a mighty tower of gigantic proportions and chivalrous form, swelling up, like a huge cliff, from the humble sea-level of the surrounding edifices. This is the citadel of the fortress-the Castle of Dublin, and the cliff, worked by the hands of man, is the Birmingham Tower, where the archives of the land are deposited, as in an ark of strength. Within this castle dwells the representative of Majesty with us, and here are the great offices, the Secretary'sTreasurer's, of Ireland, congregated beneath the shadow of that mighty keep. Alas! it is still a castle, guarded and garrisoned, wherein the King's Deputy must dwell in this land ;-but no more of this; and turn your eyes to an antique square tower, rude as a basaltic column, massive as the shoulders of Atlas, which stands upon the hither side of the ridge, and slopes away in a stern abutted battlement along its sweep. This is a monument of the religion or superstition of our ancestors, the great cathedral within the walls of the city. As you enter the low-browed Saracenic arch, that seems crushed by the weight of the superincumbent pile, you open upon irregular and leaning rows of pillars, stooping beneath their own richness of workmanship and the ripening of centuries. The tombs of Strongbow and many a lordly baron of old glimmer in the undefined shade of the arches. Such is still Christ Church, in spite of all modern alterations. Look still onward-you observe a tall spire, relieved against the mountain. Here is the shrine of the patron saint of Erin, the great cathedral without the walls. Under the shadow which that spire and the tower on which it rests cast, as a gnomon, in the circuit of the summer's day, run the roofs of St. Patrick's. And in their more perpetual and gloomy shade for ever stand its mighty arches, bestriding as in triumph the dust of the more mighty spirits of by-gone times, and hung with the empty honours of the blazoned banners, that, cobwebbed and decaying, flap in the eddies of the aisles over departed greatness and glory, On the solemn days of accustomed service, it is true, this old remnant of Gothic ages is roused up from its slumber by the voice of multitudes in prayer, and by the pealings of harmony, such as may be supposed to swell around the throne on high; but then these celestial sounds soon ceasethe multitudes depart-the crazy doors are locked behind the last loiterer-and all is death again. Night and day the banner still hangs, and the helmet grins, and the trophied tomb trickles with grave-damps, and the Fitzgerald, and the Boyle, and the St. Leger sleep their long sleep, and the long line of Deans occupy their places undisturbed, only lowered from their stalls; and Swift and his Stella for ever repose near each other, but not together, and the echoes are strangely loud, for solitude has resumed her silent sway. Such is the building that lies in the shadow of yonder spire. Were you mounted upon it, and looking down upon its neighbourhood, you would fancy yourself thrown back centuries against the current of time and civilization. Misery, barbarity, and desolation are beneath you-lanes, narrow, crooked and filthy-houses crushed together to suffocation-all crumbling and decayed-hideous and disgusting-a city in ruins-a population in beggary! Such regions, alas! are to be found of greater or less extent in every great town; and on the heart of that would you look from St. Patrick's spire. But let us continue our survey. Turning with the sun, we knock our noses against a huge post that has thrust itself up over everything into the air, like the first sprout of some overgrown hyacinth, and threatening destruction to the first Albatross that takes its slumbering flight over Dublin. The Wellington Obstacle! It seems to have been placed there-in the noble park that it disfigures-from no earthly recommendation it possesses but weight perhaps to make an impressionthere may be a great seal beneath it; and were it but lifted off we might find the hero of Waterloo stamped the conqueror of the world! The park in which it stands, and which in that place rises in such bold undulations from the river, that the weight might be imagined to have been placed on the summit of the brow, to keep it from swelling into a mountain, is indeed a royal one. All the varieties of scenery, from the rural to the romantic-hill and dale, trees and water, field and forest-all are contained within its wide circuit. A plain large enough for thousands of valiant men to assemble and go through the semblance of a battle, and sufficiently retired for two to meet in more real and deadly conflict, is here traversed, during the absence of man, by hundreds of lordly stags, who retire, on their intrusion, into more remote haunts, and turn and view them from afar. This princely park adjoins the citybut where? Let the Londoner imagine Kensington Gardens lifted up from before his eyes, and laid down between Whitechapel and Limehouse, and be can then understand how accessible these vast metropolitan lungs are for our Dublin consumptions. Now draw your eyes in a direction nearer to where you stand, and along the direction of