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LEGEND OF THE ROSE OF THE ALHAMBRA.
AMONG those who attended in the train of the monarchs was a favourite page of the queen, named Ruyz de Alarcon. To say that he was a favourite page of the queen was at once to speak his eulogium; for every one in the suite of the stately Elizabetta was chosen for grace, and beauty, and accomplishments. He was just turned of eighteen, light and lithe of form, and graceful as a young Antinous. To the queen he was all deference and respect; yet he was at heart a roguish stripling, petted and spoiled by the ladies about the court, and experienced in the ways of women far beyond his years.
This loitering page was one morning rambling about the groves of the Generalife, which overlook the grounds of the Alhambra. He had taken with him for his amusement a favourite ger-falcon of the queen. In the course of his rambles, seeing a bird rising from a thicket, he unhooded the hawk and let him fly. The falcon towered high in the air, made a sweep at his quarry, but missing it, soared away regardless of the calls of the page. The latter followed the truant bird with his eye in its capricious flight, until he saw it alight upon the battlements of a remote and lonely tower in the outer walls of the Alhambra, built on the edge of a ravine that separated the royal fortress from the grounds of the Generalife. It was, in fact, the "Tower of Princesses." The page descended into the ravine and approached the tower, but it had no entrance from the glen, and its lofty height rendered any attempt to scale it fruitless. Seeking one of the gates of the fortress, 'therefore, he mmade a wide circuit to that side of the tower facing within the walls. A small garden, enclosed by trellis-work of reeds overhung with myrtle, lay before the tower. Opening a wicket, the page passed between beds of flowers and tickets of roses to the door. It was closed and bolted. A crevice in the door gave him a peep into the interior. There was a small Moorish hall with fretted walls, light marble columns, and an alabaster fountain surrounded with flowers. In the centre hung a gilt cage containing a singing bird; beneath it, on a chair, lay a tortoise-shell cat, among reels of silk and other articles of female labour; and a guitar, decorated with ribands, leaned against the fountain.
Ruyz de Alarcon was struck with these traces of female taste and elegance in a lonely and, as he had supposed, serted tower. They reminded him of the tales of enchanted halls current in the Alhambra; and the tortoise-shell cat might be some spell-bound princess. He knocked gently at the door; a beautiful face peeped out from a little window above, but was instantly withdrawn. He waited, expecting that the door would be opened, but he waited in vain; no footstep was to be heard within-all was silent. Had his senses deceived him, or was this beautiful apparition the fairy of the tower? He knocked again, and more loudly. After a little while the beaming face once more peeped forth; it was that of a blooming damsel of fifteen. The page immediately doffed his plumed bonnet, and entreated in the most courteous accents to be permitted to ascend the tower in pursuit of his falcon. "I dare not open the door, senor," replied the little damsel, blushing; "my aunt has forbidden it.”—“ I do beseech you, fair maid; it is the favourite falcon of the queen : I dare not return to the palace without it."-" Are you, then, one of the cavaliers of
the court ?"" I am, fair maid; but I shall lose the queen's favour and my place, if I lose this hawk."-"Santa Maria! it is against you cavaliers of the court my aunt has charged me especially to bar the door."-" Against wicked cavaliers, doubtless; but I am none of these, but a simple harmless page, who will be ruined and undone if you deny me this small request."
The heart of the little damsel was touched by the distress of the page. It was a thousand pities he should be ruined for the want of so trifling a boon. Surely, too, he could not be one of those dangerous beings whom her aunt had de scribed as a species of cannibal, ever on the prowl to make prey of thoughtless damsels-he was gentle and modest, and stood so entreatingly with cap in hand, and looked so charming. The sly page saw that the garrison began to waver, and redoubled his entreaties in such moving terms, that it was not in the nature of mortal maiden to deny him; so the blushing little warden of the tower descended and opened the door with a trembling hand; and if the page had been charmed by a mere glimpse of her countenance from the window, he was ravished by the full-length portrait now revealed to him. Her Andalusian bodice and trim basquina set off the round but delicate symmetry of her form, which was as yet scarce verging into womanhood. Her glossy hair was parted on her forehead with scrupulous exactness, and decorated with a fresh-plucked rose, according to the universal custom of the country. It is true her complexion was tinged by the ardour of a southern sun, but it served to give richness to the mantling bloom of her cheek, and to heighten the lustre of her melting eyes. Ruyz de Alarcon beheld all this with a single glance, for it became him not to tarry: he merely murmured his acknowledgments, and then bounded lightly up the spiral staircase in quest of his falcon.
