draw his hand through every dung he made the poor | baste dhrop, he soon had sich a crowd about him as wasn't seen in Kanturk since the month o' the seven Sundays. A sarvent of Mr. Purcell's came jist as Darby picked up one o' the thirteens, who hastens to acquaint his masther with it. Purcell, a grand gintleman, came up jist as Darby found the second, and shortly afther he saw him poke out the third. "Darby, avick,' says Mr. Purcell, for he knew him very well, is it witchcraft you have to desave people, or is your horse actually making goold?' "Oh, not at all, Sir,' says Darby, very sharp, only bits o' silver.' "Is your horse in the habit of doing that,' says he. "Whiniver I bates him well,' says Darby. "And does your horse ever dhrop goold,' says t'other, mighty pullite. Yes at a sartin time of the moon,' says Darby. "Where did you get the horse, Darby?' "Oh, there's telling of that, avourneen." "Would you sell him for a good penny, Darby?' "Oh, bedad, masther avick, my horn is harder than that comes to. If you'd insure me aginst Kate Murphy's putting her tin commandments in my face for the bargain, I'd talk to yer honour about it.' "Does Kate wear the breeches?' says he. "I don't say as much,' says Darby; but you see, with fighting for it, this ould poneen (patched garment) on me is torn to rags.' 66 Well, sure enough, with one palaver and another, Darby threw his come-hedher over him, till Mr. Purcell gev him twenty yallow guineas for his ould garran, and Darby walked home with the money in his fist, as proud as a paycock. "what a mighty grand, I'll hang you as high as Hymen, (Haman, "The sogers, well became 'em, up and tould Mr. Purcell to indulge the poor man; and whin they inthered, my dear, they got hould-belly-hould of mutton and whiskey-the gintleman himself was prevailed on to taste a cup o' Kate's coffee, with a rale good stick in it. "Kate Murphy, honey,' says he, (that's Darby,) for he always gev her her own name, I must be going, heaven speed all thravellers. Bring us t'other bottle, and thin I'll kiss yourself an' the poor childhre, that I won't see no more;' and he let on to wipe his eyes. "Darby, a goun,' says she, yer belly lost upon ye.' "Kate Murphy,' says he, maybe you want a dhrop of eye-wather to help your sight to behould your poor man hanging like a scal'crow on a windy day.' "Dear knows, Darby, you often wronged me, and gev me a sore heart, afore now,' says she. "Badhershin, avourneen,' says he; and one word borryed another, and Darby Dooley, who let on to be in a rale passion, riz, and saized a knife, and stuck Kate a prod in the right place, and she fell spouting blood and kicking her legs like any thing. The sogers saized upon Darby. 'Less of yer freedom, my boys,' says he, till we're betther acquainted. Let her cool a bit." "Whin Kate stopped kicking, he pulled out his ram's "I won't delay you, Sir, to tell how Mr. Purcell sent out a prockleymation, I think they call it, inviting all the grandees to see the performance of the wonderful horse-horn, and blew two or three puffs in her ear, whin up how all the gintlemin laughed at Mr. Purcell's madness-how the poor horse died ov the bating he got, and how Mr. Purcell brought a guard ov sogers to take and hang Darby at the square of Kanturk. "A frind tould Darby that Purcell was bringing the guard to hang him. "Badhershin,' says he, sure they arn't Shemus a cocca's* times with us, to hang a man without the benefit of a judge and jury. I gev him the worth of his bargain any how. Kate Murphy, that thief of a ram picks up every blade of grass from the poor sheep, so I think we'll put him out o' the cowld. Juggy, turn in the ram; and Kauth, take this yallow boy and bring us a dhrop o' whiskey to wet the ram, and a grain of coffee to make a dhrop of tay for your mother, poor woman; and, Sheela, lay legs to ground, an' tell my gossy, (gossip,) Teig More, (Great Timothy,) to be here aginst evening, dead or alive; and, Maura, step over to Duarigil for Shemeen O'Shine, and bid him remimber not to forget the bag-pipes; and in your way home call to Aileen a Keenta, (Eleanor the Mourner,) and bid her be over here bine-by at her peril -Darby Dooly's fathers would blush in their graves if their son left the world without a blast of the pipes, the cry o' the keener, and a dacent wake at his going!' "Whin the ram was kilt, Darby puts the blood in the drisheen,† an' ties it up very tidy round Kate Murphy's throath, and pinned her futhill tight, so that her neck looked quite nathral. Thin he takes the horn, an' scrapes it so