"At this critical instant, the dead silence that reigned was broken by the warstrain of the Desmond, which burst out like a peal of thunder.

"At the soul-stirring sound, Geraldine, as if she were a statue starting into life, sprang forward, clasped her father's knees, and gasping forth- Be firm-honour! -liberty!' she raised her eyes and gazed on the Chieftain with a wild look of fixedness, as though the grasp of death was on her.

"Insensibility, that blessed oblivion of wretchedness, was denied to Geraldine. Thurles rushed to her assistance; but, with admirable presence of mind, Saunders threw himself between the lovers, and raising the Chieftain's daughter in his arms, he bore her from the chamber with the quickness of thought.

"I will be firm,' were the Desmond's first words, while all the veins of life appeared to throw their flushing tide into his face. I spurn your overtures, and reject your councils. Claim not ascendency for an apostate church, within a country where its rules were never recognised; redress the injuries that have been inflicted on this land; unite the English and Irish into one people, and endow them with the privileges of the laws to which they are required to submit. Grant this, and peace shall reign throughout the nation! Refuse it, and I will be the champion of Ireland! Her people shall arise to trample on the necks of their oppressors, and freedom shall be bought with blood!-This is the Desmond's answer.' "Rebel Chief, hear mine!' vociferated Ormond in a volley of wrath. I refuse your terms, and throw defiance on your threats. If you do not retract them, and submit within the space of four-and-twenty days, by proclamation you shall be declared a traitor!'

"When Ormond, with terrible energy, had denounced this warning, he seized Lord Thurles's arm, who clasped his hands convulsively together, and uttered a bitter exclamation of despair, as his father forced him from the audience-chamber of the Desmond.

"In a few moments the Peers rejoined their suite. Indignantly rejecting the repast that had been prepared for their refreshment, the whole party mounted their horses, and proceeding at full gallop, they were many miles on their road to the metropolis before the last beams of day had rested on the mountain's top.

"It is scarcely requisite to add, that the war-strain, which produced such a remarkable effect on the individuals who were engaged in the meeting we have just described, was struck up in obedience to a secret signal that had been concerted between the minstrel and the Doctor Saunders, when the former was stationed in the room adjacent to the audience-chamber."

To the praise of high moral feeling and fancy which this work evinces, we can conscientiously add that of a merit more rare in female writings, namely, that of extensive and minute historical information; and, on the whole, we can take our leave of the fair writer with an unfeigned congratulation, that, if her accomplished and public-spirited father, a man whose death was a loss to science and to Ireland, instead of prematurely falling a martyr to his professional courage and humanity, had lived to peruse his daughter's performance, though he might have pruned the luxuriance of its eloquence, he would have smiled with just pride at its fertility.

Dr. Crumpe published a Treatise on Opium of great merit, and an Essay on the best means of producing employment for the poor in Ireland, which gained the prize in the Royal Irish Academy, and evinces no ordinary depth of knowledge in Political Economy, at a time when the science was a novelty in Ireland. As a physician he was eminent. When he happened to observe one day in the street a wretched female pauper, who was stretched in what the bystanders thought a state of intoxication, which he recognized at once to be the debility of fever, he got the sufferer conveyed to an hospital where, in attending her, he caught the contagion, and died in the prime and high promise of his life, at the age of thirty.

A CHAPTER ON HEATHEN MYTHOLOGY.

"Ut sunt divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo."-Latin Grammar.

Juno, when old,

Was a bit of a scold,

And rul'd Jove jure divino;

When he went gallivaunting,
His steps she kept haunting,†

And she play'd, too, the devil with Ino.
Minerva bright

Was a blue-stocking wight,
Who lodg'd among the Attics;
And, like Lady V.

From the men did flee,
To study the mathematics.

Great Mars, we 're told,
Was a grenadier bold,
Who Vulcan sorely cuckold;
When to Rome he went,
He his children sent
To a she-wolf to be suckled.

