Come here, ye houseless wanderers, soothe your grief, How blest are they who in thy courts abide, And blessed are the young to God who bring Walk round these walls, and o'er the yet green graves All sleeping in the dust beneath those plane-trees green. And some are seated here, mine aged friends, Behold he comes with clouds, a kindling flood The hour is near, your robes unspotted keep, The great white throne, the terrible array Of Him before whose frown the heavens shall flee away. My friends, how dreadful is this holy place, Down from these clouds on your communion gaze; Are viewless witnesses of all your ways; Go from His table then, with trembling tune His praise. LITTLE DOMINICK. [Maria Edgeworth, born at Black-Boarton, near Oxford, 1st January, 1767; died at Edgeworthstown, Ireland, 22d May, 1849. A long life well-spent is the fitting epitaph of this gifted lady. Her father, Richard Lovell Edgeworth, erected the first telegraph in England; his life was devoted to science and to the improvement of the condition of his Irish tenantry. In this noble labour his daughter was his energetic and constant assistant. They were the joint authors of various works on education and character. It is, however, by her moral tales and novels, illustrative of Irish life, that Miss Edgeworth is most widely known. Castle Rackrent, Belinda, Helen, and Tales of Fashionable Life, are the titles of a few of her most important works. To these Scott said he was indebted for the suggestion that he might do for Scotland something "of the same kind with that which Miss Edgeworth had achieved for Ireland;"-something that would tend to procure for his countrymen "sympathy for their virtues, and indulgence for their foibles." Her career as a novelist began in 1801 with Castle Rackrent.] Little Dominick was born at Fort Reilly, in Ireland, and bred nowhere till his tenth year; when he was sent to Wales, to learn manners, and grammar, at the school of Mr. Owen ap Davies ap Jenkins ap Jones. This gentleman had reason to think himself the greatest of men; for he had, over his chimney-piece, a well-smoked genealogy, duly attested, tracing his ancestry in a direct line up to Noah; and, moreover, he was nearly related to the learned etymologist, who, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, wrote a folio volume to prove that the With arms stretch'd forth to heaven, swears time shall language of Adam and Eve in Paradise was be no more! pure Welsh. With such causes to be proud, Mr. Owen ap Davies ap Jenkins ap Jones was excusable for sometimes seeming to forget that a schoolmaster is but a man. He, however, sometimes entirely forgot that a boy is but a boy; and this happened most frequently with respect to Little Dominick. he had himself the spirit of a gentleman. When he saw how poor Dominick was persecuted, he took him under his protection; fought his battles with the Welsh boys; and instead of laughing at him for speaking Irish, he endeavoured to teach him to speak English. In his answers to the first questions Edwards ever asked him, Little Dominick made two blunders, which set all his other companions in a roar; Edwards would not allow them to be genuine bulls. In answer to the question-"Who is your father?" Dominick said, with a deep sigh-"I have no father-I am an orphan-I have only a mother." "Have you any brothers and sisters?" "No! I wish I had; for perhaps they would love me, and not laugh at me," said Dominick, with tears in his eyes; "but I have no brothers but myself." This unlucky wight was flogged every morning by his master; not for his vices, but for his vicious constructions: and laughed at by his companions every evening, for his idio-yet matic absurdities. They would probably have been inclined to sympathize in his misfortunes, but that he was the only Irish boy at school; and as he was at a distance from all his relations, and without a friend to take his part, he was a just object of obloquy and derision. Every sentence he spoke was a bull, every two words he put together proved a false concord, and every sound he articulated betrayed the brogue. But as he possessed some of the characteristic boldness of those who have been dipped in the Shannon, though he was only little Dominick, he showed himself able and willing to fight his own battles with the host of foes by whom he was encompassed. Some of these, it was said, were of nearly twice his stature. This may be exaggerated: but it is certain that our hero sometimes ventured, with sly Irish humour, to revenge himself on his most powerful tyrant, by mimicking the Welsh accent, in which Mr. Owen ap Jones said to him-"Cot pless me, you plockit, and shall I never learn you Enc-go lish crammar?" It was whispered in the ear of this Dionysius that our little hero was a mimic, and he was now treated with increased severity. The midsummer holidays approached; but he feared that they would shine no holidays for him. He had written to his mother to tell her that school would break up on the 