smooth and purty that you'd swear it was in use since the days of Fion ma Cuil. "But to come to my story-jist as the mutton was cooked, and Sheemeen O'Shine giving the last bar of Saggart na Bootishy, who should call to the door but Mr. Purcell. Darby Dooly, you abominable villain,' says he, The peasantry of Ireland still retain, what I may be guilty of a pun by calling, the most sovereign contempt for the memory of James the Second, and loudly execrate his cowardly gut, when they discourse concerning "the break of the Boyne," The stomach of a sheep. started ma colleen before you could say Jack Robinson. "I'd scorn the likes, plase yer honour,' says he, rather "Oh, that's a thing onpossible; for if I gev Kate Murphy a prod as usual, I'd be hanged for murdher.' 66 6 Oh, never fear that, Darby-I can bring a man every year from the gallis, (and so he could, they say,) and ľ’íl be your frind for ever, Darby.' Kate joined the gintleman, and promised never more to fret Darby; and Purcell carried off the ram's horn, after paying a considerable sum on the nail for it." The peasant had proceeded thus far in his story, when the little girl before-mentioned appeared with a piggin* of delicious goat's milk, which she presented me, dropping at the same time a low curtesy, when the peasant, altering his voice from the narrative tone to a sharp, quick mode of expression, said, "Ö, ye crathur, one would think it was making that milk ye war. Where is your manners, ye thackeen, not to put that dhrop of milk in the blue basin ?" Then turning to me, "Ohone, the dew is falling, and ye'll get cowld, Sir, and my story not tould. "Whin Mr. Purcell got home, he invited all the gin. tlemen, and they had a grand coshering; and in the middle of the inthertainmint he picked a quarrel with his lady, whin he caught up a knife, and stabbed her in rale airnest, and if he was blowing the rani's horn in her ear till doomsday, he couldn't revive her at all at all. But the poor gintleman was determined upon revenge, (and no wondher;) so he came upon Darby as sly as a Peeler, and before you could say thrap-stick he was bagged like a fox, and carried down to Kanturk to be dhrowned, while Kate and the childhre riz the seven parishes with their ullagoning. The sogers left poor Darby bound up to his Agreed,' says Darby. "So whin my jockey got out, he fastened the gad upon the pedlar. "There,' says Darby, says he, much good may it do ye. Bud it's how I think, it's cowld comfort you'll have with the garran, after all, I'm afeard.' "Thin Darby set off with the pack, and the poor pedlar was taken and pitched into the river, though he offered fifty times to marry Miss Purcell; and by the same token, the hole he was drowned in is called the 'pedlar's hole' to this day. "In a year, or thereabouts, afther, whin Darby Dooly had the pack of goods sould, he returns home. It was a fine harvest night like this, and he never stops nor stays till he comes to Mr. Purcell's and taps at his room windy. Mr. Purcell, hearing the rap, gets up with a blunderbush; but whin he sees Darby Dooley, with a little box at his back, standing quite nath'ral on his own two legs, the blunderbush dhrops from his hand, his jaws begin to play a tune, and the cowld prospiration runs down his face. "Heaven an' ayrth! Darby Dooly,' says he, 'spake, if it's yerself that's there that I dhrownded in the Alloa, or is it yer ghost? Ye war the unloocky man to mekilt my wife through yer manes, and I dhrownded yerselfand I suppose that's your ghost that's come to haunt me. "It's all thrue ye say,' says Darby, says he; 'but it all turned out for the betther--I'm now a blessed saint in heaven,' says he, the thief of the world. "Have ye any news of the misthress, Darby avourneen?' says he. "That's the business that brought me,' says t'other: she's purty well, only that she's not clear out o' Purgathory yet. She got lave for me to come for the thrifle of money you have in the desk, to get masses said for her soxl; and to warn your honour to prepare for death, for you havn't long on this ayrth. The money, if you plase, and here's the box to put it in.' "And, sure enough, Darby gothered away the cash; and the warning saized so much on Mr. Purcell's mind that he died in a month. And there's the story of Darby Dooly and his white horse." An humble and solitary shilling yet lingered in my pocket. It survived the casual expenses of a little tour from which I was now returning, and in which "all its lovely companions were faded and gone," I instinctively slipped the little piece between