Sol, the rat-catcher,

Was a great body-snatcher,

And with his bow and arrows

He Burked, through the trees,
Master Niobes,

As though they had been cock sparrows.

Diana, his sister,

When nobody kiss'd her,

Was a saint, (at least a semi-one,)

Yet the vixen Scandal

Made a terrible handle

Of her friendship for Endymion.

Not a Catholic agitator, (as some Brunswickers might imagine,) but Dionysius, a very orthodox tyrant, who lived before Popery was invented. He did not wait for clerical permission to put his enemies to death; and broke his promises as cleverly as if he had a hundred bulls in his pocket.-Scriblerus.

+"I'll search out the haunts

Of your fav'rite gallants,

And into cows metamorphose 'em."-Midas.

+ Apollo Smintheus. He destroyed a great many rats in Phrygia, and was probably the first "rat-catcher to the King."-Vet. Schol.

Full many a feat

Did Hercules neat,

The least our credit draws on ;

Jesting Momus, so sly,

Said, "Tis all my eye,"

And he call'd him Baron Munchausen.

Fair Bacchus's face

Many signs did grace,

(They were not painted by Zeuxis:)
Of his brewing trade

He a mystery made,*

Like our Calverts and our Meuxes.

There was Mistress Venus,
(I say it between us,)
For virtue cared not a farden:
There never was seen

Such a drabbish quean

In the parish of Covent Garden.
Hermes cunning
Poor Argus funning,

He made him drink like a buffer;
To his great surprise

Sew'd up all his eyes,

And stole away his heifer.

A bar-maid's place
Was Hebe's grace,
Till Jupiter did trick her;
He turn'd her away,

And made Ganimede stay

To pour him out his liquor.

Ceres in life

Was a farmer's wife,

But she doubtless kept a jolly house;
For Rumour speaks,

She was had by the Beaks
To swear her son Triptolemus.t

Miss Proserpine,

She thought herself fine,

But when all her plans miscarried,
She the Devil did wed,

And took him to bed,

Sooner than not be married.

But the worst of the gods,
Beyond all odds,

It cannot be denied, oh!

Is that first of matchmakers,
That prince of housebreakers,

The urchin, Dan Cupido.

66

Mystica vannus Iacchi."

M.

This was either a porter-brewer's dray, or more probably the Van of his druggist.Scrillerus.

There is some difference of opinion concerning this fact; the lady, like so many others in her interesting situation, passed through the adventure under an alias. But that Ceres and Terra were the same, no reasonable person will doubt; and there.can be no serious objection to the little trip being thus ascribed to the goddess in question. -Scribierus.

THE WOES OF CHANGE.

It is most cheering to find, in revisiting those from whom time or accident may have separated us, that a change of circumstances is all that has passed upon them, and not a change of feelings; that the same eager aspirations after what is good and great still animate them; that they still cherish an undying hatred of oppression wherever it may be found-an unquenchable sympathy with virtue, no matter what may be its guise; that their perceptions of" whatever is pure, and lovely, and of good report," are now, as always, ardent, and their forth-reachings after it sincere; and that, though the outward form and framework may be somewhat worn and fretted away by time, the master spirit still reigns supreme within.

It was with feelings of this description that I gazed, in a recent-interview, on the venerable historian of the glorious Medici. Years many, many, had elapsed since we last parted, and by vast changes had they been marked! I bade him adieu as he stepped into his carriage, loudly cheered by the multitude-at the head of the poll-secure of his election for Liverpool--in the possession of acknowledged affluence, and, what he coveted much more ardently, literary distinction. I now met him in his pretty garden in Lodge-lane, busied about his flowers, and boasting of his show of hyacinths. I left him in the bustle, and heat, and fervour of matured life, and flushed with political excitement -I found him with the silvery locks of age thinly scattered over his noble brow, the very picture of a placid and contented old age.