21st; and to beg an answer, without fail, by return of post: but no answer came. It was now nearly two months since he had heard from his dear mother, or any of his friends in Ireland. His spirits began to sink under the pressure of these accumulated misfortunes: he slept little, eat less, and played not at all. Indeed, nobody would play with him on equal terms, because he was nobody's equal: his schoolfellows continued to consider him as a being, if not of a different species, at least of a different cast from themselves. Mr. Owen ap Jones' triumph over the little Irish plockit was nearly complete, for the boy's heart was almost broken, when there came to the school a new scholar-0, how unlike the others! His name was Edwards: he was the son of a neighbouring Welsh gentleman; and One day Mr. Owen ap Jones came into the school-room with an open letter in his hand, saying "Here, you little Irish plockit, here's a letter from your mother." The little Irish blockhead started from his form; and, throwing his grammar on the floor, leaped up higher than he or any boy in the school had ever been seen to leap before; then, clapping his hands, he exclaimed-"A letter from my mother! And will I hear the letter? And will I see her once more?—And will I home these holidays?-O, then I will be too happy!" "There's no tanger of that," said Mr. Owen ap Jones; "for your mother, like a wise ooman, writes me here, that, py the atvice of your cardian, to oom she is going to be married, she will not pring you home to Ireland till I send her word you are perfect in your Enclish crammar at least." "I have my lesson perfect, sir," said Dominick, taking his grammar up from the floor; "will I say it now?" "No, you plockit, you will not; and I will write your mother word, you have broke Priscian's head four times this tay, since her letter came.' Little Dominick, for the first time, was seen to burst into tears-"Will I hear the letter? - Will I see my mother? Will I go home?" "You Irish plockit!" continued the relentless grammarian: "you Irish plockit, will you never learn the difference between shall and will?" The Welsh boys all grinned, except Edwards, who hummed loud enough to be heard "And will I see him once again? Many of the boys were, unfortunately, too ignorant to feel the force of the quotation; but Mr. Owen ap Jones understood it, turned on his heel, and walked off. Soon afterwards, he summoned Dominick to his awful desk; and pointing with his ruler to the following page in Harris' Hermes, bade him "reat it, and understant it," if he could. Little Dominick read, but could not understand. "Then reat it aloud, you plockit." Dominick read aloud "There is nothing appears so clearly an object of the mind or intellect only as the future does: since we can find no place for its existence anywhere else: not but the same, if we consider, is equally true of the past-." "Well, co on- -What stops the plockit? Can't you reat Enclish now?" "Yes, sir; but I was trying to understand it -I was considering, that this is like what they would call an Irish bull, if I had said it." Little Dominick could not explain what he meant in English, that Mr. Owen ap Jones would understand; and to punish him for his impertinent observation, the boy was doomed to learn all that Harris and Lowth have written to explain the nature of shall and will.-The reader, if he be desirous of knowing the full extent of the penance enjoined, may consult Lowth's Grammar, p. 52, ed. 1799; and Harris' Hermes, p. 10, 11, and 12, fourth edition. Undismayed at the length of his task, Little Dominick only said—“I hope, if I say it all, without missing a word, you will not give my mother a bad account of me and my grammar studies, sir?" "Say it all first, without missing a word, and then I shall see what I shall say," replied Mr. Owen ap Jones. Even the encouragement of this oracular answer excited the boy's fond hopes so keenly, that he lent his little soul to the task; learned it perfectly; said it at night, without missing one word, to his friend Edwards; and said it the next morning, without missing one word, to his master. "And now, sir," said the boy, looking up, "will you write to my mother?-And shall I see her? And shall I go home?" "Tell me, first, whether you understand all this that you have learned so cliply?" said Mr. Owen ap Jones. That was more than his bond. Our hero's countenance fell; and he acknowledged that he did not understand it perfectly. "Then I cannot write a coot account of you and your crammer studies to your mother; my conscience coes against it!" said the conscientious Mr. Owen ap Jones. No entreaties could move him. Dominick never saw the letter that was written to his mother; but he felt the consequence. She wrote word, this time punctually by return of the post, that she was sorry she could not send for him home these holidays, as she had heard so bad an account from Mr. Owen ap Jones, &c., and as she thought it her duty not to interrupt the course of his education, especially