my fore-finger and thumb to give the cottager in return for his hospitality, when recollecting from experience how the offer of pecuniary recompense upon these occasions insults the Irish peasant, the shilling fell noiseless to its former resting-place. I arose, grasped the hand of my new acquaintance, and pursued homeward my solitary way. E. W. The foregoing is a fair specimen of the description of stories narrated, and implicitly believed, by the peasantry in many districts of our country. Indeed, in many places they have little else to do, than to tell and listen to such tales. We trust that the efforts at present making to impart real knowledge, and to instruct as well as amuse, will have the effect of turning their attention to matters of real utility. EVENING ON INNISFALLEN, THE OST BEAUTIFUL ISLAND AT THE LAKES KILLARNEY. Since soon we'll forget all the joy we are tasting, And transient the light of e'en memory will grow, Whilst around thee the wild wave unheeded is hasting, And lonesome and sad and neglected art thou, Lovely isle! one last wreath to thy name I'll entwine, Though unworthy the hand that thy page would adorn, And I'll sing of the pleasant fields still that are thine, And the dew-drops that gild thy bright flow'rets at morn. Though gone are the days when the soft sunny smile Of the fair maids of Erin yet beamed in thy bowers, When unscared by the rude hands that wasted their isle, Fresh garlands they wove of thy sweet native flowers. Yet the sun that's just set in the water's clear breast, Never sunk in the arms of the day-closing west, And in fancy still seems o'er thy woodlands to be, O'er an island more blooming, more lovely than thee. Still green are thy pastures and fruitful thy field, And the trees of thy groves all their blossoms expand, Still rich are thy flocks, and the offerings they yield" Are unmatched in the pastures of Erin's green land. Oh! cold must his bosom be, where no devotion Lights up, as he views the bright landscape around, And the isles, like the green spots on life's heaving ocean, Which gem the blue waters thy woodlands that bound. And those mountains which dark waving forests adorn, Of the sun, when he looks from his chambers at morn, That rise so majestic to catch the first rays And all their bold summits are wrapt in his blaze. Where range the red deer, to their last covert driven, Where soars the proud eagle midst thunder and clouds, His eyrie is fixed on the cliff nearest heaven, And the dark rolling tempest his young ones enshrouds, And the eye ne'er beheld a more glorious display Of the grandeur of Nature o'er all this sweet scene, Where lake, mountain, and woodland, were joined in array, And contrasted with these was the island's soft green. The last light is beaming-the clouds change their hue, Stars gem the pure heavens mid the ether's soft blue, Earth sinks to repose till the morn shall awake, And night spreads her mantle across the still lake. 'Twas a foretaste of bliss--such as heaven hath designed, In its mercy, to soothe and to soften the heart; 'Twas a feast for the soul, and a calm for the mind, Which the world and its follies could never impart. But that sun shall arise, and shine on the morrow, As cheering, as warm, and as gay as before, And the clouds still the hues of their beauties shall borrow, As they wing their wild flight o'er the waterbound shore. And thus may thy night end-from sorrow awaking, Restrung be thy harp, and yet heard be the song Of love, and of joy, and of friendship partaking, And the music of hope shall its echoes prolong. ALPHA. Old Maids.-A sprightly writer expresses his opinion of old maids in the following manner:-I am inclined to believe that many of the satirical aspersions cast upon old maids, tell more to their credit than is generally imagined. Is a woman remarkably neat in her person," she will certainly die an old maid." Is she particularly reserved towards the other sex, "she has all the squeamishness of an old maid," Is she frugal in her expenses, and exact in her domestic concerns, "she is cut out for an old maid." And if she is kindly humane to the animals about her, nothing can save her from the appellation of an "old maid." In short, I have always found that neatness, modesty, economy, and humanity, are the never-failing characteristics of that terrible creature an "old maid." Dublin; Printed and Published by P. D. HARDY, 3, Cecília-strect; to whom all communications are to be addressed. Sold by all Booksellers in Ireland. have within these few years been levelled with the