I sank almost without a struggle, and becoming seriously indisposed, was confined to my bed for a week, and for more than a month to the house. When I was able to crawl out, I moved mechanically towards the Courts. On entering the Hall, I met my friend the king's counsel who had formerly advised the Bethesda; he was struck by my altered appearance, inquired with much concern into the particulars of my recent illness, of which he had not heard before, and, urging the importance of change of air, insisted that I should accompany him to pass a short vacation then at hand at his country-house in the vicinity of Dublin. The day after my arrival there, I received a second letter from my agent, containing a remittance, and holding out more encouraging prospects for the future. After this I recovered wonderfully, both in health and spirits. My mind, so agitated of late, was now all at once in a state of the most perfect tranquillity-from which I learned, for the first time, that there is nothing like the excitement of a good practical blow (provided you recover from it) for putting to flight a host of imaginary cares. I could moralise at some length on this subject, but I must hasten to a conclusion. The day before our return to town, my friend had a party of Dublin acquaintances at his house: among the guests was the late Mr. D, an old attorney in considerable business, and his daughter. In the evening, though it was summer-time, we had a dance. I led out Miss D; I did so, I seriouly declare, without the slightest view to the important consequences that insued. After a dance, which (I remember it well) was to the favourite and far-famed "Leg-of-Mutton jig," I took my partner aside, in the usual way, to entertain her. I began by asking if "she was not fond of poetry?"-She demanded, "why I asked the question ?" I said, "because I thought I could perceive it in the expression of her eyes."-She blushed, "protested I must be flattering her, but admitted that she was."-I then asked, "if she did not think the Corsair a charming poem ?"-She answered, "Oh, yes !"—" And would not she like to be living in one of the Grecian islands?"-"Oh, indeed she would."—"looking upon the blue waters of the Archipelago and the setting sun, associated as they were with rest."—"How delightful it would be!" exclaimed she." And so refreshing!" said I. I thus continued till we were summoned to another sett. She separated from me with reluctance, for I could see that she considered my conversation to be the sublimest thing that could be. The effect of the impression I had made soon appeared. Two days after I received a brief in rather an important case from her father's office. I acquitted myself so much to his satisfaction, that he sent me another, and another and finally installed me as one of his standing counsel for the junior business of his office. The opportunities thus afforded me, brought me by degrees into notice. In the course of time general business began to drop in upon me, and has latterly been increasing into such a steady streain, that I am now inclined to look upon my final success as secure.

I have only to add, that the twelve years I have passed at the Irish Bar have worked a remarkable change in some of my early tastes and opinions. I no longer, for instance, trouble my head about immortal fame; and, such is the force of habit, have brought myself to look upon a neatly folded brief, with a few crisp bank of Ireland notes on the back of it, as beyond all controversy the most picturesque object upon which the human eye can alight.

LONDON LYRICS.

Morning Calls.

AMID the reams of new joint schemes
With which the press abounds,
To give us ease, cheap milk and cheese,
And turn our pence to pounds;
No patriot yet has torn the net
That social life enthrals,

Denounc'd the crime of killing Time,
And banish'd Morning Calls.

When, spurning sports, in Rufus' courts,
Grim Law coif-headed stalks;

"Twixt three and four when merchants pour
'Round Gresham's murmuring walks;
When, with bent knees, our kind M. P.'s
Give up e'en Tattersall's

On bills to sit,-'tis surely fit

We give up Morning Calls.

On clattering feet up Regent-street

To Portland-place you roam,

Where Shoulder-tag surveys your nag,

And answers-" Not at home."

Thus far you win; but, if let in,

The conversation drawls

Through hum-drum cheeks—what mortal seeks Aught else at Morning Calls?

Your steed, all dust, you heedless trust

To some lad standing idle;

But while you stay he trots away,
And pawns your girth and bridle.
Your case you state; the magistrate
Cries- Why not go to stalls?
When loungers meet, let horses eat,
And have their Morning Calls."

To say that town is emptier grown,
That Spanish bonds look glum,
That Madame Pasta's gone at last,
And Ma'amselle Garcia 's come;
To say you fear the atmosphere
Is grown too hot for balls,
Is all that they can have to say
Who meet at Morning Calls.