his grammar studies. Little Dominick heaved many a sigh when he saw the packings up of all his schoolfellows; and dropped a few tears as he looked out of the window, and saw them, one after another, get on their Welsh ponies, and gallop off towards their homes. "I have no home to go to!" said he. "Yes, you have," cried Edwards; "and our horses are at the door, to carry us there." "To Ireland? Me! the horses!" said the poor boy, quite bewildered. "No; the horses cannot carry you to Ireland," said Edwards, laughing good-naturedly; "but you have a home, now, in England. I asked my father to let me bring you home with me; and he says "Yes," like a dear, good father, and has sent the horses-Come, let's away.' "But will Mr. Owen ap Jones let me go?" "Yes! he dare not refuse; for my father has a living in his gift, that Owen ap Jones wants, and which he will not have if he do not change his tune to you." Little Dominick could not speak one word, his heart was so full. No boy could be happier than he was during these holidays: "the genial current of his soul,' which had been frozen by unkindness, flowed with all its natural freedom and force. Whatever his reasons might be, Mr. Owen ap Jones, from this time forward, was observed to change his manners towards his Irish pupil. He never more complained, unjustly, of his preaking Priscian's head; seldom called him Irish plockit; and once, would have flogged a Welsh boy for taking up this cast-off expression of the master's, but that the Irish blockhead begged the culprit off. Little Dominick sprang forward rapidly in his studies; he soon surpassed every boy in the school, his friend Edwards only excepted. In process of time his guardian removed him to a higher seminary of education. Edwards had a tutor at home. The friends separated. Afterwards, they followed different professions, in distant parts of the world; and they neither saw, nor heard, any more of each other, for many years. Dominick, now no longer little Dominick, went over to India, as private secretary to one of our commanders-in-chief. How he got into this situation, or by what gradations he rose in the world, we are not exactly informed; we know only that he was the reputed author of a much-admired pamphlet on India affairs; that the despatches of the general to whom he was secretary were remarkably well written; and that Dominick O'Reilly, Esq., returned to England, after several years' absence, not miraculously rich, but with a fortune equal to his wishes. His wishes were not extravagant: his utmost ambition was, to return to his native country with a fortune that should enable him to live independently of all the world; especially of some of his relations, who had not used him well. His mother was no more! On his first arrival in London, one of the first things he did was to read the Irish newspapers. To his inexpressible joy he saw the estate of Fort-Reilly advertised to be soldthe very estate which had formerly belonged to his own family. Away he posted, directly, to an attorney's in Cecil Street, who was empowered to dispose of the land. | of all the creditors, none had refused to compound, except a Welsh parson, who had been presented to his living by old Edwards; and that this Mr. Owen ap Jones had thrown young Mr. Edwards into jail for the debt. "What is the rascal's demand? He shall be paid off this instant," cried Dominick, throwing down the plan of Fort-Reilly; "send for him up, and let me pay him off on this spot." "Had we not best finish our business first, about the O'Reilly estate, sir?" said the attorney. "No, sir; damn the O'Reilly estate!" cried he, huddling the maps together on the desk; and, taking up the bank-notes, which he had began to reckon for the purchase money—“I beg your pardon, sir-if you knew the facts, you would excuse me.-Why does not this rascal come up to be paid?" The attorney, thunderstruck by this Hibernian impetuosity, had not yet found time to take his pen out of his mouth. As he sat transfixed in his arm-chair, O'Reilly ran to the head of the stairs, and called out, in a stentorian voice, "Here, you Mr. Owen ap Jones; come up and be paid off this instant, or you shall never be paid at all." Up-stairs hobbled the old schoolmaster, as fast as the gout and Welsh ale would let him -"Cot pless me, that voice?" he began"Where's your bond, sir?" said the attorney. "Safe here, Cot be praised!" said the terrified Owen ap Jones, pulling out of his bosom first a blue pocket-handkerchief, and then a tattered Welsh grammar, which O'Reilly kicked to the farther end of the room. When this attorney produced a map of the well-known demesne, and an elevation of that house in which he spent the happiest hours of his infancy, his heart was so touched, that he was on the point of paying down more for an old ruin than a good new house would cost. The attorney acted honestly by his client, and seized this moment to exhibit a plan of the stabling and offices; which, as sometimes is the case in Ireland, were in a style far "Here is my pond," said he, "in the cramsuperior to the dwelling-house. Our hero sur-mer," which he gathered from the ground; veyed these with transport. He rapidly planned various improvements in imagination, and planted certain favourite spots in the demesne! During this time the attorney was giving directions to a clerk about some other business; suddenly the name of Owen ap Jones struck his ear. He started. "Let him wait in the front parlour: his money is not forthcoming," said the attorney, "and if he keep Edwards in jail till he rots" "Edwards!