reputation is not such as to lead us to put much faith in any of his MSS.; but they certainly bear intrinsic evidence of being his.

But very few of the pieces seem to have any personal meaning, alluding to his own strange and eventful career. Here are a few lines, however, which seem to picture the desolation of spirit which must often have assailed him, when all the glowing visions of success which brightened his youth had suddenly fled, and left him at the opening of life with prospects darkened for ever.

Ireland seems to have been very fond of trying his hand at parodies, and he has left a number on many of the most popular songs and passages; but, though some of them are tolerable, it would seem not to be his forte. We give the following as a favorable specimen of his powers. It is entitled "Parody on the late funeral procession; addressed to John Bull and his progeny, who paid their sovereigns and half-sovereigns to see the show."

We will conclude our extracts by a translation of the well-known and beautiful little address of Mary Queen of Scots, on her departure from France.

"Adieu, entrancing soil of France,
O! cherished earth,
Thou, after birth,

Didst nourish long mine infant trance.
Adieu, for bliss must yield to pain,

The (ship) that parts our loves in twain,
Has but received one half of mine,

Part rests with thee, which nought can smother,

They bore the hearse trotting, a poor, paltry sight;

All eyes from the farce then turning;

were

That memory may recall the other."

Ireland seems to have composed with much care and labor. Many of the pieces above quoted are written first with pencil, and afterwards with ink, notwithstanding which the corrections, are so numerous as to render them al

most unintelligible. Of the translation just given, there are no less than three successive copies, two of them much

ing's light,

line of the original occurs the word

so long in France, should not have known that this is an old word for "navire" or ship, while its modern acceptation is the nave of a church. In the two first copies he has left a blank, not attempting to render it, while, in the last, as if driven to desperation, he has translated it literally "nave," which obviously renders the passage meaningless. We have ventured to restore the word to its proper signification, enclosing it in brackets.

In the above extracts we have not attempted to analyse either faults or beauties, but have given them more as matters of curiosity than as subjects of criticism, to show what were the productions which the wise connoisseurs of Unfortunately, "Vortigern" was, we the day could mistake for Shakspere's. believe, never printed, and but one or two short fragments remain of Henry

There is another verson of this last:

II., the great historical tragedy which was promised before the exposé took place, but which was never given to the world. It is, therefore, by his after pieces that his genius must be judged, and we must confess that either his

powers were wonderfully diminished by his misfortunes, or that there never has been an instance where so great a sensation has been produced by such inadequate causes. H. C. L.

Phila., June, 1845.

It was a lovely summer afternoon about 1787; one of those days late in the season, when the luxuriant beauty of summer is the more precious, because it must soon depart. The serenity of the skies, the blandness of the atmosphere, deepening to a refreshing coolness as the day drew near its close, the bright green of the foliage, and the clear blue of the waters added joyousness to the wonted cheerfulness of a holiday in the fair city of Bonn and its neighborhood. Numerous boats, with parties of pleasure on board were passing up and down the Rhine; numerous companies of old and young were assembled under the trees in the public gardens, or along the banks of the river, enjoying the scene and each other's conversation, or partaking of the rural banquet. But we have nought to do with any of these.

At some distance from the city, a wood bordered the river; this wood was threaded by a small sparkling stream, that flung itself over a ledge of rocks, and tumbled into the most romantic and quiet dell imaginable, for it was too narrow to be called a valley. The sides, almost precipitous, were richly lined with verdure; the trees overhung it so closely that at noon day this sweet nook was dark as twilight; and the profound silence was only broken by the monotonous murmur of the stream. A winding path led down to the secluded spot. Close by the stream half sat, half reclined, a youth just emerging from childhood. In fact, he could hardly be called more than a boy; for his frame showed but little developement of strength, and his regular features, combined with an excessive paleness, the

result of confinement, gave the impression that he was even of tender years. His eyes would have alone given him the credit of uncommon beauty; they were large, dark, and so bright that it seemed the effect of disease, especially in a face that rarely or never smiled.