the aforesaid river, or rather stream, and you will observe a spacious dome, half grey, half green, close upon its banks, and almost hid in its exhalations. Often has the unfortunate young jurisconsult, as he has crept beneath its massive pile, felt its pressure, as if it were crushing under its enormous weight his hopes, his heart, and his happiness. The roar of hundreds of voices, repeated a thousand times by the never silent echoes of the circular hall of the Courts of Justice, has struck upon his ear with bewildering power, and he has looked up to the cumbrous mass above him, and towards the pillars at either side of him, and wished for one despairing moment that he were a Sampson. Such, at times, are the feelings of the youth of extended information and ardent imagination, when, arrived from the obscurity of his desk and his closet in London, he finds, within this hall, that success does not always at once follow assiduity, and that he has failed of obtaining that place which he had anticipated for himself with the sanguine warmth of youth. But they do not last long; and a few years alters his outward demeanour and his inward sentiments so as that the despairing neophyte is scarcely to be recognised in the staid, plodding, some what consequential barrister, just getting into practice. Only look at the swarms of pinched-faced men in black coats!-But were you to go on to examine that hall, attorneys and all, you would, in all probability, be too much fatigued to take the more general survey I have designed for you. One sweep of the eye against the sun, and I permit you to descend. Can you discern* something that looks from this like Death on the pale horse, riding away from some extensive buildings? That is our great and good King William, of glorious memory, turning his back, like a rude old soldier as he was, upon the seat of learning, and making the best of his way, apparently at a good round trot, to the Castle, a habitation much more congenial to his taste. He has turned away, however, from one of the grandest coup d'œils that any city has ever presented-a scene unrivalled, in point of architectural beauty, by any one prospect in the most magnificent region of the earth. The Bank and the College stand there together. It is vain to describe them-I have seen them in the glow of a setting sun, and I have seen them--Oh glorious sight!—as the pillars of Hercules appeared to the poet, "Alike beheld beneath pale Hecat's beam," and I know what they are too well to attempt their description. All you can descry now, from where you stand, are, the now closed portico of the entrance to the House of Lords in the Bank on the one side, and the gloomy and irregular flank of the College on the other, stretching on, till it terminates in one long uniform row of buildings, displaying a homeliness of architecture, and a barring of windows, which would bespeak the edifice rather a prison or a mad-house, than anything forming a part of, and designed for the same use with, the magnificent neighbour and rival of the Bank. You can, however, see among the numerous green places wherewith the prospect abounds, seeming like Oases in the desert, its spacious park, showing its tufted trees and its fresh grass, wherein, as in a grove of Academus, the youth of our land "seek truth" in the various exercises of hand-ball, rackets, cricket, putting the stone, &c. You can also discern a long row of ballustrades, like an army in line, resting their right flank upon the park, and seeming to commemorate in this resemblance, the I fear that King William is not visible to Nelson. origin of the superb Library below.* though no longer to have Nelson for a As you enter its magnificent gallery at fellow-observer-and survey the norone extremity, you are struck with thern termination of the great arena of something resembling awe. You have Sackville-street, a tower, swelled out just left the bustle and turmoil of of all proportion, that looks as though Dublin, and you feel like a person it were enciente, and labouring like checked in a flow of reckless gaiety, many a matron "in like predicament," by some soft overpowering recollec- to obtain admission into the neighbourtion that throws the mind for a moment ing hospital. I would have bade you back upon itself and its solitude. There turn once more, and brought your is a hushed whisper rising along its vision down the great artery that vast length, more affecting than silence. throws the current of life eastward and The tread is subdued on soft mats, westward through the city, and guided and here and there a student is ob- it to the spots stained with the blood served, in the garb of his degree, of Lord Edward Fitzgerald and Lord stealing across with a book under his Kilwarden; and I would have called arm, or poring over some volume at the upon you to notice the evident direclong table. A receding line of marble tion of the tide of population, evinced busts the benefactors or ornaments by the ruin and desertion on the of the University-stretches along, western shore of this sea, and the alat either side, into the perspective. most visible pouring