SOUTH WALL LIGHT HOUSE, DUBLIN HARBOUR.

THE Bay of Dublin is justly celebrated for its picturesque beauties, and in several particulars bears a striking resemblance to the farfamed Bay of Naples. But although very capacious, it is subject to some defects highly injurious to security of navigation. Considerable portions of the bay to the north and west are occupied by two dangerous sandbanks, termed the North and South Bulls, between which lies the harbour. This harbour is properly continuation of the channel of the river Liffey, and is capable of receiving vessels of three hundred tons burthen, but is narrow and difficult of entrance, in consequence of a bar, on which the lowest water is not more than five feet in depth. Near the northern extreme line of the sand-bank termed the South Bull, has been constructed a very noble pier, which is, unquestiona

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bly, the largest work of its kind in Europe, and which, to adopt the words of Mr. Brewer, "reminds the spectator of the magnitude and grandeur of Roman undertakings, when Rome was imperial mistress of the world."

The pier, or South Wall of Dublin Harbour, commences at the village of Ringsend, in the suburbs of Dublin. At the distance of 7,938 feet from its commencement, in the vicinity of Dublin, are the buildings now collectively known by the name of the Pigeon House. The pier extends 9,816 feet in a south-east direction beyond these buildings, to the spot on which the light-house is constructed, and, in conjunction with the quay-walls of Dublin, forms one great line of barrier against the waters, nearly six English miles in length. Throughout the first. part of its progress it consists of double stone walls, filled between with gravel, and admitting an

excellent road, secured by parapets. Between the Pigeon House and the Light House the pier is composed of two parallel walls of hewn granite, without cement, the intermediate space being filled with gravel and stone, and the whole finished on the top with a course of granite blocks laid in tarras.

The places termed the Pigeon House are the buildings seen in the mid-distance of the above view. It long constituted the port at which the whole of the packets sailing between Dublin and England received and landed passengers; but has been discontinued as such since the formation of harbours at Howth and Kingstown.

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The South Wall Light House was built between the years 1761 and 1768, of mountain granite, cemented with tarras. It consists of three stories, sustained by stone arches, and is accessible by a stone stair-case, with an iron ballustrade. The view from this spot very beautiful. On the right is seen the noble harbour of Kingstown, and the stone mountains of Dunleery; on the left, the picturesque village of Clontarf, where the famed Brian Boru was killed in a sanguinary battle, and mid-way of these is seen, at a distance of nearly six miles, the city of Dublin. Whoever visits the metropolis of Ireland will do well not to omit a walk to the South Wall.

Tales of the Sea.

THE BURNING SHIP. (Continued from page 198.) Soon after ten o'clock Sir Edward awoke, considerably refreshed, and walked about the cabin. He talked much of his deliverer; and on being soon after joined by his children, he returned thanks to heaven for their safety. While rising from the attitude of thanksgiving, his eye was

suddenly caught by a view of his own castle, and several neighbouring prospects, which I had delineated from memory. He stood still; it revived recollections at once both pleasing and painful. Agnes joined him, with an exclamation of surprise, for she, too, had discovered the cottage of my parents. Her brother had left them, for the deck. The moment I saw him ascending, a feeling of indignation filled my breast, but it was momentary: I gave him the usual salute, and walked forward, to issue directions to the men. Shortly afterwards Sir Edward and Agnes appeared, and my agitation became almost insupportable, particularly when I heard the captain's voice hailing me, and guessed the purport of his call. Mustering all my resolution, I approached them; but who can paint the different looks of father, son, and daughter? The countenance of the first was suffused with shame; the second betrayed a humbled pride; while Agnes, her eyes filled with tears, viewed me with tenderness, mingled with reproach. Sir Edward expressed his acknowledgments in broken accents; sometimes it was stiff formality, and then it sunk to condescending kindness. There was a conflict of passions in his breast. He took my hand with coldness, and then pressed it ardently. The son bad walked away, but Agnes spoke volumes to my soul. I had been treasured in her memory with fond affection. The interview was distressing to each. I would have inquired for my parents; but while the question hung upon my lips, a well-remembered face displayed itself -it was the old butler of the family. As soon as it was possible, I took the old man aside, and learned that the kind beings to whom I owed existence had been dismissed from the estate, but had since obtained a competency through the death of a relation, and were