He soon returned with the truant bird upon his fist. The damsel, in the meantime, had seated herself by the fountain in the hall, and was winding silk; but in her agitation she let fall the reel upon the pavement. The page sprang and picked it up, then dropping gracefully on one knee, presented it too her; but seizing the hand extended to receive it, imprinted on it a kiss more fervent and devout than he had ever imprinted on the fair hand of his sovereign. “Ave Maria, senor!" exclaimed the damsel, blushing still deeper with confusion and surprise, for never before had she rede-ceived such a salutation. The modest page made a thousand apologies, assuring her it was the way at court of expressing the most profound homage and respect. Her anger, if anger she felt, was easily pacified, but her agitation and embarrassment continued; and she sat blushing deeper and deeper, with her eyes cast down upon her work, entangling the silk which she attempted to wind. The cunning page saw the confusion in the opposite camp, and would fain have profited by it; but the fine speeches he would have uttered died upon his lips; his attempts at gallantry were awkward and ineffectual; and to his surprise, the adroit page, who had figured with such grace and effrontery among the most knowing and experienced ladies of the court, found himself awed and abashed in the presence of a simple damsel of fifteen. In fact, the artless maiden, in her own modesty and innocence, had guardians more effectual than the bolts and bars prescribed by her vigilant aunt. Still, where is the female bosom proof against the first whisperings of love. The little damsel, with all her art
lessness, instinctively comprehended all that the faltering tongue of the page failed to express; and her heart was fluttered at beholding, for the first time, a lover at her feet and such a lover!
The diffidence of the page, though genuine, was shortlived, and he was recovering his usual ease and confidence, when a shrill voice was heard at a distance. "My aunt is returning from mass!" cried the damsel, in affright; "I pray you, senor, depart.”—“ Not until you grant me that rose from your hair as a remembrance." She hastily untwisted the rose from her raven locks; "Take it," cried she, agitated and blushing; "but pray begone." The page took the rose, and at the same time covered with kisses the fair hand that gave it. Then, placing the flower in his bonnet, and taking the falcon npon his fist, he bounded off through the garden, bearing away with him the heart of the gentle Jacinta. When the vigilant aunt arrived at the tower, she remarked the agitation of her niece, and an air of confusion in the hall; but a word of explanation sufficed " A ger-falcon had pursued his prey into the hall.”— "Mercy on us! to think of a falcon flying into the tower! Did ever one hear of so saucy a hawk? Why, the very bird in the cage is not safe!"
The tender Jacinta, in the agony of her grief, lost all thought of her aunt's displeasure. Threw herself into her arms, she broke forth into sobs and tears. "Ay di mi!" cried she; "he's gone!-he's gone !—he's gone! and I shall never see him more !”—“ Gone !—who is gone?— what youth is that I saw at your feet ?" A queen's page, aunt, who came to bid me farewell."—" A queen's page, child!" echoed the vigilant Fredeganda faintly; "and when did you become acquainted with a queen's page?"— "The morning the ger-falcon came into the tower. It was the queen's ger-falcon, and he came in pursuit of it."—" Ah silly, silly girl! know that there are no ger-falcons half so dangerous as these young prankling pages, and it is precisely such simple birds as thee that they pounce upon.”
