when the family was there. Having written on my card what was my object, that I had made the journey from England for it, and added the name of a gentleman well known to Mr. Tighe, who had wished me to do so, I requested the servant to present that to Mr. Tighe. He did so; and returned saying, "Mr. Tighe said I was at liberty to see the grounds, but not the house; and he had nothing further to say"!

My astonishment may be imagined. The servant seemed a very decent, modest sort of fellow, and I said-"Good heavens! does Mr. Tighe think I am come all the way from England to see his grounds, when ten thousand country squires could show much finer? Was there no picture of Mrs. Tighe, the poetess, that I might be allowed to see?" "He thought not; he did not know." "Was there no statue?" "He thought not; he never heard of any." "How long had he been there?" "Five years." "And never heard of a statue or a monument to Mrs. Tighe, the poetess?" "No, never! He had never heard Mrs. Tighe the poetess spoken of in the family! But if there were any monument, it must be at the church at Innertioque!" I thanked him for his intelligence, the only glimpse of information I had got at Rosanna, or Woodstock, and drove off.

The matter was now clear. The very servants who had lived years in the family had never heard the name of Mrs. Tighe, the poetess, mentioned! These present Tighes had been marrying the daughters of lords-this a daughter of the Duke of Richmond's, and Dan Tighe, a daughter of Lord Crofton. They were ashamed, probably, that any of their name should have degraded herself by writing poetry, which a man or woman without an acre may do. When I reached the church at Innertioque, the matter received a most striking confirmation. There, sure enough, was the monument, in a small mausoleum in the churchyard. It is a recumbent figure, laid on a granite altarshaped basement. The figure is of a freestone resembling Portland stone, and is lying on its side as on a sofa, being said, by the person who showed it, to be the position in which she died, on coming in from a walk. The execution of the whole is very ordinary, and if really by Flaxman, displays none of his

genius. I have seen much better things by a common stonemason. There is a little angel sitting at the head, but this has never been fastened down by cement. The monument was, no doubt, erected by the widower of the poetess, who was a man of classical taste, and, I believe, much attached to her. There is no inscription yet put upon the tomb, though one, said to be written by her husband, has long been cut in stone for the purpose. In the wall at the back of the monument, aloft, there is an oblong-square hole left for this inscription, which I understood was lying about at the house, but no single effort had been made to put it up, though it would not require an hour's work, and though Mrs. Tighe has been dead six and thirty years!

This was decisive! If these two gentlemen, nephews of the poetess, who are enjoying the two splendid estates of the family, Woodstock and Rosanna, show thus little respect to the only one of their name that ever lifted it above the mob, it is not to be expected that they will show much courtesy to strangers. Well is it that Mrs. Tighe raised her own monument, that of immortal verse, and wrote her own epitaph, in the hearts of all the pure and loving, not on a stone which sordid relatives, still fonder of earth than stone, may consign to the oblivion of a lumber-room.

That these nephews of the poetess do look after the earth which her husband left behind him, though not after the stone, I learned while waiting in the village for the sexton. I fell into conversation with the woman at the cottage by which I stood. It was as follows:

Self." Well, your landlord has a fine estate here. I hope he is good to you."

Woman." Well, your honour, very good, very good."

Self." Very good? What do you call very good? I find English and Irish notions of goodness don't always agree.” Woman." Well, your honour, we may say he is mixed; mixed, your honour."

Self."How mixed?"

Woman.-"Why, your honour, you see I can't say that he was very good to me."

Self." How was that?"

Woman.-"Why, your honour, we were backward in our rent, and the squire sent for my husband, and told him that if he did not pay all next quarter he would sell us up. My husband begged he would give him a little more time, as a neighbour said he had some money left him, and would take part of our land at a good rent, and then we should be able to pay but now we got little, and the children were many, and it was hard to meet and tie. 'Oh!' said the squire, if you are going to get all that money, you will be able to pay more rent. I must have two pounds a year more!'"

Self.-"Gracious heaven! But, surely, he did not do such a

thing?"

Woman." But he did it, your honour. The neighbour had no money, it was a hum; he never took the field of us at all; we never were able to get a penny more from any one than we gave; but when my husband went to pay the rent at the next rent day, the steward would not take it. He said he had orders to have two pounds a year more; and from that day we have had it regularly to pay."

What a fall out of the poetry of Psyche to the iron realities of Ireland! This screwing system on the poor, which you find almost everywhere, soon makes us cease to wonder at the wretchedness and the wild outrages of the people there. At one splendid place where I was, the lord of the estate and the gentry were all bowling away on the Sunday morning to a church three miles distant. When I asked why they did not stay at their own, this was the reply-"The clergyman had given great offence, by saying in one of his sermons, that their dogs were better lodged and fed than their neighbours!" Poor Ireland! where such is the distortion of circumstances, that the poor are too poor to have the truth told about them to ears polite even from the pulpit; and where the squirearchy live in splendid houses, and in state emulating the peerage, surrounded by hovels and wretchedness, such as the world besides cannot parallel. The condition of Ireland is fatal in its effects on all classes. The

poor are reduced to a misery that is the amazement of the whole world; and the squirearchy, who live in daily contemplation of this misery, are rendered utterly callous to it. They go on putting on the screw of high rental to the utmost limit, and surrounded, as it were, only by serfs, naturally grow selfish beyond our conceptions in England, haughty, and ungracious. I believe that no country, except Russia, can furnish such revolting examples of ignorant and churlish insolence as Ireland can from the ranks of its solitary squirearchy-so utterly opposed to the generally generous, courteous, and hospitable character of its people.

"Where is the youth for deeds immortal born,
Who loved to whisper to the embattled corn,
And clustered woodbines, breathing o'er the stream,
Endymion's beauteous passion for a dream!
Why did he drop the harp from fingers cold,

And sleep so soon with demigods of old!

Oh, who so well could sing Love's joys and pains?
He lived in melody, as if his veins

Poured music; from his lips came words of fire,
The voice of Greece, the tones of Homer's lyre."

Ebenezer Ellioti.

WE come now to one whose home and haunts on the earth were brief,

"Who sparkled, was exhaled, and went to Heaven."

John Keats was one of those sweet and glorious spirits who descend like the angel messengers of old, to discharge some divine command, not to dwell here. Pure, ethereal, glowing with the fervency of inward life, the bodily vehicle appears but assumed for the occasion, and as a mist, as a shadow, is ready to dissolve the instant that occasion is served. They speak and