now comfortably settled. They had mourned my loss as one who would never return, and he believed they were totally unacquainted with my being alive. I briefly ran over my history to him, and only on one subject was 1 silent; but this was unnecessary, as he told me many circumstances which gladdened my heart. Being officer of the forenoon watch, it was my turn to dine with the captain. This I would gladly have declined; but it was impossible, without a breach of regulations. At the appointed hour, after putting on my full dress, I entered the cabin, and was seated, at the captain's desire, by the side of Agnes. Sir Edward bit his lips, but his son quitted the table, muttering something about plebian; while the sweet girl was almost fainting with alarm. The captain had noticed a strange peculiarity at our first meeting; and, as I understood afterwards, had answered many inquiries respecting me. My friend, the lieutenant, had also given him some hints, but his heart was too generous to insult an individual because his origin was humble. He himself had climbed through every gradation to his present rank, and despised the proud aspirings of those who considered high birth as the greatest recommendation. Without discomposing himself, he directed the steward to carry the young gentleman's plate to another table. Sir Edward felt this; and rising up, demanded whether his present condition had so far reduced him in the captain's estimation, as to make him the object of insult? "Sir Edward,” replied the captain, calmly, "when you have explained yourself, I shall be better able to answer you: at present I am involved in mystery." "Look there!" said the Baronet, pointing to me, "the son of my gardener! Look there!" continued he, turning to his son, "the heir to the richest baronetage in Great Britain and

that," pointing to Agnes, "to my shame be it spoken, is my daughter!" I offered to withdraw. "Sit still, Mr.," said the captain, taking me by the hand, rising at the same time with all the dignity which marked his character, "Sir Edward," he coolly answered, "it is not in my nature to taunt any one with obligations. I view mankind as united to me by the strongest ties; and whether it was a beggar or a duke, should consider I had only done my duty, in snatching a fellow-creature from destruction. But, let me ask, where would your baronetage have been, had not this young officer stepped between you and the grave? Where would your ungrateful son have been, but for his timely aid? And where would this sweet girl, of whom any father ought to be proud-where, I say, would she have been, but for the youth you despise ?" He grew warm. "By heaven! Sir Edward! you would have found the sharks no respecters of birth or riches: they revel in the glorious spoils of Death; and you, long ere now, might have satiated their ravenous appetites!" The Baronet shuddered. "As for this young officer, he has been upwards of three years under my command.

I have watched him silently and se cretly: he is a noble fellow, and shall never want a friend while these old timbers hold together! If he has injured your daughter, say so at once, and I instantly discard him." "He has! he has!" exclaimed both Sir Edward and his son. I felt myself inspired with eloquence, and told my tale. "If," said I, "to love Miss Agnes is a crime, it is one that has produced the most happy results, and never, never, will I resign it. To that love I am indebted for my present situation; it has been the Pole-star of my heart, yet never till this moment did my lips avow it. This, then, Sir, is the injury I have committed; and now

it remains with you, to drive me from you, or still to cherish the obscure individual whom you are pleased to patronise." "Drive you away, my boy!" replied the captain : 66 no, no! I should indeed consider you unworthy of my notice, could you associate with so lovely a lass, and be insensible to her amiable disposition and beauty. But what says the fair lady? Does she, too, despise the poor but honest sailor?" A faint smile passed across her palid cheek, as she distinctly uttered" He has preserved my father's life!" At that moment, thrown off my guard, I caught her hand, and pressed it to my lips. Both her father and her brother saw it, but they neither spoke nor moved.

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Come, come!" said the captain, as he turned round to hide the gathering tear: "let us sit down to dinner, and we'll discuss the matter afterwards. At present, thank God, you are safe: the young folks have yet many years to pass over their heads, and a thousand things may happen." A pang shot through my breast. "Thus much, however, I will say if ever he disgraces his cloth, I will be the first to oppose his designs; but if, on the contrary, he continues as he has begun, I will support him, by G-! with hand and heart; so, Sir Edward, you will have two opponents instead of one." Sir Edward resumed his seat, his son returned to the table, but it was evidently with great mortification; and the dinner passed off tolerably well.

