morning-come early-come to breakfast." "No," said the Londoner, "I never go out before breakfast; but I shall breakfast early, and be with you soon after." The next day, shortly after nine A. M., he was at the solicitor, not a thousand miles from St. Ste"Mr. W. is at home,

phen's-green.

I presume?" "No, sir; he's out.' “İndeed!—will he be long?" "It's hard to say, sir; he's gone to try a young horse, and said he'd be back to breakfast." "And when will that be ?"

"Faith, sir, that very much depends upon the young horse." The Londoner returned to his hotel, and thence returned to London in disgust, protesting that it was impossible to do business in Ireland.

No doubt, the common vulgar notion in England concerning the Irish is, that they are a wild, rollicking, harumscarum set of people-exceedingly fond of fun and fighting, and kicking up a

row.

And this perhaps is not a very erroneous view of the public character of the lower orders of Irish, especially in the great English towns. But that which is much more extraordinary and interesting, and not less true, in the character of the Irish peasantry is, their patience and resignation in the midst of such misery and desolate distress as would almost drive an Englishman mad. I believe it is true that in times of famine many of the poor people "die, and make no sign." Deep mournful dejection takes possession of them the fierceness which possesses them in more plenteous times passes away-crossing their hands upon their breasts, they submit to the agony of hunger as the will of God, and then sink down, and are no more. An author of much sensibility who wrote from the "far west" ascribes this in some degree to a spirit of indolence inherent in their disposition. Speaking of the comforts which a little more active industry on the part of the peasantry of the west coast might obtain for them, this writer says " "sure it was too much trouble entirely,' reconciles them to the smoke which darkens their little cabin, and the rain that patters through the unthatched roof; and the same feeling inclines them to lie down and die, when Providence has blasted their

potato crop, and deprived them of the fruit of their labours. Hard as was the task, it was sometimes necessary to refuse that relief which could not be extended to all in full proportion to their wants; but never was the refusal met with a murmur or a reproach. On one occasion, God help us' was the answer of the poor man with an expressive movement of his shoulders, God help us, then, for if your honour can do nothing for us there is no one that can.' There is something peculiarly touching in this submissive patience; and clamorous and reiterated supplication is much more easily repulsed than the God bless you; sure it can't be helped then.'”* The same writer then comes to a more specific instance of this patience in the following narrative :-"I went yesterday to see a woman who had been lately confined of her seventh child. I found her in what you would call the lowest ebb of distress; but still she uttered no complaint, and the prevailing expression of her countenance was contentment even to a striking degree. Her cabin was without a window, the holes in the door were filled with rainwater, and of the two opposite doors one was open to give light to the room, the other off its hinges rested against the framework, and but partially protected the woman from the effects of a thorough draught of air. It was impossible not to recollect the comforts with which even the meanest of your English cottagers are surrounded at this trying moment, and to compare them with the privations endured uncomplainingly by this poor creature. Her scanty bed of straw was spread upon the damp floor; a single blanket her only covering, while her head was literally supported by a block of wood. Yet she asked for nothing; and her eyes glistened with tears of gratitude while she thanked us with a profusion of blessing for the trifling assistance she had received. Indeed then I was loth to be troubling your honour after all you have done for me and mine,' was her reply when I reproved her for not having sooner apprized us of her illness." The amiable writer of all this subsequently states his opinion that this woman's supineness in health

they may be ill-housed, ill-clothed, and ill-fed, without being wretched in mind. The late Archbishop of Cashel, who was an Englishman, when examined before a committee of the House of Lords, as to the character and condition of the Irish peasantry, said that the gratitude of the Irish poor was great. They were accustomed to act from immediate feeling and impulse, and very much disposed to receive every favour with a respectful gratitude, almost bordering on excess. Now when we reflect that gratitude is one of the most pleasurable emotions of the human breast, we shall not be surprised to hear the archbishop continuing in the following strain:"I do not consider them as what I have often heard them called, un unhappy people, for they appear to me to be the happiest I ever saw. Their cheerfulness is remarkable, and with respect to their mode of living, I confess I do not know whether they are not as well off, and even better, than some of the poor peasantry of England. They generally have as much food as they want, such as it is, when they can get employment, and their children appear stronger than the children here. It is true they usually go bare-footed, and their cabins are miserable, but they seem happy, and their humanity towards each other is very great.' A very fair witness was the worthy archbishop, and yet it is most true that though their humanity towards each other is very great, yet they break each other's heads with very little ceremony, and sometimes beat each other to death with a savage ferocity which is quite shocking to contemplate.