surrounding earth. A great number still remain, untouched by the hand of time or man. J. R. This church, situated in Upper Mount-street, is a Cha- | Esq. of Glenvale, near Newry. Several of these mounds pel of Ease to St. Peter's. The portico is of the Ionic order, and is considered handsome. Over the pediment rises the belfry tower, which is of an octagonal form. The chancel is 66 feet long by 44 broad, and the apex of the dome is 100 feet high. The galleries are spacious and well constructed. The entire length of the building is 110 feet, by 50 feet in breadth. To the Editor of the Dublin Penny Journal. In the parish of Clonduff, three miles from Hilltown, and on the top of one of the many heath-clad hills that rise in pleasing gradation throughout the southern extremity of the County of Down, is what would seem to the eye of the careless observer to be two heaps of stones thrown together in a rude, circular, pyramidal form. They are undoubtedly of those ancient sepulchral monuments called cairns, wherein the Irish used to inter the remains of their departed warriors, &c. They are called Tammery Cairns, being in the townland of that name. The larger measures in diameter about fifteen yards, and the smaller about eight. The latter is five yards distant from the former. They are formed of stones each only a 97 few pounds weight, and have both, a few years since, been examined by the gentleman to whom I have alluded. He informed me, that though they contained the kind of grave or tomb that are generally inside such places, yet he could trace out no remains of bones, ashes, &c. as he has sometimes found in others which he has opened; and that there being no such remains, has led many to believe the tradition of the country to be correct, which says, that the inhabitants adjoining had collected on this hill, on a premeditated incursion into the County of Louth-that each man, to commemorate the event, on his going away cast a stone, and thus formed the larger cairn-that they then marched to Warrenpoint, and crossing the bay in small wicker frames covered with hides, landed on the other side, and driving before them the terrified inhabitants, plundered them of every thing valuable; but they having collected in a body, armed themselves, and pursued their plunderers to the shore, where they overtook them, loaded with spoil, and after a sharp engagement totally routed them. The few that remained after the conflict returned home, bringing with them the body of their fallen leader, who was slain in the encounter, and buried him on a hill a short distance from Tammery, where they had before collected, and there formed a cairn around his ashes. On their again reaching Tammery, each man cast another stone, which thus accounts for the second heap; and the reason of its being so small was, that nearly two-thirds of their number had been killed. It is said, they then remembered that St. Patrick, meeting them at that place on the eve of their intended excursion, and being unable to restrain them from their lawless purpose, denounced against them the fatal consequences that befel them; and having sent to him, he came, and standing between the two cairns, preached to them repentance, and many of them were converted. He then took a stone from each heap, and threw them into the adjoining parish, and said that in process of time there should be a house of prayer erected, and a burying-place formed, on the places where they fell, which is said to be where the chapel and burying-place of Drumgath now stand. A short time ago the cairn where it is said they had buried their leader was opened; and in it was found a beautiful urn, now in the possession of the Marquis of Downshire. It contained several calcined bones, and a small vessel, called a lachrymatory, having a quantity of earthy matter, supposed to be the ashes of the heart. This latter vessel, in a short time after its exposure to the air, went to pieces. The urn was tastefully ornamented. The cairn is called Mullaghmore Cairn. vicinity of Newry, he discovered twenty pieces of silver. Among them was one of the reign of an Alexander of Scotland; the others were of the reigns of Henry the Second and the Edwards of England, coined in Reginald's Tower, County of Waterford. A short antique Irish pipe was dug up, in 1828, by some labourers in the land of Crown Mount, near Newry. The head of the pipe is square, having a human face etched in front, the letter W on the reverse; the figure of a bird similarly marked on one side, and the figure of Death on the other. These