The aunt was at first indignant at learning that, in despite of her boasted vigilance, a tender intercourse had been carried on by the youthful lovers, almost beneath her eye; but when she found that her simple-hearted niece, though thus exposed, without the protection of bolt or bar, to all The vigilant Fredeganda was one of the most wary of the machinations of the opposite sex, had come forth unancient spinsters. She had a becoming terror and distrust singed from the fiery ordeal, she consoled herself with the of what she denominated the "opposite sex," which had persuasion, that it was owing to the chaste and cautious gradually increased through a long life of celibacy. Not maxims in which she had, as it were, steeped her to the that the good lady had ever suffered from their wiles, nature very lips. While the aunt laid this soothing unction to having set up a safeguard in her face that forbade all tres- her pride, the niece treasured up the oft-repeated vows of pass upon her premisses; but ladies who have least cause fidelity of the page. But what is the love of restless roving to fear for themselves, are most ready to keep a watch man? A vagrant stream that dallies for a time with each over their more tempting neighbours. The niece was the flower upon its bank, then passes on, and leaves them all orphan of an officer who had fallen in the wars. She had in tears. Days, weeks, months elapsed, and nothing more been educated in a convent, and had recently been trans- was heard of the page. The pomegranate ripened, the vine ferred from her sacred asylum to the immediate guardian-yielded up its fruit, the autumnal rains descended in torrents ship of her aunt, under whose overshadowing care she ve- from the mountains; the Sierra Nevada became covered getated in obscurity, like an opening rose blooming beneath with a snowy mantle, and wintry blasts howled through a brier. Nor indeed is this comparison entirely accidental; the halls of the Alhambra still he came not. The winter for, to tell the truth, her fresh and dawning beauty had passed away. Again the genial spring burst forth with caught the public eye, even in her seclusion, and, with that song and blossom and balmy zephyr; the snows melted poetical turn common to the people of Andalusia, the pea- from the mountains, until none remained but on the lofty santry of the neighbourhood had given her the appellation summit of Nevada, glistening through the sultry summer of "the Rose of the Alhambra.” air. Still nothing was heard of the forgetful page."
Poor Jacinta sits and weeps her time away beside a foun
tain in the hall.
gaily embroidered dress, at the feet of her niece. At the sound of her footsteps he gave a tender adieu, bounded lightly over the barrier of reeds and myrtles, sprang upon his horse, and was out of sight in an instant.
The wary aunt continued to keep a faithful watch over her tempting little niece as long as the court continued at Granada, and flattered herself that her vigilance had been successful. It is true, the good lady was now and then discomposed by the tinkling of guitars and chanting of low ditties from the moonlit groves beneath the tower; but she would exhort her niece to shut her ears against such idle minstrelsy, assuring her that it was one of the arts of the opposite sex, by which simple maids were often lured to their undoing. Alas! what chance with a simple maid has a dry lecture against a moonlight serenade ?
As the bell in the distant watch-tower of the Alham bra struck the midnight hour, the fountain was agitated; and bubble-bubble-bubble—it tossed about the waters, until a Moorish female rose to view. She was young and beautiful; her dress was rich with jewels, and in her hand she held a silver lute. Jacinta trembled and was faint, but was reassured by the soft and plaintive voice of the apparition, and the sweet expression of her pale, me lancholy countenance. "Daughter of mortality," said she, "what aileth thee? Why do thy tears trouble my foun tain, and thy sighs and plaints disturb the quiet watches of the night ?" I weep because of the faithlessness of
At length King Philip cut short his sojourn at Granada, and suddenly departed with all his train. The vigilant Fredeganda watched the royal pageant as it issued forth from the gate of justice, and descended the great avenue lead-man, and I bemoan my solitary and forsaken state.”— ing to the city. When the last banner disappeared from "Take comfort; thy sorrows may yet have an end. Thou her sight, she returned exulting to her tower, for all her beholdest a Moorish princess, who, like thee, was unhappy cares were over. To her surprise, a light Arabian steed in her love. A Christian knight, thy ancestor, won my pawed the ground at the wicket-gate of the garden :-to heart, and would have borne me to his native land and to her horror, she saw through the thicket of roses a youth, in the bosom of his church. I was a convert in my heart,
but I lacked courage equal to my faith, and lingered till
when she learnt that she was of a meritorious though impoverished line, and that her father had bravely fallen in the service of the crown. "If thy powers equal their res nown," said she, "and thou canst cast forth this evil spirit that possesses thy sovereign, thy fortunes shall henceforth be my care, and honours and wealth attend thee.”