A most unusual thing was a holiday for the melancholy lad. His home was an unhappy one. He had been treated from infancy with extreme harshness by his father, whose jealousy of his beautiful wife led him to throw suspicion on the birth of their most gifted son. Louis was unlike either of his brothers; this confirmed the hatred of his father, who loaded the helpless boy day after day with reproaches and instances of unkindness. His brothers received hourly indulgencies; Louis had none. They were praised for their application to study, or pardoned when they played truant; Louis was called a dunce, and punished severely for the slightest neglect. His brothers jeered and rallied him continually; he responded by sullen silence. The father boasted of them as his pride, and denounced Louis as an ungrateful blockhead, who had no aptitude nor taste for learning.

Besides that this cruel partiality sank deep into the boy's heart, and nourished a feeling of jealousy and discontent, Louis felt within himself that he in some degree deserved the charge of neglecting his lessons. His general studies were utterly distasteful and disgusting to him: and he found application to them impossible. His whole soul was given up to one passion-the love of music.

Oh, how precious to him were the

moments of solitude! He loved for this -even his poor garret room, meanly furnished, but rich in the possession of one or two musical instruments, whither he would retire at night when released from irksome labor, and spend hours of delight stolen from slumber, till nature yielded to exhaustion. But to be alone with nature-in her grand woodsunder the blue sky-with no human voice to mar the infinite harmony! how did his heart pant for this communion! Welcome, thrice welcome, the permission given to spend this holiday as he pleased; and while others of his age joined lively parties of their friends, he stole forth from the busy city, and wandered far as he dared, in search of solitude. His breast seemed to expand, and fill with the grandeur, the beauty, of all around him. The light breeze rustling in the leaves came to his ear laden with a thousand melodies; the very grass and flowers under his feet had a language for him. His spirit, long depressed and saddened, sprang into new life, and rejoiced with unutterable joy. Yes the lonely-friendless boy, to whom no father's heart was open, was happy-beyond measure happy!

Blessed is the poet; for him there is an inner life, more glowing, more radiant, more intense than the life of other men! For him there is a voice is nature, mute to others, that whispers of peace and love, and immortal joy. To him the visible enshrines the invisible: the earthly is but the shell of the godlike with which his spirit claims kindred. Wo to him, if he, the appointed interpreter of Heaven, do not reveal to men less favored the utterings of that mysterious voice; if he suffered not the light within him to radiate a glory, that it may enlighten the earth!

The hours wore on, and a dusky shadow fell over foliage and stream; and the solitary lad rose to leave his chosen retreat. As he ascended the narrow winding path, he was startled by hearing his own name; and presently a man apparently middle aged, and dressed plainly, stood just in front of him.

"Come back, Louis," said the stranger; "it is not so dark as it seems here: you have time enough this hour, to return to the city."

The stranger's voice had a thrilling, though melancholy sweetness; and

Louis suffered him to take his hand, and lead him back. They seated themselves in the shade beside the water. "I have watched you for a long while," said the stranger.

"You might have done better," returned the lad, reddening at the thought, of having been subjected to espoinage. "Peace-boy," said his companion: "I love you, and have done all for your good."

"You love me?" repeated Louis, surprised. "I have never met you before."

"Yet I know you well. Does that surprise you? I know your thoughts also. You love music better than aught else in the world; but you despair of excellence-because you cannot follow the rules prescribed."

Louis looked at the speaker with open eyes.

"Your masters, also, despair of you. The court organist accuses you of conceit and obstinacy; your father reproaches you; and all your acquaintance pronounce you a boy of tolerable abilities, spoiled by an ill disposition." The lad sighed.

"The gloom of your condition increases your distaste to all studies not directly connected with music, for you feel the need of her consolations. Your compositions, wild, melancholy as they are, embody your own feelings, and are understood by none of the connoisscurs."

"Who are you?" cried Louis-in deep emotion.

"No matter who I am; I come to give you a little advice, my boy. I compassionate, yet I revere you. I revere your heaven-imparted genius; I compassionate the woes those very gifts must bring upon you through life!"

The boy lifted his eyes again; those of the speaker seemed so bright, yet withal so melancholy, that he was possessed with a strong fear "I see you," continued the unknown solemnly, "exalted above homage, but lonely and unblessed in your starlike elevation. Yet the lot of such is fixed by Fate; and 'tis better, perhaps, that one should consume in the sacred fire, than that the many should lack illumination."

"I do not understand you;" said Louis-wishing to put an end to the interview.

"That is not strange, since you do not understand yourself," said the stran