on of its flood of As you turn to the northern windows, masonry upon the eastern side, creeping, a silent square court meets your eye, as it does, street after street, in parallel and as well as the summer glare of the lines, like the advance of ocean over sun will allow you to look out at those the ribs of a sandy beach. But as it facing the south, a leafy garden is dis- is, you have seen Dublin. Have you cernible. It is not till you have been heard it? To the ear, too, it rivals some time in this abode of the conthe ocean, as it does to the eye. The centrated learning of all ages, this ceaseless roar of commerce rises like a conclave of literature, where the sages deep bass from the agitated mass-the of ancient and modern times crowd, hum of business-and the winged buzz row above row, as in a vast theatre, of pleasure--and the roar of furnaces-and look forth, eloquent in their and the stroke of labour-and the tollspeechlessness-that a distant roar be- ing of bells-and the rattling of wheels comes audible, and you begin to recol--all take their part in this great conlect that you are in the midst of a great city. I But we must descend together from the clouds, in more senses than one. would gladly have bade you turn about cert, and mingle to the ear in one dull, but not inharmonious chord, that day after day swells and sinks again from the vibrating mass of the metropolis of Ireland.† "In the year 1603, the Spanish troops were defeated by the English at Kinsale, and her Majesty's army, to commemorate their victory, subscribed the sum of 18002. from the arrears of their pay, to establish in the University of Dublin a public library. The private collection of Ussher, consisting of 10,000 volumes, with many MSS. of great value, was the first donation of moment which the library received; and for this also literature is indebted to the English army. The officers and soldiers of the army then in Ireland, (soon after 1655,) wishing to emulate those of Elizabeth, purchased the whole library for the sum of 22,000l., together with all the Archbishop's manuscripts, and a choice, though not numerous, collection of ancient coins, for the purpose of presenting them to the College."-Dublin University Calendar for 1833, pp. 187, 188. + Many of my readers will, no doubt, recognise my model in this description. To those who are not acquainted with it, I beg to confess that I do not claim originality in my style; although; in justice to myself, I must assert that I have, as far as I know, borrowed but few ideas or expressions from the author to whom I allude. His style appears peculiarly adapted to such a subject, however faulty it may be considered in other respects; and I felt inclined, from the latitude it gave me, to have enlarged still more in my description for the entertainment of my transmarine friends. I hope at My fit of national enthusiasm has now lasted too long; and I beg of the reader to fancy me once more inside the coach with my new acquaintance, and just stopped at -'s hotel, in Dawson-street. I had by this time become so fascinated by the conversation and manner of my fellow-traveller, that I dreaded the moment of arrival at our destination-a matter of some surprise, no doubt, to those who recollect the miserable catalogue of my sufferings with which I set out; and so far did this feeling carry me, that I insisted, stranger as he was, that he should stop at my hotel, and take share of my dinner. He refused for some time, and then assented with a smile. We alighted together, amidst the bustle of waiters and carmen, and then I perceived, for the first time, that he was lame. I handed him out with great care, and after having retired for some time to shake off the dust, we found ourselves at last ensconced in a comfortable parlour, with a waiter, napkin in hand, at our elbow, and a bowl of soup smoking before us. We both did tolerable justice to our dinner ; and the moments passed so rapidly, that at ten o'clock we still found ourselves in conversation, discussing various points of literature and politics, on all of which my guest displayed a deep and shrewd discernment, which was rendered yet more forcible by the homely and original garb in which his thoughts and sentiments were dressed. His native Scotch sagacity was applied to every subject, and there was something in the twinkle of his eye that gave an almost irresist ible power to his comicality. He appeared to be one who was content with expressing what he thought as he best could, without the slightest attempt at ambitious display. He had met many men of celebrity, and related some characteristic anecdote of each, which set the person as completely before my eyes as if he had made one at our table. I was not long in perceiving that his disposition was good, and his character amiable; for as soon as the first effect of each of his anecdotes had gone off, I did not fail to discern some moral-some wholesome lesson to be drawn from the story, and which he inculcated in this agreeable and useful way. At the same time, there was a something of command about him, a mysterious superiority and inscrutableness, that