Let us return, however, to the judgment of Archbishop Lawrence, that the Irish peasantry are, upon the whole, the happiest he ever saw, and with this cheerful view, I shall beg leave to close this imperfect and desultory notice of Irish character.

I

am very sensible that I have touched upon, rather than worked out, many of those points of deep interest which must occur to those who study the ordinary language, and manners, and modes of thought of the Irish people. But what has been said may perhaps

throw some light upon the difficulties which stand in the way of coming to a distinct general judgment upon the national character of the Irish, and upon the reason of the very conflicting opinions which are held regarding that character. The end of the whole is, that the most certain thing about Irish character is its uncertainty. You may find out the elements of it, but as these do not work in combination, but separately at different times, according to the impulses of varying circumstances, the character is not only uncertain, but it is ever developing opposite extremes, such as mirth and sadness, pity and ferocity, delicacy and rudeness, generosity and vengeance.

--

I have purposely abstained from entering upon that wide field of speculation, the effect upon Irish character of political and religious institutions. For the sake of candour, however, it may be as well to avow the opinion, that ardent men on either side attribute much more effect to these institutions than they ought. I believe that the more any man will study Irish history-if he do so in a calm and patient spirit the more reason he shall find to conclude that the national character has been all along pretty much the same that before the English invaded Ireland, as well as after, the Irish were an imaginative, passionate race, not holding well toge ther-not willing to submit to any fixed rule of conduct-more noble in their sentiments, and in their occasional actions, than in the general practice of their lives-romantic in their friendships, fierce and cruel in their enmities. And at this day, I for one think it very doubtful, that if the peasantry of the south were converted to the Church of England, and the peasantry of the north converted to the Church of Rome, it would make any very great difference in the moral and social character of the two sets of people; the one would still be Scotch, and the other Irish.

Further, as to the very important effects which many writers, and very intelligent writers too, attribute to what they call the subduing oppression of English laws and English government, it seems to me that facts

do not by any means bear out their conclusions. We have seen that Mr. Moore, writing in the present century, describes the last as one which, on grounds of national sentiment, the Irishman should regard as disgraceful. With all deference to Mr. Moore, I must take leave to differ from this opinion. True it is, that during the greater part of the last century, the majority of the Irish people were not free, but lived and died under the confinement and pressure of the penal laws. Yet that very time produced the men whose names are now the renown of Ireland. In poetry, in oratory, in general litera

ture, how bright with genius, and radiant with glory are the names of the Irishmen of the eighteenth century. When shall Ireland look upon their like again? Setting other names aside, memorable as they are upon the roll of Irish fame, ought an Irishman to call that century "disgraceful," which produced a Goldsmith and a Grattan a century at the commencement of which Swift flourished, and at the close of which Edmund Burke finished his career, and went down to the grave amid the blaze of an undying glorious fame? ANGLO-HIBERNICUS.

WORDSWORTH concludes one of those divine sonnets which are as lullabys to the tired spirit, in the glorious line we have inscribed our article with. The name of Izaak Walton has not diedon the contrary it has become with us quite a household word; but his literary merits are, we grieve to say, in great measure forgotten; and it is the "heavenly memory" of these we would be glad to revive in our present article.

Long and reverently have we dwelt over his honest, heart-speaking communications; and we confess ourselves fervent worshippers at their holy shrine. His kind and winning tonehis gentle and lowly feelings—and his familiar colloquies, (familiar in their friendliness,) are all so characteristic of the writer, that a delightful task will it be to plead for him with our readers, and invite them to the same feast of nectared sweets which we have long revelled at ourselves.

And we have a particular object in view, in bringing him forward at this present season. We would fain see our people's tastes improved; never needed they amendment more than just

now.