While Fashion's dames clung round St. James,

The deed might soon be done;

But now when ton 's bulky grown

She claims all Paddington.

From Maida-hill to Pentonville,

The very thought appals,

I really will bring in a bill

To banish Morning Calls!

THERE is no literary labour which tends so directly and so effectually to soften national animosities as that of a novelist, whose works will be read by the people whom it is necessary to conciliate. It is one of the happy circumstances attendant on the human condition, that the strongest prejudices wear quickly away, when those who have cherished them meet personally to enjoy the pleasures or transact the business of life. At a distance we see nothing but the great difference of character which provokes our dislike, or the opposition of creed and party which excites our spleen or our contemptuous pity. But when we become acquainted with those who have stood for mere personifications of unpleasant habits or detested dogmas, we discover a thousand points in which they command our sympathy, and vindicate their fellowship with us as men and brothers. Independent even of the moral approbation which their virtues may compel, the mere observance of their indifferent acts awakens that sympathy which man must feel for every thing human; our own individual consciousness of the passages of that journey which all are travelling, gives us an interest in those wayfarers whom we once despised; and, whatever we may still assert of systems and of bodies, we cannot help extending some allowance to those who, like us, eat, drink, laugh, love, and die! Bigotry dissolves. no where so soon as at the fire-side, for social intercourse steals away its damnatory clauses, or extracts their spirit and leaves them harmless words. And this good work a novelist, endued with graphic power and with kindly disposition, who brings before us the individual traits of the people, whom we have estimated only as a whole, in a great measure performs. How large a portion of Englishmen were accustomed to consider the inhabitants of the northern part of the island as mere abstractions of selfishness and pride; as sometimes utterly cold and worldly, and sometimes allowing fanaticism to shed warmth into cunning. But the Author of Waverley has written, and the delusion is at end; he has made us know his countrymen, and therefore like them; and has given to Scotland a large empire in the imagination, which may almost make amends for the loss of that political independence which he makes powerful in its dying struggles.

It will be well if other novelists, many of whom will be required to perform the work of this one mighty magician, can do the same good office for Ireland. This is the more desirable, because, in addition to the tangible points of difference, which agitate the senate and stir into activity all the ignorance and bigotry of Englishmen, there is a vast mass of undefined prejudice and lazy dislike of the Irish, which a writer of works of amusement only can remove. Those who curse the ill-fated nation, as a troublesome and disagreeable race, and who would turn with disgust from the massive evidence before parliament respecting its sufferings, may condescend to be entertained with a well-written novel, and may, perchance, find these pictures more enticing and almost as true. The country also offers rich materials to the skilful painter of passions and manners. Its virtues, its follies, its miseries, and its crimes, are romantic. An excellent police has not banished inci

*To-day in Ireland; in Three volumes. small 8vo.

dent even from its highways; nor has civilization yet destroyed the varieties of character, and reduced men to a tame and uninteresting level. Poor in other respects, it is as rich in robberies, murders, secret assemblies, and sudden and terrible catastrophes, as the gentlest reader could wish; and might soon furnish a circulating library with true romance. Then it abounds in singularities of manner, which are rarely devoid of those humanizing and redeeming traits by which a great master always takes occasion to win affection for his personages. There is something superficial, undoubtedly, in the whole character of the people; their passions are violent, rather than earnest; and their intellect wants depth and the power of contemplation ;-but for this very reason, they are better adapted to the purposes of a writer, whose business is not with the depths of sentiment or throught, but with the chances and vicissitudes of life, and the curious figures which emboss its surface. Miss Edgeworth and Lady Morgan have made excellent use of the peculiarities of their countrymen; but there remains yet much land to be possessed; and we are glad to welcome the author before us, as one of the most promising labourers in this vast and sparingly cultivated vineyard.

The purpose of our author, as his title imports, is to give sketches of the present condition of Ireland;-and though it is not usually the province of the novelist or the poet (unless he be the laureate) to describe the events of "to-day;" yet Ireland in this, as in many other cases, forms an exception to general rules. The circumstances, though near in point of time and space, are sufficiently distant from common experience to justify the selection of them for such a purpose; though there are some personal allusions which good taste should have spared. We must excuse this, however, from an Irish writer in his first essay, as, among the many excellencies of his nation, good taste is not likely to shew itself immediately. We must be satisfied with good feeling, perpetual vivacity, a quick discernment of the niceties of character, and a happy sense of the ridiculous, which are manifested, abundantly in these volumes.