figures are all rudely executed; and from various circumstances, one is led to consider the pipe a curious specimen of the mechanical art in ancient days. It is in the possession of Mr. Glenny. These cairns or piles of loose stones are generally supposed to mark the spot where the remains of some por. The attachment and erful chieftain were interred. number of his followers may be estimated by the size and quantity of the stones, as each man is supposed to contribute but one. Sir Walter Scott says that similar cairns crown the summits of the Scottish hills, and that some times urns, containing bones, ashes, and beads, are found beneath them. ANECDOTES OF THE MONKEY. FROM SCENES AND CHARACTERISTICS OF HINDOSTAN.' A civilian, accompanied by his family, in the tour of his district, took possession of a beautiful spot in the neighbourhood of Monghyr. According to the Eastern custom, he was attended by a numerous train of depen dents, whose establishments, together with his own, occu pied a considerable space of ground. Amongst the domestic pets belonging to his family was a grey, blackfaced monkey, with long arms and a long tail; which, on account of his mischievous propensities, was always kept chained to a post on which the hut which defended him from the inclemency of the weather was erected. One morning the wife of the civilian, who frequently amused herself with watching the antics of this animal, observed another monkey of the same species playing with the pri soner; she instantly sent round to the people in the camp to inquire whose monkey (for there are frequently several attached to one household) had got loose, and to desire that it might be instantly chained up. She was told that no one had brought a monkey with them, and that the In the townland of Mayo, the property of the late R. creature which she had seen must be a stranger from the Martin, Esq. on a farm occupied by James Campbell, woods. An interesting scene now took place between Mr. Glenny opened a cairn in July, 1826. On the removal the new acquaintances. After much jabbering and chatof the small stones of which such monuments are exter-tering, the wild monkey arose to go; and, finding that nally formed, a large flag (supposed to weigh about two tons) was discovered, and underneath a grave, formed of four large stones, viz. head, foot, and sides, joined together in the strongest possible manner. In it were found a large quantity of calcined bones; also, an urn, tastefully though rudely ornamented, resting on a flag bedded in well-wrought clay. In the urn was a quantity of blackish stuff, supposed to be the heart. Mr. G. has opened several such, in some of which he found amulets-one surrounded, as he supposes, with Irish characters, and a quern tastefully ornamented. his friend did not accompany him, returned; and, taking him round the neck, urged him along: he went willingly the length of the chain, but then, prevented by stern necessity, he paused. In the course of a short time the strange monkey seemed to comprehend the cause of his friend's detention, and grasping the chain, endeavoured to break it; the attempt was unsuccessful; and, after several ineffectual efforts, both sat down in the attitude which the natives of India seem to have borrowed from these denizens of the woods, and making many gesticula tions, appeared to wring their hands and weep in despair. On the 28th and 29th of December, 1827, in the above Night closed upon the interview, but the next day it was townland, Mr. Glenny discovered six ancient urns, curi-renewed; and now the monkey community was increased ously ornamented, each containing a quantity of calcined bones. One of them contained a small vessel, supposed to be a lachrymatory—an earthen vessel, wherein the ancients received the tears of those friends that attended the funerals of the deceased, and buried them with the departed friend or relation. Mr. Glenny has discovered ten within twelve months in the aforesaid townland and its vicinity. Five of them are in fine preservation. He also discovered a small tomb in form of a chest, eighteen inches long and twelve wide, in which were found bones, with arrow-heads chipped out of flint. These mementos of the olden times cannot fail of striking the attention of the curious observer. In 1827, as Mr. Glenny was exploring a cairn in the to three. Desirous to know where these creatures came from, the lady made inquiries of the natives of the place; but they unanimously agreed in declaring, that there was not, to their knowledge, a monkey tope