its comfort, to human nature its dignity, to life its charm! If the pleasure this single individual has excited, the virtue he has planted and cherished, the good he has done to his fellow-man, were heaped up in one monumental pile, the mighty pyramid would reach to the skies; and its fitting inscription would be, TO THE

MEMORY OF AN IRISHMAN, WHOSE GENIUS WAS A PERSONIFICATION OF THE IRISH CHARACTER, AND WHOSE LIFE WAS A FIT EMBLEM OF IRELAND'S FORTUNES: HE LIVED MINISTERING TO THE HAPPINESS OF OTHERS, HIMSELF THE VICTIM OF SORROWS THAT MAY BE FELT, BUT CANNOT BE REHEARSED!

CHINGFORD CHURCH.

By the London road, not far from town, Old Chingford Church looks frowning down; O'er buttress and tower the ivy is creeping, In its lone dark aisles the weary are sleeping. At a bow-shot's length flows a deep, smooth stream, And it ever seems of that church to dream ; If you look in its depths at the hour of noon, Or ponder the waves by the light of the moon, With its mantle of ivy the church is there,

As things are in dreams,

more misty and fair.
Ay, and thy memory, when once thou hast seen
That gray old church in its vesture of green,
Like the river that flows at its foot, will give
Its image back in colors that live;

Will mirror that ivy which greenly lingers,
O'er window and wall with creeping fingers,
And seeks to hide in its mantle of leaves,
The moss that time o'er the buttresses weaves.
In days of yore, the green hill-side
By Chingford Church was the fairy's pride;
When the moon was bright and the blossoms sweet,
They brushed the dew with their airy feet;

They played mid the rays that fell on the brook,

And the blushing waves with their kisses shook:

By the sculptured stone where the weary slept,
They hovered light, or perchance they wept.
But the times are changed, and the whizzing car,
On pinions of steam flies by with a jar ;
By night and by day the rumbling wheel
Of the stage-coach plies, in its restless zeal;
And every still nook in old Britain's bound,
By the noisy track of MacAdam is found.
So the fairies, scared from their chosen haunts,
Hold not on the greensward their merry dance;
But timid and startled, they shrink from the sight,
And come no more but in visions of night.

THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE.

THERE once lived in a village near London, a youth by the name of Raymond. His parents died when he was young, leaving him an ample estate. He was educated at one of the universities, travelled for two years on the continent, and, at the age of twenty-four, returned to the paternal mansion and established himself there. Being the richest person in the village, and the descendant and representative of a family of some antiquity, he became the chief personage of the place. Beside all this, he was esteemed remarkably handsome, possessed various accomplishments, and had powers of pleasing almost amounting to fascination. He was, therefore, courted and flattered by the whole neighborhood, and even lords and ladies of rank and fashion did not disdain to visit him. The common people around, of course, looked up to him; for in England, where distinctions in society are established by government, and where all are taught to consider such distinctions as right, the great, as they are called, are usually almost worshipped by the little.

Surrounded by luxuries, and flattered by everybody, it would seem that Raymond might have been happy; but he was of a discontented turn, and though for a time, these things pleased him, he grew tired of

them at last, and wished for some other sources of pleasure and excitement. At the university he had imbibed a taste for reading; but he could not now sit down to its quiet and gentle pleasures. He had been in the gay society of London and Paris, and had drunk the cup of pleasure so deeply, that nothing but its dregs remained.

Raymond was therefore restless, discontented, and miserable, while in the possession of all that usually excites the envy of mankind. He was rich beyond his utmost wishes; he was endowed with manly beauty and the most perfect health; he was admired, flattered, cherished, and sought after; yet he was unhappy. The reason of this he did not know; indeed, he did not look very deeply into the matter, but went on from one scene to another, seeking enjoyment, but turning with distaste and disappointment from every thing. He was, however, too proud to let the world see his real condition; he kept up a fair outside, sustained his establishment. with magnificence, and dressed himself, when he went abroad, with elegance and care; he affected gayety in company, often led in the dance, was ever foremost in the chase, and was usually the life of the circle wherever he went.

There were few, perhaps none, who imagined that, under this aspect of prosperity, the canker of discontent was gnawing at the heart. Yet such was the fact: of all the people of the village, Raymond was esteemed the most happy and fortunate; but he was in truth the veriest wretch in the place. And though this may doubtless seem a rare instance, yet we have good reason to believe that often, very often, there is deep misery, un