The first, the longest, and perhaps the most interesting of these tales, is entitled "The Carders," and affords a glance at the manners and passions of those fierce and cruel barbarians. There is no attempt to invest the excesses of these bands with the dignity of treason; but their aimless ferocity, their want of moral and even physical courage, and their half-witted cunning, are described by the author with an evident regard to impartiality and truth. His hero, the descendant of a poor but honourable and ancient family, is a lad of high mettle; who is involved by accident in the affairs of the malcontents; forced to take an oath in their midnight cavern to save his life; and afterwards tried for a murder which one of his father's servants has committed on a spy. There are many picturesque situations in this tale, and some excellent sketches of character among which O'Rourke, a low schoolmaster, who retains a professional tinge when pledged to the darkest and most desperate designs; Crostwhaite, an Orange curate and Justice of the Peace, who hungers and thirsts after the blood of rebels and the good things of the church; and Mr. Plunket, an amiable and indolent magistrate, on whose claret and virtues we repose from the bustle of the work, will not soon be forgotten. The journey of the schoolmaster to the place of execution, and the trial of young Dillon the hero, who is saved at the moment of conviction by the appearance of the real mar

derer, are painted with great vividness and breadth of colouring. There is also, of course, a love affair; but, as the newspapers say of causes very important to the parties but not very lively, it is "totally destitute of public interest." We wish our rising novelists would not in this respect imitate the author of Waverley.

The second tale "Connemara," is very amusing; but w we are sorry to say that its hero is no other than Mr. Martin of Galway, who, under the appellation of Dick M'Loughlin, is painted, like one of the bullocks he befriends," as large as life, and twice as natural." The author has evidently intended no unkindness; but we object on principle, to the introduction of real and living persons into works of fiction which serves to foster the depraved taste for personalities, which is the great vice of modern literature. Mr. Martin, to be sure, lives very much for the public; and we dare say that, with the magnanimity which has led him so often to expose his person to be fired at and his humanity to be ridiculed, he will not grudge the readers of this tale a hearty laugh, though his real or supposed peculiarities should contibute to raise it.

"Old and New Light" is the least agreeable tale in these volumes. It is intended to exhibit the absurdities of the ultra evangelical party, and to shew practically the mischief of two violent an interference with the religious prejudices of the peasantry. This is one of the few good designs to which a work of fiction cannot properly contribute; for it is impossible freely to ridicule singularities of doctrine and pretensions to inward feeling without bordering on the profane. Our author has wisely forborne from a vivid description of the sect, and has consequently been duller than he would otherwise have been in his descriptions. To give a factitious interest to this piece, he has introduced Sir Harcourt Lees, under the name of Sir Starcourt Gibbs ; but this personality is the less excusable, as, to say the truth, the Rev. Baronet is not in the least amusing.

The last story, called "The Toole's Warning," is in another and much better style; and though short, is full of terrific and enchaining interest. It is founded on a wild Irish superstition, which the author has contrived to invest with the air of familiarity, that renders it fearfully real. We will not deprive our readers of the pleasures of curiosity by a broader hint, than that few things have taken stronger hold of our fancy than "the little parlour" in the deserted house, which has been shut up since the last frightful warning was heard there, and is found as it was left, with the dusty and mouldering appliances of comfort, the table set out for a small party, and the cards with which they were playing!

We ought not to take our leave of the author, without acknowledging his entire freedom from the violence and the cant of party, which is as rare as it is pleasant, when Ireland is the theme. He sees fair play between all parties, and is the champion of nothing but human nature in all its variable aspects. There are some extravagances of language sprinkled through this work, which we doubt not will be corrected by time. But, on the whole, his tales abound with incident, situation, and character, and are told in a spirit and manner calculated to excite cordial feelings towards the country in which his scenes are laid, and hearty wishes for his complete success in the walk of literature which he has chosen.

VOL. X. No. 56.-1825.