but played wid mys! Oh, my darlin', my darlin'!-gone from my eyes for ever! God of glory! won't you support me this night of sorrow and misery!" But with a sudden yet profound sense of humility, he dropped on his knees at the threshold, and as the tears rolled down his convulsed cheeks, exclaimed, in a burst of sublime piety, not at all uncommon among our peasantry "I thank thee, O my God-I thank thee, and I put myself and my weeny ones, my pachee boght, into your hands, I thank thee, O God, for what has happened. Keep me up, and support me-och, I want it. You loved the weeny one, and you took her; she was the light of my eyes and the pulse of my broken heart; but you took her, blessed Father of heaven! and we can't be angry wid you for so doin'. Still if you had spared her-if-if-oh, blessed Father, my heart was in the very one you took-but I thank thee, O God! May she rest in pace, now and for ever, Amen!"

He then rose up, and slowly wiping the tears from his eyes, departed.

me afore; but och! oh! Blessed Mother, Frank, where's my Kathleen and the rest?-and why are they out of their own poor place?"

man.

"Owen, I tould you a while agone, that you must be a I gave you the worst news first, and what's to come doesn't signify much. It was too dear; for if any man could live upon it you could-you have neither house nor home, Owen, nor land. An ordher came from the agint-your last cow was taken, so 'twas all you had in the world-hembarrin' a thrifle-no, bad manners to it-no, you're not widout a home, any way--the family's in my barn, brave and comfortable compared to what your own house was, that let in the wather through the roof like a sieve; and while the same barn's to the fore, never say you want a home."

"God bless you, Frank, for that goodness to them and me. If you're not rewarded for it here, you will be in a better place. Och, I long to see Kathleen and the childher! but I'm fairly broken down, Frank, and hardly able to mark the ground, and, indeed no wondher, if you knew but all, but God's will be done! Poor Kathleen, I must bear up before her, or she'll break her heart, for I know how she loved the goolden-haired darlin' that's gone from us. Och, and how did she go, Frank, for I left her betther?

"Why, the poor girsha took a relapse, and wasn't strong enough to bear up aginst the last attack; but it's one comfort that you know she's happy."

Owen stood for a moment, and looking solemnly in his neighbour's face, exclaimed, in a deep and exhausted voice"Frank!"

"What are you goin' to say, Owen ?"

"The heart widin me's broke-broke!"

The large tears rolled down his weather-beaten cheeks, and he proceeded in silence to the house of his friend. There was, however, a feeling of sorrow in his words and manner which the other could not withstand. He grasped Owen's hand, and, in a low and broken voice, simply said-" Keep your spirits up-keep them up.

When they came to the barn in which his hapless family kad taken up their temporary residence, Owen stood for a moment to collect himself; but he was nervous, and trembled with repressed emotion. They then entered; and Kathleen, on seeing her beloved and affectionate husband, threw herself on his bosom, and for some time felt neither joy nor sorrowshe had swooned. The poor man kissed her lips with a tenderness at once mournful and deep. The children, on seeing their father safely returned, forgot their recent grief, and clung about him with gladness and delight. In the mean time Kathleen recovered, and Owen for many minutes could not check the loud and clamorous grief-now revived by the presence of her husband-with which the heartbroken and emaciated mother deplored her departed child; and Owen himself on once more looking among the little ones-on seeing her little frock hanging up, and her stool vacant by the fire-on missing her voice and her blue laughing eyes, and remembering the affectionate manner in which, as with a presentiment of death, she held up her little mouth and offered him the last kiss he slowly pulled the toys and cakes he had purchased for her out of his pocket, surveyed them for a moment, and then putting his hands on his face, bent his head upon his bosom, and wept with the vehement outpouring of a father's sorrow.

Owen, for another year, struggled on with his family, without success; his firm spirit was broken; employment he could not get, and even had it been regular, he would have found it impracticable to support his helpless wife and children by his labour. The next year unhappily was also one of sickness and want; the country was not only a wide waste of poverty, but overspread with typhus fever. One Saturday night he and the family found themselves without food; they had not tasted a morsel for twenty-four hours. There were murmurings and tears, and finally a low conversation among them, as if they had a conference upon some subject which filled them with both grief and satisfaction. In this alternation of feeling did they pass the time until the sharp gnawing of hunger was relieved by sleep. A keen December wind blew with a bitter blast on the following morning; the rain was borne along upon it with violence, and the cold was chill and piercing. Owen, his wife, and their six children, issued at daybreak out of the barn in which, ever since their removal from Tubber Derg, they had lived; their miserable fragments of bed clothes were tied about them; their pace was slow, need we say sorrowful, all were in tears. Owen and Kathleen went first, with the child upon the back and another in the hand of each. Their route lay by their former dwelling, the

door of which was open, for it had not been inhabited. On passing it they stood a moment; then with a simultaneous impulse both approached-entered-and took one last look of a spot to which their hearts clung with enduring attachment. They then returned; and as they passed, Owen put forth his hand, and picking a few small pebbles out of the wall, put them in his pocket.

"Farewell!" said he, "and may the blessing of God rest upon you! We now lave you for ever-we're goin' at last to beg our bread through the world wide, where none will know of the happy days we passed widin your walls! We must lave you; but glory be to the Almighty, we are goin' wid a clear conscience; we took no revenge upon ourselves, there's neither blood, nor murder, nor dishonesty upon our hands. Don't cry, Kathleen-don't cry, childher; there is still a good God above, who can and may do something, for us yet, glory be to his name!"

He then passed on with his family, which, including himself made, in all, eight paupers, being an additional burden upon the country, which might easily have been avoided. His land was above two years waste, and when it was ultimately taken, the house was a ruin; and the money allowed by the landlord for building a new one, together with the loss of two years' rent, would, if humanely directed, have enabled Owen McCarthy to remain a solvent tenant.

[The first part of this interesting story we abridged and altered from the "National Magazine," a periodical which was carried on in this city for a few months, with more spirit than success by P. D. Hardy, Esq. M. R. I. A. We never imagined for a moment that the talented ci-divant editor would take umbrage at a thing which is done daily on the other side of the water, more especially as he, in a note of one of his many publications, reprobates the idea of preventing any one from making an extract, and as we intended to mention our scource, and pay a compliment to that gentleman himself. But Mr. Hardy had it in his scope to republish the story, and had actually refused to permit the author of it, on any terms, to insert it in a new series of Irish Stories which are in the course of printing. Had we known this, our abridgment would not have appeared: but there it lay, in a defunct Magazine, and we thought no harm of appropriating a portion of it. The strangest part of the business is yet to come: the author voluntarily called at the office, and said that we had his hearty consent to publish the remaining portion, and scarcely more than a day elapses when he calls again, says he is now the proprietor, and taxes us with DISHONESTY for doing the very thing to which he gave his consent, as far as that consent was worth, and for not complying on the eve of going to press, with his desire of omitting the conclusion! If he had shown even the dimest shadow of an injury to his forthcoming volumes, there might be reason in the thing; but in the name of common sense, will a part of a story, which is beautiful throughout, appearing in a Penny Journal, affect the circulation of a work which, we understand, is to be as splendid as any ever published in London' It is really "too bad."

This is, properly, an Irish machine. The JAUNTING CAR is almost peculiar to our island. A Scotchman or an Englishman on first landing at Dublin or at Kingstown is struck with this peculiarity; but they soon learn to relish so agreeable and handsome a conveyance. It is true, that the cars for

hire do not present very great temptations: the miserable horses, and too often the squalid, dirty drivers, clamoring for a fare, and underbidding each other with fierce vociferation, while the furious driving, and incessant attempts to take ad