frowned down on by high mountains, while a low boat, with its solitary rower, lay motionless on its bosom. "The skylark never sings over this lake, nor the lamb ever lies in the valley" said our guide, breaking in on the course of our reflections; "for this rason; wehn the Churches were a building, the men had orders to begin work at the singing of the lark, and never to leave off till the lying of the lamb. Well, Saint Kevin minded that they looked very bad entirely; and he axed them why, when they up and tould him that the lark sang so early, and the lamb lay so late, that they were fairly kilt. Never mind,' says the Saint, and from that day, he never let the lark sing, or the lamb lie in the valley." She paused for a moment, and then breaking into a snatch of the well-known melody of Ireland's own bard, recounted in his musical verse the romantic legend of the fair Cathleen and the stoney hearted Saint. "When you are on the lake, ladies," said she, "you will see beneath the bed o' white stone, where the sperit of the poor young creature sat combing the water from her long hair, in the early morning, when

"Her ghost was seen to glide

Smiling o'er the fatal tide."

❝and look, ladies, look your honour, there she is now ;" and turning our eyes in the direction in which she pointed, we saw, with a large portion of mysterious awe difficult to analyse, the figure of a female, standing alone on the margin of the lake. Had some unforeseen circumstance at that moment compelled us to bid farewell to the glen, I cannot promise we would not, some of us at least, have affirmed we had seen gliding by the scene of her untimely fate, "the fair spirit said to haunt the vale;" but as it was, we hastened on to have our romantic fears laid to rest, by finding the shroud-clad maiden of our imagination, converted into an elderly female, of very every-day appearance, clad in the coarse, bluespotted calico wrapper of her class, and having her head bound with a red handkerchief; yet she too had her share of the romance that clung to every portion of this romantic vale. She accosted us by a low curtsey, inquiring," Are you for the bed, ladies-if so, I'm Kathleen, and will see you safe there ?" We hesitated at first, between the love of adventure and the fear of danger; but deciding in favour of the latter, (tho' assured that ladies had even of late years intruded on the cliff-bound sleeping-place of the Saint) we commissioned Kathleen to proceed alone along the cliffs above, and point us out the bed, while we sailed on the bosom of the lake below. And now, after standing gazing in amazement on the retreating form of the woman, as she bounded from rock to rock, (that seemed but made for the small birds to light upon) with the speed and courage of a chamois, behold us committed to the still waters of Glendalough. It was the first time that L. or myself had trusted ourselves to the liquid element, and we felt inclined, like a sinking man, to catch even at a feather, when told that our little cockle-shell was cresting the waves of a sheet of water "ninety fathoms deep." Mrs. Doyle, however, assured us, "the Saint had prayed after the death of the unfortu

1842.-DECEMBER.

3 к

nate Kathleen, that no one might ever be lost in the lake,—that the prayer was granted, and no accident was known to occur on Glendalough within the memory of man,”—and laugh who will, the assurance gave us courage, for we could not put from us all faith in the legends of our own dear Isle. A shrill cry now rose sharply on the breeze, and the boat again rode motionless on the water. We were beneath St. Kevin's bed. High above rose the beetling cliff, and perched like some wild bird stood Kathleen upon the summit. She it was who gave that wild cry to attract attention, and unbinding the kerchief from her head, suffered it to flutter in the evening air, as she descended with a frightful rapidity down rocks so steep, that had her foot slipped but one hair's breadth, she had been dashed to pieces on the cliffs, or lost for ever in the dark waters below. We turned our heads aside in terror; but the next moment, a cry even wilder than the first told she had entered the cave, scaled the bed, a natural fissure, situated about half way down the rock, and was waving the red handkerchief in triumph from the apparently inaccessible fortress. But this was not all; passing from the bed, she perched herself on a small point where the cliff slightly jutted out, and with her hands closely pressed to her side, actually turned round twice or three times on a spot where the very eagle might have feared to alight. Her courage and sure footsteps were truly wonderful, and prove how certain it is that

"The good saint little knew
What that wily sex can do."

The boatmen now plied their oars merrily, after we had quaffed deeply of the waters of the lake, which so dark in mass, are bright and sparkling as the pure crystal, when transferred to the cups which the guide brought for the purpose; for it is considered unlucky not to pay the Saint the respect of drinking to his memory in the waters of his own lake. On landing on the opposite side of Glendalough, we observed a tall fine looking guide, dressed in a close fitting jacket and trowsers made of plaid, and with quite a foreign cast of features. He proved, however, to be an Irishman "every inch," and Mrs. Doyle's good man to boot, who called on him to awake the echo for her good quality; with which request, or rather command, he complied,-repeating in a loud voice the first verse of the poet's melody, beginning

"By that lake whose gloomy shore,"

and then giving each successive line, the echo distinctly returning the sounds, till they died away in sweet soft cadences amongst the distant hills. If it be not fame to the poet to know that the notes of his lyre are familiar words to the viewless lips even of the mountains of his native land, we know not what fame means. And now our new friend poured into our ears a recapitulation of the legends of the vale, in verse of his own composition, with so much smoothness, eagerness, and volubility, that had he stood beneath the blue skies of Italy,—the bay of Naples, instead of dear Ireland's Glendalough stretching at his feet,-he would have readily gained the name of an "Improvisatore."