Impatient to make trial of her skill, she led the way at once to the apartment of the moody monarch. Jacinta followed, with downcast eyes, through files of guards and crowds of courtiers. They arrived. at length at a great chamber hung in black. The windows were closed to exclude the light of day; a number of yellow wax tapers in silver sconces diffused a lugubrious light, and dimly revealed the figures of mutes in mourning dresses, and courtiers who glided about with noiseless step and wo-begone visage. On the midst of a funeral bed or bier, his hands folded on his breast, and the tip of his nose just visible, lay extended this would-be buried monarch. The queen entered the chamber in silence, and pointing to a footstool in an obscure corner, beckoned to Jacinta to sit down and commence. At first she touched her lute with a faltering hand, but gathering confidence and animation as she proceeded, drew forth such soft aërial harmony, that all present could scarce believe it mortal. As to the monarch, who had already considered himself in the world of spirits, he set it down for some angelic melody, or the music of the spheres. By degrees the theme was varied, and the voice of the minstrel accompanied the instrument. She poured forth one of the legendary ballads, treating of the ancient glories of the Alhambra, and the achievements of the Moors. Her whole soul entered into the theme, for with the recollections of the Alhambra was associated the story of her love. The fune ral chamber resounded with the animating strain. It entered into the gloomy heart of the monarch. He raised his head and gazed around: he sat up on his couch; his eye began to kindle; at length, leaped upon the floor, he called for sword and buckler. The triumph of music, or rather of the enchanted lute, was complete; the demon of melancholy was cast forth, and, as it were, a dead man brought to life. The windows of the apartment were thrown open; the glorious effulgence of Spanish sunshine burst into the late lugubrious chamber; all eyes sought the lovely enchantress; but the lute had fallen from her hand, she had sunk upon the earth, and the next moment was clasped to the bosom of Ruyz de Alarcon.
In the midst of this fearful dilemma a rumour reached the court, of the female minstrel who was turning the brains of all Andalusia. The queen despatched missions in all haste to summon her to St. Ildefonso, where the court at that time resided. Within a few days, as the queen, with her maids of honour, was walking in those stately gardens, intended, with their avenues, and terraces, and fountains, to eclipse the glories of Versailles, the far-famed minstrel was conducted into her presence. The imperial Elizabetta gazed with surprise at the youthful and unpretending appearance of the little being that had set the world madding. She was in her picturesque Andalusian dress; her silver lute was in her hand, and she stood with modest and down-vourite of royalty. Besides, the lute of Jacinta, you know, cast eyes, but with a simplicity and freshness of beauty that possessed a magic power, and could control the most stubstill bespoke her "The Rose of the Alhambra." As usual, born head and hardest breast. And what came of the enshe was accompanied by the ever-vigilant Fredeganda, who chanted lute? Oh! that is the most curious matter of all, gave the whole history of her parentage and descent to the and plainly proves the truth of all this story. That lute inquiring queen. If the stately Elizabetta had been inter- remained for some time in the family, but was purloined ested by the appearance of Jacinta, she was still more pleased and carried off, as was supposed, by the great singer Fai
The nuptials of the happy couple were shortly after celebrated with great splendour; but hold—I hear the reader ask, how did Ruyz de Alarcon account for his long neglect? Oh! that was all owing to the opposition of a proud, pragmatical old father; besides, young people who really like one another, soon come to an amicable understanding, and bury all past grievances when once they meet. But how was the proud pragmatical old father reconciled to the match? Oh! his scruples were easily overcome by a word or two from the queen, especially as dignities and rewards were showered upon the blooming fa
The music of this lute fairly enchants all the hearers, till at length its mistress is sent for to court, to try its influence over the hypochondriac monarch.
At the moment we treat of, however, a freak had come over the mind of this sapient and illustrious Bourbon, that surpassed all former vagaries. After a long spell of imaginary illness, which set all the strains of Faranelli, and the consultations of a whole orchestra of court fiddlers at defiance, the monarch fairly, in idea, gave up the ghost, and considered himself absolutely dead. This would have been harmless enough, and even convenient both to his queen and courtiers, had he been content to remain in the quietude befiting a dead man; but to their annoyance he insisted upon having the funeral ceremonies performed over him, and, to their inexpressible perplexity, began to grow impatient and to revile bitterly at them for negligence and disrespect, in leaving him unburied. What was to be done? To disobey the king's positive commands was monstrous in the eyes of the obsequious courtiers of a punctillions court-but to obey him, and bury him alive, would be downright regicide!
nelli, in pure jealousy. At his death it passed into other hands in Italy, who were ignorant of its mystic powers, and melting down the silver, transferred the strings to an old Cremona fiddle. The strings still retain something of their magic virtues. A word in the reader's ear, but let it go no farther that fiddle is now bewitching the whole world—it is the fiddle of Paganini !—Tales ́of the Alhambra.
THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE, the author of "Phœbe Dawson," and of much beautiful and true verse, has been called the poet of the poor, and a Radical poet. None has pictured the sins, and sorrows, and sufferings of the poor more truly; and no one has taught them lessons of wisdom in a kindlier spirit. If any thing is wanted to give interest to the tale of Phabe Dawson, we may notice, that it is said to have been read in MS. by Charles James Fox on his death-bed; admired, we need not say, and marked by his corrections.
Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas Fair,
At length, the youth ordain'd to move her breast,
There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay, Till chidden-soothed-entreated-forced away; He would of coldness, though indulged, complain, And oft retire and oft return again;
When, if his teasing vex'd her gentle mind, The grief assumed, compell'd her to be kind! For he would proof of plighted kindness crave, That she resented first and then forgave,
And to his grief and penance yielded more
Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And torn green gown, loose hanging at her back, One who an infant in her arms sustains, And seems in patience striving with her pains; Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread, Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled; Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, And tears unnoticed from their channels flow; Serene her manner, till some sudden pain Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again :Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, And every step with cautious terror makes; For not alone that infant in her arms, But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms. With water burden'd, then she picks her way, Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay; Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound, And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground; Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes, While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes: For when so full the cup of sorrow grows, Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows. And now her path, but not her peace she gains, Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains; Her home she reaches, open leaves the door, And placing first her infant on the floor, She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits, And sobbing struggles with the rising fits: In vain, they come, she feels th' inflating grief, That shuts the swelling bosom from relief; That speaks in feeble cries a soul distress'd, Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd. The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel, and flies With all the aid her poverty supplies; Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys, Not led by profit, nor allured by praise; And waiting long, till these contentions cease, She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace. Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid; She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.
But who this child of weakness, want, and care?
Then fly temptation, youth: resist, refrain! Nor let me preach for ever and in vain! HOW A BARRISTER MAY TRAVEL.-It is a well-established rule at the bar, consecrated by old usage, and ob served at the present day, that all barristers shall travel the circuit with post-horses, but they may go to sessions by coach. If any member of the bar violates this practice, his brethren refuse to associate with him; or, in other words, he is cut.—Legal Examiner.
HOW TO MAKE A CUDGEL par excellence.-Take a stout elder branch, extract the pith from the hollow part, and insert two eyes of a wolf, three green lizards, seven leaves of yervairs, and a parti-coloured stone found in the nest of a lapwing. The wielder of this baton may set thieves and wild beasts at defiance. See Thiers' Traité des Superstitions.
COBBETT THE YOUNGER.
THERE is a very remarkable resemblance in the style of the younger Cobbett to that of his father, though it wants the vigour of the old Serjeant. We have been much pleased with the following account, which, in a tour through Normandy, he has given of the
CHARACTER OF A PARISH PRIEST. THE late Rev. CHARLES WOLFE is known chiefly as the author of the nobly, simple lines on the death of Sir John Moore, beginning "Not a drum was heard." He deserves to be remembered for much higher merits. take leave to borrow from ourselves in introducing him to the knowledge of our readers. In "Johnstone's Specimens of the Poets," he is thus spoken of:
"Wolfe's poetical pieces are few in number, but they are of great excellence, though subordinate to the much and manly intellect, devoted unremittingly to the noblest loftier qualities of a zeal truly apostolic, and a vigorous
The priests appear to be a very gentle and amiable sort of men. I always pull off my hat to any of them that I meet, and they always return the salutation with great politeness and even humility. They dress, not only while at church, but at all times, in a long sort of coat gown, called a soutane, made of black cloth, and wear the old fashioned cocked-hat. You cannot mistake the country priest in France for any thing other than he is. His deyout manner, and the simple and sacred habiliment that he always appears in, make you acquainted with his profession at once. This is not the case with the divines of our country. In the famishing curate we do, to be sure, very often see an example of piety and mildness; but the religious character of the beneficed clergyman is not at all times to be recognised in his manners or in his personal appearance: he, though quite as sincere, no doubt, as these meeker priests in France, is very often admired as the most
cause to which the human faculties can be devoted. It was not to crowded cities, nor to fashionable audiences, that Mr. Wolfe dedicated his labours. In a miserable curacy in the province of Armagh he suffered nearly as great privations as a missionary in heathen lands, labouring with zeal, to which he fell an early victim, to promote in all things the spiritual and temporal welfare of the poor people of his extensive parish. In the year 1821, when the typhus fever made such ravages in Ireland, the fatigue which Mr. Wolfe endured in visiting the sick-a duty to which he was peculiarly devoted and his zeal "good shot;” as the best hand at a "rubber of whist ;" or, of his poor flock, considerably affected his health. in administering both to the 'spiritual and temporal wants His the most good-humoured companion, and maker of the gradual decay became visible to his parishioners, and some best joke over a bottle of wine! I cannot behold the sober and serious deportment of these priests without think-relations, who tried to withdraw him from the laborious of them made affectionate private representations to his duties of his parish for the recovery of his health.