belonging to the same species within a hundred miles. The most eager desire was manifested by the new comers to release the prisoner from his bondage: at first, as upon the former occasion, the arts of persuasion were tried; force was next resorted to, and, in the end, doleful exclamations, jabbering of the most pathetic description, and tears. On the following day, four or five monkeys made their appearance; and many were the discussions which appeared to take place between them: they tried to drag the captive up a tree, but, the cruel chain still interposing, they seemed completely at their wits' end, uttering piercing lamenta- | tions, or so roughly endeavouring to effect a release, as to endanger the life of their friend. Pleased with the affectionate solicitude displayed by these monkeys, and sympathising in their disappointment, the lady, after having amused herself for a considerable period by watch ing their manoeuvres, ordered one of the servants to let the monkey loose. The moment the party perceived that his freedom was effected, their joy was unbounded; embracing him many times, they gamboled and capered about with delight; and, finally, seizing the emancipated prisoner by the arm, ran off with him to the woods, and were never seen again, not one of the same species appearing during the time the party remained in camp; thus corroborating the evidence of the natives, who persisted in declaring, that grey, black-faced monkeys, with long arms, were not inhabitants of the district. A circumstance, somewhat similar, and equally authentic, which took place on the Madras side of India, related to the writer by an officer of rank to whom it occurred, may amuse those who take an interest in inquiring into the habits and manners of a race which, together with the conformation, seem to partake of the caprices and inconsistencies of man. Near to the bungalow in which the officer resided, and which had been newly erected in a jungly district, a troop of monkeys were in the habit of crossing the road daily, on their way to the neighbouring woods. On one of these occasions, a sepoy, perceiving the ainusement which they afforded to his officer, caught a young one, and brought it to the house, where it remained fastened to one of the pillars of the verandah. The parents of this monkey were soon perceived to take up a position on a ledge of rocks opposite, but at some distance, where they could obtain a view of their imprisoned offspring, and there they sat all day, sometimes apparently absorbed in silent despair, at others breaking out into paroxysms of grief. This lasted for a long time; days passed away without reconciling the parents to their loss; the same scene was enacted, the same sorrow evinced; and, being of a compassionate disposition, the young officer took pity upon the misery of the bereaved pair, and gave his captive liberty. Anticipating the contemplation of the greatest delight at the meeting, he looked out to the rock, whither the young monkey instantly repaired, but, instead of the happy re-union which his faney had painted, a catastrophe of the most tragic nature ensued. Seizing the truant in their arms, the old monkeys tore it to pieces in an instant; thus destroying at once the pleasurable sensations of the spectator, and perplexing him with vain conjectures whether, irritated by their previous distress, they had avenged themselves upon its cause; or whether, in the delirium of their joy, they had too roughly caressed the object of their lamentations. Having committed this strangely cruel act, the monkeys took their departure. GENIUS AND LEARNING. vity and steadiness of the latter to direct it in its pursuits while the latter needs the fervour and energy of the former to maintain and support it in its exertions. Instances have occurred where each existing singly has arrived at distinction-as genius in some of our poets, (though many of them have had both united, and where such union has existed their fame has been the greater, as in the case of Milton;) learning in some of our historians or eminent lawyers, where the same remark too holds good; and both have existed together in some of our distinguished statesmen. On the whole, perhaps, it is not unfair to conclude, that when they exist singly, the attainment of distinction is but probable and likely; but when they are united, it is certain and undoubted. In fact, genius with out learning may be compared to a ship elegantly cɔnstructed, but unprovided with a helm, or to some amazing mechanical force without a directing