All things, however fair, must fade; and the setting sun, the falling mist, the waning hours, compelled us at last to bid farewell to this sweet scene of nature's loveliness, of legend and of song, while our guide followed us "for a little piece up the road," as she said herself, pointing out to our notice a lonely tree rising on the way side, where a woman had been found suspended and quite dead years before. The act was her own, and the tree has been known ever since by the appellation of some Irish word, which I blush to say I do not recollect. Parting from good-natured Mrs. Doyle at the door of her own cabin, with a cordial shake hands, and a promise on her part to visit us in Dublin on Hallow'een, and to bring us nuts to burn from King O'Toole's palace, we sped onwards on our homeward way, dreamily watching the sudden lights that sprang up in the cottage windows, as they gleamed from the hill sides through the thick mist, or glanced over the dark peat bogs, and turning with nervous superstition from the gaze of a large star, (larger than we deemed we had ever seen before) that kept peering on us from over the dun mountain's brow, like the eye of one of Glendalough's spirits. A sweet refreshing sleep did we all enjoy that night, filled with dreams of saints, and kings, and huge giants, and drowning maidens, and ruined churches, and round towers, and placid lakes, and frowning mountains; and we awoke next morning to talk over the breakfast table of all we had seen, wondering should we ever stand again on the haunted shore of Glendalough, and ready to maintain at tilt or tournament, that our own dear Ireland is the fairest gem that sparkles in the diadem of nature. T. B. L.

THE DREAM.

I dreamed-alas! that it should prove
A vain heart-sickening dream-
That many kindnesses might move
Towards me some truthful gleam
From love or friendship's cheering light,
To gild life's path of care-

I asked, where it should bless my sight?
And echo answered,-Where !

I dreamed-it was a vision sweet;
But it hath passed away.—

I thought affection's warmth might meet
Its own reflected ray.

Deep in my heart the flame was lit

No answering beam came there :

I ask'd, where shall I seek for it?
And echo answered,-Where !

I dream'd--it was a false day-dream-
That fond attentions shewn
Bring gratitude, which I did deem
Would into love have grown.
E'en thankfulness I did not find,
And ask'd in deep despair,

Where shall I find one grateful mind?
And echo answer'd-Where !

F.

BOZ IN MINIATURE,

OR SMALL CHANGE FOR THE "AMERICAN NOTES", COINED BY ALFRED JINGLE.

"Mr. Pickwick-Well, Sam, how do you like this country?

Sam Weller-Vy, I admires it-as much as I can-as the connoisseur expressed hisself ven the old gemman showed him the shocking bad pickter."-Slick's Recollections of Pickwick:

I.

Never shall I forget how much I wondered

When first the Steamer's state room met my eyes,
On which my wife and I so long had pondered;
But now its smallness filled us with surprise;
We saw, indeed, that we had greatly blundered,
Making our luggage of so large a size :
Sore was the joke, but we were patient under it,
Reflecting that experience makes one wise.

II.

The Stewardess told us all would be so pleasant,--
(God bless the woman for her well-meant lies!)
That children absent were as near as present,

And well she knew no wicked winds would rise.
But soon our party thought of being sea-sick

With ominous fears, though nothing yet was said;
At length we all gave up, and some took physic,
Some took roast pig, and others went to bed.
III.

As for our passage, it was somewhat stormy,
For in ten days a heavy gale came on,
And all the things above, behind, before me

Were turned, in one short moment, upside down.

Oh! that dark night amid the wild Atlantic!

Only a dream can image it again,

And each strange antic, which the ship, grown frantic,
Played with the waves, her victory to gain!

IV.

At length it chanced that we were nearly lost on

The rocks near Halifax, I scarce know how,

But we got off, and soon arrived at Boston,

Where from the shore we felt a sharp wind blow.-
Well may the stranger praise this beauteous city,
Which looks as if intended for a show;

The houses seem as slight, and bright, and pretty
As children's toys, which in a box they stow.

V.

Great good is done in this place by the College,
(Far more than by some others I have known,
Which set up silly prejudice for knowledge,

And recognize no world beyond their own ;)
The ladies here are very lovely creatures,

Although their forms are miserably thin;-
Much time they spend in running after preachers,
Who make them think that mirth is mortal sin.

VI.

New York appeared more mercantile than Boston,
Though like it in its dinners, and its lunches;
Their business every one appeared engrossed in,
And so no Organs cheer the streets, or Punches.
The ladies here are singularly pretty,

And fond of gaudy dress beyond belief.

Pigs are the scavengers of this great city,

(And hence the pork brought in by Peel's tariff.)

VII.

To Philadelphia I must give my praises—

There by the regular streets I was confused, And the good folk had some pedantic phrases,

To show their taste, by which I was amused.— To Washington I went, and there they asked me

"What struck me in the Legislator's heads?" So (looking sharp at them when thus they tasked me) I saw that all their cheeks were stuffed with quids.

VIII.

On to the South and West we now proceeded,
With much to praise, and little to reproach;
The bruises that we got we scarcely heeded,
While tumbling on in many a clumsy coach.
The scenery seemed to me not very ugly,

With all its stunted trees half hid in swamp,
With nothing neatly trimmed, or settled snugly,
And ev'n the houses looking new and damp.

IX.

Our inconveniences were few in number,

We missed the cleansing element indeed;
Hard were th' uncurtained beds, forbidding slumber,
And foul the use of the Virginian weed!

The roads were nought but swamps and pits of gravel—
The river--one great ditch of liquid mud;

Yet there was much in all our modes of travel
Which gave me great delight and did me good!

X.

Oft as I saw the slimy waters creep by,

How far away did my departure seem!

Oh! never may I see that Mississippi,

Save in the visions of some hideous dream!
To cheer one's spirits vain was the endeavour,
At formal meals where not a soul would speak;
Ev'n now the cold remembrance makes me shiver,
Of that dark spell I had no power to break!

XI.

At length how gladly did I leave for ever

All I had been at so much pains to seek—

The deadly river, spreading round it fever,

The Steamers which blow up-two every week