venturesome rider in the fervour of a fox-chase; as being a
ing of a pamphlet, published in London last spring, and written by an Irish squire, giving an account of an Irish Protestant parson's sending a pair of garters to a female of his flock, with a motto, which very few men, except Irish squires, would venture to put into print.
"His character as a parish-priest will be contemplated with more delight than his genius as a poet, or eloquence as a preacher, great as these were. It is thus delineated and children ran to the doors to welcome him, with looks by a friend: As he passed by, all the poor people and expressions of the most ardent affection, and with all that wild devotion of gratitude so characteristic of the Irish peasantry. Many fell on their knees, invoking blessings on him, and making the most anxious inquiries about his health. He was sensibly moved by this manifestation of feeling, and met it with all that heartiness of
The priests do not lead lazy lives. They visit, and diligently visit every sick person. They are in their churches, on many of the days of every month, soon after daylight. On Sundays they generally say mass three times. They teach all the children their religious duties. For this purpose they have them assembled in the church itself, on certain days, and mostly at a very early hour in the morning, which must have an excellent effect on the morals of the children. There are none of the people too poor to be noticed, and in the kindest manner too, by these priests, who really appear to answer to the appellation of pastor. Never, while this is the case, will any thing resembling our Methodist meetings rise up here. It is certainly a great feather in the cap of the Catholic Church, that France has returned to her with so much unanimity; and that, too, without any force, without any attempt at force, and without any possible motive in the mass of the people,
expression, and that affectionate simplicity of manner, which made him as much an object of love as his exalted virtues rendered him an object of respect, The intimate knowledge he seemed to have of all their domestic histories, appeared from the short but significant questions he put to
each individual as he hurried along, while at the same time he gave a sketch of the particular characters of several who presented themselves, pointing, with a sigh to one, and to another with looks of satisfaction and fond congratulations. It was indeed impossible to behold a scene like this, which can scarcely be described without the deepest but most
except that of a belief in the truth of her doctrines.
pleasing emotions. It seemed to realize the often-imagined picture of a primitive minister of the gospel of Christ living in the hearts of his flock, willing to spend and to be spent upon them, enjoying the happy interchange of mutual affection, and affording a pleasing proof that a faithful and firm discharge of duty, when accompanied by kindly sympathies and gracious manners, can scarcely fail to gain the hearts of the humble ranks of the people.'
as far as I can venture to speak, I must say, that I think that the gentle, the aimable, the kind, the humble, the truly pious conduct of the priests is the great cause of that strong attachment which the Catholics everywhere bear to their church. I give, as it becomes me, this opinion, with great deference to the judgment of the reader; but bare justice to these priests compels me to say, that I see them everywhere held in high esteem, and that they seem to me not to be esteemed beyond their merits. Let the reader suppose an English parson (and there may be such a one in England) abstaining from marriage in order that he nay devote his whole time and affection to his flock; let the reader suppose him visiting every sick person in his parish, present at every death in it, comforting the dying, consoling the survivors; let the reader suppose such a parsen teaching every child in the parish its religious duties, conversing with each almost daily; let the reader suppose such a parson, and can he suppose that the people of this parish would ever run after a Methodist? The great thing is, however, that the people are more sober, honest, and happy in consequence of having this kind and zealous parson. This is the great thing to think of; and it appears to me, that in this respect, France is at this time in a very excellent state.
"It was with extreme reluctance that Mr. Wolfe, on the entreaty of his friends, left this poor and affectionate people to seek the restoration of his health in the south of France. He made a short recovery, but relapsed on his return to Ireland, and died in 1823, in the 32d year of his age, of deep consumption. What better blessing can be desired for Ireland, than that each of its parishes possessed a Charles Wolfe!"
If this was the best prayer we could breathe for Ireland four years since, how much more fervently is it breathed now, when the actual state of that country is such as almost extinguishes hope. Let us say with an old writer, "God send us more such men, that we may dazzle the eyes of the Papists with the light of Protestant good works."