power to control its motions. It may, by its own innate might, strike out a bold and daring course in the regions of mind, and sometimes arrive perhaps at its proposed end; but then, too frequently it is in danger of exhausting itself in boundless speculation, or being lost amid the very world of imaginings which its own power had created. Learning, again, without genius, or at least a moderate portion of it, is the ship furnished with the helm, but in want of the sails by which it can catch the breeze and bound over the deep. It may possess a large and comprehensive knowledge, and a clear and perspicuous judgment resulting from this know||ledge, but it will want that alacrity and agility of mind by which it is buoyed up and supported amid the turmoil of life. And thus, in order to realize great results, both must be joined. It is the junction of both that has produced our greatest statesmen and philosophers. A Burke and a Newton are the offspring of their union. Together, they are the sources of every thing grand and noble in the achievements of mind. They create around them a lumi nous and phosphorescent atmosphere, from which have radiated those lucent streams of knowledge that have enlightened the world. Yet notwithstanding this, it is by no means unusual to see men gifted with a very high order of mind, not only neglecting it, but even making what ought to be an incentive, an excuse for want of industry upon their part, when they ought to recollect, that the noblest productions of nature are capable of being improved, and that even the finest diamond is not seen in its full lustre and brilliancy, till the hand of art has rubbed away its excrescences, and thus imparted a smoothness and polish to its external surface. W. R. REAL AND AFFECTED SENSIBILITY. A very cursory observation of life must have impressed the inquirer with the striking difference between real and affected sensibility-it betrays itself in even the minutest point of conduct, and devotes the hypocrite to the contempt he so well merits. It must, however, be allowed, for the honour of human nature, that much of this indifference to the comfort of others is superinduced. Pity is an emotion which it is difficult to quench, and we have some scruples to overcome before we systematically substitute the base coin of pretended sympathy, for the sterling ore of genuine kindness; but the effort once made, the return to true feeling is next to impossible. It is so much more agreeable to make professions than exertions, so much less troublesome to force the tear than to open the heart, that love of ease to which human nature is so prone, comes in aid of our selfishness, and we become irretrievably impenetrable, while we may fancy ourselves, or at least wish to persuade others, that we abound in the milk of human kindness. There are no two attributes or properties of the mind more essentially distinct than genius and learning; and yet no two from whose union such great and manifold advantages result. Wherever they exist singly, it is quite manifest how much each requires the assistance of the other. In fact, from their very nature it appears, that it is only when united that they can be productive of any lasting benefit. The very qualities which each possesses show them to be mutually dependent on each other. Genius, in the general acceptation of the word, is solely the gift of nature. It is that subtile contexture-that mystical organization-that harmonious adjustment and congruity of all the mental powers, by which is produced a loftiness of sentiment, and a capacity and amplitude of It cannot be doubted that the reading of novels must, conception, that surpasses the range and limits of ordinary amongst females particularly, tend greatly to this hardenminds. Learning, on the contrary, is the product of ing of the heart. The perusal of romances serves not labour, acquired by application and industry, and the merely to pervert but to enfeeble the mind, and we accordresult, not of any union or combination of intellectual ingly find that those who indulge in such studies, either agencies, or any peculiar refinement of the mind, but of fly from, or are unequal to bear the pressure of, real cathe proper use, exercise, and cultivation of those faculties lamity. If it falls upon themselves, their pusilanimity is of perception of which we are all to a certain degree pos- contemptible-if it overtakes others, their defection is sessed, Thus, we see that the former wants the granotorious. They cannot endure, their feelings are so acute, |