Yet the mind, the man, was the same. His eye kindled, and his voice swelled into a deeper firmer tone, as he expressed his pleasure at the abolition of the Test Act, and his persuasion that intolerance was daily losing ground. He pointed to the article on the Forest Gardening in the "Quarterly," said to be written by Sir Walter Scott; and after entering keenly into the merits of the plan, and the probabilities of its general adoption, gracefully diverged into criticism-if that can be called criticism in which there is no dash of gall, not an atom of malevolence on the mannerism and peculiarities of the "wizard of the age."

In point of happiness, too, the biographer of Lorenzo seemed to have lost nothing by the exchange of the sumptuous splendour of his former residence for the quiet elegance of his suburban villa. If the traces of age were visible on his cheek, peevish discontent was not. Time, 'tis true, had planted here and there a wrinkle on his brow; but the deep furrows of care were wanting. He talked cheerfully, I might almost say gaily. Nor shall I ever forget the spirit, taste, and tenderness with which he quoted this stanza from Thomson, as a faithful transcript of his own feelings.

"I care not, Fortune, what you me deny,

You cannot rob me of fair Nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,

Through which Aurora shows her brightening face;

You cannot bar my constant feet to trace

The woods or lawns, by living stream at eve;

Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,

And I their toys to the great children leave;

Of fancy, reason, virtue, you cannot me bereave!"

I left him. I was hurrying on to Chester, and hastily stepped on board

the packet which was to convey me so far on my route as Eastham. "You that are ever talking," said my companion, Mr. Aspinall, "about change, change, as if you were Rothschild's cousin-german,―turn your attention this way. Observe that individual-there-now you have him. He is leaning against the paddle-box, and looking, at this very moment, towards you.”

I did as I was directed. My eye rested on a middle-aged, gentlemanly-looking man, neatly though shabbily dressed, and evidently shrinking from the observance of those around him. His mild blue eye, though it looked sad and sunken, preserved its habitual expression of tranquil intelligence. He stood by the side of the vessel, and gazed abstractedly on the port she was quitting; though ever and anon there was a quivering of the lip and a contraction of the brow, which seemed to indicate that the reverie which occupied his mind was any thing but pleasing to him.

"That man," said Aspinall, was once Mayor of Liverpool-possessed property to an amount little short of half a million of moneyand entertained the present King (when he visited our port as Prince of Wales) in a style of splendour and on a scale of expense which some of his Majesty's suite yet remember and marvel at."

Such, thought I, as I again turned to gaze on him, is one of the many wondrous changes which fleeting time procureth!

We had reached Eastham, and the myrmidons of the inn stepped on board in search of the passengers' luggage. One of them accosted the old gentleman, and begged "for his Honour's portmanteau."-"Thank ye, friend," his colour seemed to mount unconsciously-"it's but light; and for the distance I have to travel I can carry it myself."

"That man," whispered Aspinall, "rarely came into Liverpool but with four horses to his carriage, and three footmen behind it!"

How rarely an entire change of circumstances is not accompanied by a thorough change of feelings! The last time I saw Miss O'Neill was as Monimia, in the " Orphan." I looked around that crowded and

brilliant house--it was her benefit-there were few countenances which bore not traces of tears. The first time I saw Mrs. Wrixon Becher was hanging over her brother's chair a few days previous to his departure from England. One arm was thrown around the soldier's neck, in the other she held her little girl-caressing the one, charging the other to be frequent and punctual in his letters from India; and at times, when her voice failed her, mingling tears with the kisses which she planted on her baby's brow. Here, then, under an entire change of circumstances, were the self-same feelings. The mind was unaltered: the woman was unchanged: she

"Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart,

And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers,"

never could have maintained her despotic sway over the minds of her auditors, had she not possessed within herself those exquisite feelings, those tender and gushing sensibilities which found their natural and appropriate vent as a sister and a mother.

But of all the woes of change those perhaps were the most unexampled and appalling which attended "Betsy Cains." Alas! my memory yet runs riot upon the beauties of this unfortunate. Still do I commiserate that fate which I could neither avert nor remedy. "Betsy