Irishman, be his creed, or complexion what it may, Patrick's day is hailed with something more than ordinary sensations. In a religious point of view, it calls to his remembrance, how, under the mission of the christian teacher, his ancestors left the broad road, which they had traversed so long in darkness, and entered on the narrow path leading unto salvation. In a social light, how many fond pictures does it recall! How many of those natural emotions which cling to the heart, like tendrils round the vine, and which cannot be shaken off without the destruction of the parent stem! And, if at a distance from your home, and the family whose name you bear, in whose affections you are linked; and, if in a foreign land, and with strangers, no matter how kind: oh! how the pent heart loves to burst the narrow prison of reality, and soaring away in thought, to cast itself on the bosom of that circle in which it had so long reposed!

Such were the reflections which came o'er me, as I prepared to visit the Irish Chapel ; and placing my harp brooch as prominently as possible, I repaired thither. It was a source of gratification for me to perceive no trace of that drunkenness, or riotous demeanour in the Patlanders, who promenaded the streets, luxuriating in large bunches of green shamrock, placed jauntily in their hats, which, I grieve to say, too often marks their devotion to some other shrine beside that of their Patron Saint in their native land. They passed on orderly and decently,

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as if anxious to shew their English neighbours that though Patrick's day was one of rest, it was not one of profligacy. Meanwhile, Soho Square brought me to my destination, and, just as I had reached the entrance, a carriage drove up, and deposited at the door a man, venerable from his years, and distinguished as the R. C. Bishop of London. I kept close to him ascending the stair, but lost sight of him in the crowded church. The Irish Chapel is long and lofty, has a broad aisle, and ample side and front galleries, yet was completely filled. I never saw a place of worship so thronged. The ceremony of the grand High Mass was imposing, as usual, and the music very fine. Hushed, and stilled, as the sea, when the wind is at rest, and no voice breathes o'er the surface of the mighty deep; was that congregation, when the preacher, Rev. Dr. W―, mounted the pulpit, and his voice, clear though not melodious, but bearing the impress of truth and deep research, stilled every rising distraction, and kept the mind awake to hearken to the words which were to follow.

A succinct and beautiful account of our Saint's mission-his first difficulties-his bloodless success, and the undeviating tenacity and unflinching strictness with which the doctrines he preached have been since kept by the natives of Ireland alone formed the leading points of one of the most impressive discourses I ever had the good fortune to hear.

162.

WISE CHANGE OF AN ARTIST.

Having promised my Irish-hearted, though English-born friend, Mr. C—, to eat my Patrick's day dinner with him, I entered his mansion at the appointed hour. I found him kind as usual; and in a short time, a few more guests having made their appearance, brought that cheering announcement—" Dinner is on the table." I had the pleasure of drinking to "my absent friends," and have no doubt they in old Erin reciprocated.

Mr. D-, to whom I sat next, is an example of successful industry. He, I understand, practised as an artist for a short time in London. Having, from his love of the arts, visited every city in Italy, but not finding that return which every buoyant spirit, in the heyday of his imagination, believes must attend his embarkation in a favourite pursuit-either seeing praise bestowed on some less worthy object, or his greatest work overlooked by chill neglect-withdrew in time from the deceitful bubble, public applause, ere his years were wasted in pursuit of a shadow, or his heart sickened by oft-baffled projects; and leaving his pallette, with what appetite he might, embarked for that "El Dorado" of settlers, America. Here has he married, has purchased three hundred acres of arable land near a ready market for grain-a populous neighbourhood-is a magis trate of the country-looks forward to much higher offices in the course of time-and all after three years' settlement. Oh! you, ye paupers, or at least comparatively so, to what ye may be,

whose all is expended on the blacking, which adds lustre to your boot, but reflects none on your character-on the oil in your whisker, or the clothes on your back!-whose ephemeral existence is unknown beyond the pavé of the street, or the atmosphere of the billiard-room, be guided by the example of Mr. D! Emerge from the degraded position in which bad habits have placed you, and become what you can never be, until your existence is altered-useful members of society-if not at present in the old world, at least in the new. We sat in the drawing-room after coffee, looking at some admirable caricatures-Heath's Flowers of Loveliness, &c.—until Miss C-made a move to the piano. We had some sweet songs-an Italian duet-and Mr. C- begged, on my behalf, his daughter to favour us with that exquisite Irish air-"The harp that once through Tara's halls." She obligingly complied, and I heard the desolation of the halls of my ancestors embodied with such melting strains, that though the words filled me with tears for the loss of departed greatness, yet they bore with them the antidote of the present, and I felt the soothing power of the music come o'er my senses like a healing balsam, poured, with a leech's skill, into the wounds which the words had made. On my return was a letter from my mother, enclosing one of introduction from the C. Bishop of our diocese, to the abovementioned Bishop of London.

164

ENVIRONS OF LONDON.

Saturday, 19th.

Walked for some time on the Wandsworth road: It is a pleasant road, the Wandsworth-the green fields by its side-the neat villas-the suburban habitations of the citizens, rejoicing in the various denominations of "houses," "places," "parks," "lodges," "capital mansions," and "cottages ornée," with the constant passing and repassing of coaches, carriages, omnibuses, cabs, drays, et hoc genus omne-all conspire to render it a scene of bustle and variety.

The day was bright, and excessively warm for the season. Winter to all appearance had totally disappeared, to hide her snowy head in the icy north; and gay, enlivening, vernal spring burst forth in all her flowery exuberance. The fields to my right, as I strolled onward, lay in broad expanse of grassy verdure, striking away to the horizon; broken but by rows of tall trees, and dwarf hedges, towering over which occasionally might be seen the lofty tunnel of some manufactory, from which the black smoke rushed in a dense column, defiling for the moment the fair face of Heaven. Some few farm houses comfortably ensconced within the range of out-offices appeared not inappropriately in the picture. In the fields adjoining the house might be seen some milch cows, a few fleecy, well fedsheep; and the gambols of horses rejoicing in a holiday, broke the repose which reigned throughout. Looking for a moment towards that part of the