We would be glad to hear them calling for more solid food, than the cuisines of the penny pantologies afford them. The genius of the present day-let who will deny it-is petty and trifling, when compared with our national character; and the surest proof of this may be found in the almost universal neglect of the study of our sound and vigorous English prose literature.

Our people now-a-days look far more to amusement than to original thinking. Hence in an age which has been pregnant with great minds, we find but few productions that are of a lasting character-few that we can point to as likely to survive many generations. The public taste is superficial; and our authors have themselves increased it by quietly submitting to, not conscientiously opposing it; and by writing to please, not to reform. And those amongst us who look for better things, are constrained to turn to a continental school for that freshness of mental culture, which our instructors at home have denied us. We find a vigour and solidity of thought in our foreign literary percep

tors to charm and captivate; and in the modern fiction writers of Allemagne for instance, recognise suitable compeers of our own Swifts, and Sternes, and Goldsmiths. Goethe and Schiller are now almost as much read as Shakspeare; and the ballads of Bürger are infinitely better known than the collection of our English ones which was made by Bishop Percy.

We do not regret these things, we can satisfactorily account for them with ourselves, and were it necessary, could show how such exchange was naturally to be expected. And ra

ther-far rather-would we have our maidens' blue eyes filled with the dews of sympathy, and see their dear cups overflow and send the tear-drops swinging along the silky lash, until they fall clear and pure as she who sheds them, pat, pattering upon the leaf, over the pages of Jean Paul Friedrich Richter, for example, than would we put into their hands perhaps the last new novel.

There is

a sickliness, an unnatural distension, in our modern books, which painfully indicate their forced growth. When we take them in hand, we know that their seed was not first dead as to earth; that then there came not up the tender blade to be watered by the dews of heaven, and expanded by the breath of the wandering winds; that after the blade there was no time-formed ear, nor at last-oh! glorious consummation-the full corn in the ear. But on the contrary we are continually reminded that they sprang up in a night or two; like those hideous fungi, whose smell is rankness and whose taste is sweet but poisonous.

We do not regret, we repeat, the foreign taste which is abroad; it is only what we had looked for, and we are more than content. But we would insist that there is no need of our giving up our English writers; they will stand the test with any; and could we only revive, in the respect of their countrymen, the names and memories of the great master-spirits of our forefathers could we induce our authors to draw more from these deep wells, and less from their own shallow pools; and our readers to have more care for the purity and simplicity of the draught, than for its inspiriting and intoxicating pature, we should expect great things

from the genius which is happily so abundant amongst us now. Our writers would have higher ends than to gratify; and our national taste would, we feel assured, be very much purified and exalted by the change.

Yes! we should look for great and manifold benefits, were the mighty spirits of two or three centuries past, again evoked from their silent slumbers; if the sound and pure blood that thrilled through the veins of Milton, and Taylor, and Hall-of Bacon and Burton-of Robert Boyle and Sir Thomas Brown, could, by a kind of transfusion, be sent once more chasing and bubbling through our English heart. What energy of purposewhat depth of learning-what elegance of language-what fervour of piety— what beauty of holiness are not present in those honoured names! Would that the same spirit were abroad now : then might we look for some national regeneration in taste, and feeling, and influence, to which our present condition is but as a dream!

The one, whose honoured name heads our article, cannot compete with any to whom we have above referred, in style, eloquence, or learning; but it is for that very reason (of being more suited to our own capabilities,) that we have made our election of him. We I would fain exhibit to our readers some of the treasures which they have been so long themselves neglecting; and shrinking from the presumptuous idea of being equal to fathoming any of those mighty intellects, we shall run over the writings of this humble man, culling here and there a flowerstooping occasionally to bring to light some forgotten wilding-and twining them together, with a little arrangement and order, we hope in the end to present our readers with a wreath for which we shall receive at their hands many hearty benisons.

The few particulars of his uneventful life, it will be of course necessary more or less, to allude to; but these we shall employ only to illustrate his literary compositions; and in this way we shall find the pleasantest mode of life-sketching, to consist in the imitation of this quiet and unpretending, but unequalled writer of biographies.

Within the last month, a new me