The infant I had taken from its dying mother was the son of a female passenger, going to join her husband, an officer in the army, who had preceded her about twelve months, at a time when it was impossible she could accompany him. The little innocent did not want for nurses in the frigate, as a great many women had been saved, and all were anxious to caress and fon

dle the child. After touching at the island of Flores, for a supply of water and fresh provisions, we pursued our course for home; and though, from my junior station, I could not join the company of Sir Edward and his family, nor even approach the captain, unless on duty, yet Agues took frequent opportunities of conversing with me. I did not venture to mention my ardent attachment, or request a return of her esteem, yet I had the satisfaction of knowing that we regarded each other with feelings of affection, founded upon the purest desire of promoting each other's happiness. None but those who have witnessed, can form an idea of the beauties of a fine clear summer evening, passed upon the glossy surface of the ocean. It is the season when the officers assemble on the quarter deck, and as they pace fore and aft, enjoy the social and unrestrained converse, which is precious to the heart. The falling shades of twilight conceal the anxious look, the starting tear, as busy Memory conjures up scenes of past joys, and Hope portrays the coming future. It was at these hours that Agnes generally came on deck, and I sometimes had the inexpressible pleasure of enjoying her society. Sir Edward had relaxed in his haughtiness; but his son remained impenetrably stubborn.

At length we arrived in England. The Baronet repaired to London; but previously to his departure, I received the most solemn assurance of the constancy of Agnes. To my friend the lieutenant I was indebted for this last interview; and in his presence our vows of fidelity were pledged. As soon as possible, I visited my parents (whose joy exceeded all bounds) and found them very comfortably settled. A few weeks after our arrival, the Baronet, with his son and daughter, once more embarked for Bombay. I had one farewell letter from Agnes; and

every feeling of my soul was roused to renewed exertions in my profession, under the hope of one day calling her mine. It would be a useless, though perhaps not an uninteresting task, for me to detail the events of seven succeeding years; during which I frequently endeavoured to get upon the East India station, and at last succeeded. Through the recommendation of the captains I had served with, I was at this time first lieutenant of a sloop of war, and had obtained considerable property in prize-money; but I knew it would be necessary to gain higher promotion, before Sir Edward would listen to my proposals. Nevertheless, the prospect of seeing Agnes afforded the most lively emotions of pleasing expectation. To this moment I can remember the delight which swelled my soul, when we anchored at Bombay, with an enemy's vessel of superior force, which we had captured, after a smart engagement; and which had been, for a long time, a great annoyence to our trade in the Indian seas. As soon as duty would permit, I went ashore, and eagerly inquired for the residence of Sir Edward. Thither I hastened, and almost the first individual that met my sight was the old butler. From him I learned that the baronet had been consigned to the tomb about nine months before; that young Sir Edward retained an important office; and that the gentle Agnes, harassed by the importunities of her brother (1 afterwards heard cruelties), to become the wife of an extremely wealthy but depraved libertine, had sunk, broken-hearted, to the grave! and the old man, with many tears, placed in my hands her last letter, addressed to me, with a small box, containing her miniature and several other mementos of an affectionate heart.

I shall not attempt to describe the anguish of my spirit at this heavy

This Colombian hero was one of seven sons of a respectable but not affluent family, resident in a little town called St. Filipe, bordering on the plains of the famous Llaneros. His father, having little but a brave spirit to bestow upon his male progeny, in the old-fashioned style of ancient story-telling, was reduced to the necessity of sending his sons forth to seek their fortune. The lad José, the subject of our anecdote, was hardly 15 years of age when he was summoned to be sent forth in this way to shift for himself. A lively, sanguine youth, he obeyed with alacrity; "the world seemed all before him-where to choose!" The careful parent, with much good advice, gave him his hereditarv portion --viz. a mule, a blanket, a rouleau of some score of dollars, with not any great change of raiment, that he might travel the lighter; and off he set, smiling under his watery eyes, amid the often repeated farewells of the different members of his family and neighbours, who followed him to the end of the town. The final thread was then cut between him and home; his mule was now to be all to him, companion, friend,-nay, even habitation! On then, patting his neck, he gaily trotted forwards towards the great plains. But after going some hours, and feeling that both man and beast