checked my tongue, as I was a thousand times on the point of putting some leading questions to him about himself, with a view to satisfying my curiosity as to his name and history. Surely such a man must be known, thought I, and yet he may leave me tonight very much in the predicament of the curious traveller, after he beheld the "disk" of the "stout gentleman" eclipsed for ever by the door of the stage-coach. The conversation at length turned upon ballads and songs, and here, as upon every other subject, he seemed to be quite at home. He spoke of various collections of this nature, and freely criticised their merits; explaining, as he went along, the qualifications requisite to the attainment of celebrity in this popular line, and accounting for the failure or success of the various lyrical poets of England. 66 By the bye," said I, "not an hundred yards from this house, at this moment, dwells a competitor for public favour in this line." Whom do you allude to? You have not many resident Horaces, I believe." Nay, this is of the sex of the Eolian maid, bearing the same resemblance to her that Cynthia does to Sol, and more than making up in purity what she wants in fire. I speak of Mrs. Hemans." 66 Ah! Mrs. Hemans-what has she been doing?" "Why, collecting her songs, and publishing them here, with some original pieces." Here! that is a novelty." Yes-but I hope and trust it may not long continue to be thought so." "You are an enthusiastic Hibernian, I plainly perceive. Now first tell me how they are brought out." "Very respectably, I assure you; a future period to be able to give a somewhat similar view of Dublin as it was some centuries ago, which may, perhaps, be as great a novelty to some of its present inhabitants. and much to the credit of Mr. Curry, who undertook the task." "Now for the songs themselves-I have heard several of them sung, and loved the mystic melancholy that ran through them; but how do they read?" "You shall judge for yourself: I happen to have the book in a corner of my portmanteau up stairs, and I should wish much to have your opinion respecting them. I shall not be an instant in fetching it down." Accordingly I went up to my apartment for the volume, and when I reentered our parlour, he said: "But what induced Mrs. Hemans to publish this work of her's here? Does she reside here?" Wholly-though I am inclined to ascribe her choice to better motives than merely the circumstance of her being on the spot. However this may be, here is the book." I "Let me see-The Rhine Song'suppose we may take this as a fair specimen of the whole. What does she say about it? I wish you could have heard. -'hem--hem-" and he read the rest of the introductory paragraph to himself, smiling. "But what do you think of the song ?" "I think it extremely difficult, at all times, to write a national song, especially of a foreign nation; and here, there were besides already written such glorious lines on the very same theme, that there was hardihood in treading the ground, or rather taking to the water again." "I think I can point out to you what will please you," said I, perceiving that he was not satisfied with the song, though he seemed unwilling to say so openly,-and taking the book out of his hands, I turned to The Burial of William the Conqueror.' He took it from me again, and, after a glance at the first stanza, he read the following lines in a deep monotonous tone, which gave them their full effect: : Lowly upon his bier The royal Conqueror lay; Baron and chief stood near, Silent in war-array. Down the long minster's aisle Crowds mutely gazing stream'd, Altar and tomb the while Through mists of incense gleamed. And by the torch's blaze The stately priest had said High words of power and praise To the glory of the dead. They lowered him, with the sound "Forbear! forbear!" it cried, "In the holiest name forbear! He hath conquered regions wide, But he shall not slumber there! "By the violated hearth Which made way for yon proud shrine; By the harvests which this earth Hath borne for me and mine; "By the house e'en here o'erthrown, On my brethren's native spot; Hence! with his dark renown, Cumber our birth-place not! "Will my sire's unransom'd field, "The tree before him fell, Which we cherish'd many a year, But its deep root yet shall swell, And heave against his bier. "The land that I have tilled Hath yet its brooding breast With my home's white ashes filled, And it shall not give him rest! "Each pillar's massy bed Hath been wet by weeping eyesAway! bestow your dead Where no wrong against him cries." -Shame glowed on each dark face Of those proud and steel-girt men, And they bought with gold a place For their leader's dust e'en then. A little earth for him Whose banner flew so far! And a peasant's tale could dim The name, a nation's star! One deep voice thus arose From a heart which wrongs had riven, Oh! who shall number those That were but heard in heaven? "That is a vigorous and healthy composition," he exclaimed, as he concluded, "and I would give much to have been the composer of that stanza— The tree before him fell, Which we cherished many a year; |