-Good heavens!-in jail!What Edwards?" exclaimed our hero. It was his friend Edwards! The attorney told him that Mr. Edwards had been involved in great distress, by taking on himself his father's debts, which had been incurred in exploring a mine in Wales; that, | then, fumbling over the leaves, he at length unfolded the precious deposit. O'Reilly saw the bond, seized it, looked at the sum, paid it into the attorney's hands, tore the seal from the bond; then, without looking at old Owen ap Jones, whom he dared not trust himself to speak to, he clapped his hat on his head, and rushed out of the room. He was, however, obliged to come back again, to ask where Edwards was to be found. "In the King's Bench prison, sir," said the attorney. "But am I to understand," cried he, holding up the map of the O'Reilly estate, am I to understand that you have no further wish for this bargain?" "Yes-No-I mean, you are to understand that I'm off," replied our hero, without looking back—“I'm off—That's plain English." Arrived at the King's Bench prison, he hurried to the apartment where Edwards was confined-The bolts flew back; for even the turnkeys seemed to catch our hero's enthusiasm. "Edwards, my dear boy! how do you do?— Here's a bond debt, justly due to you for my education-0, never mind asking any unnecessary questions; only just make haste out of this undeserved abode-Our old rascal is paid off-Owen ap Jones you know-Well how the man stares?-Why, now, will you have the assurance to pretend to forget who I am?-and must I spake," continued he, assuming the tone of his childhood-" and must I spake to you again in my old Irish brogue, before you will ricollict your own Little Dominick?" When his friend Edwards was out of prison, and when our hero had leisure to look into the business, he returned to the attorney, to see that Mr. Owen ap Jones had been satisfied. "Sir," said the attorney, "I have paid the plaintiff in this suit, and he is satisfied: but I must say," added he, with a contemptuous smile, "that you Irish gentlemen are rather in too great a hurry in doing business; business, sir, is a thing that must be done slowly, to be well done." "I am ready now to do business as slowly as you please; but when my friend was in prison, I thought the quicker I did his business the better. Now tell me what mistake I have made, and I will rectify it instantly." Instantly! 'Tis well, sir, with your promptitude, that you have to deal with what prejudice thinks so very uncommon-an honest attorney. Here are some bank-notes of yours, sir, amounting to a good round sum! You have made a little blunder in this business: you left me the penalty, instead of the principal, of the bond-just twice as much as you should have done." "Just twice as much as was in the bond; but not twice as much as I should have done, nor half as much as I should have done, in my opinion!" said O'Reilly: "but whatever I did, it was with my eyes open. I was persuaded you were an honest man; in which, you see, I was not mistaken; and as a man of business, I knew that you would pay Mr. Owen ap Jones only his due. The remainder of the money I meant, and now mean, should lie in your hands for my friend Edwards' use. I feared he would not have taken it from my hands: I therefore left it in yours. To have taken my friend out of prison, merely to let him go back again today, for want of money to keep himself clear with the world, would have been a blunder, indeed! but not an Irish blunder: our Irish blunders are never blunders of the heart!" LAMENT FOR HER HUSBAND. There was an eye whose partial glance Could listen to kind praise of me. For me with fonder feelings burn; And which, whene'er, alas! I roved, Still long'd and pined for my return. There was a lip which always breathed E'en short farewells with tones of sadness; There was a voice, whose eager sound My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness. There was a mind, whose vigorous powers On mine its fostering influence threw; And call'd my humble talents forth, Till thence its dearest joys it drew. There was a love that oft for me With anxious fears would overflow; And wept and pray'd for me, and sought From future ills to guard-but now That eye is closed, and deaf that ear, That lip and voice are mute for ever! And cold that heart of faithful love, Which death alone from mine could sever! And lost to me that ardent mind, Which loved my various tasks to see; And oh! of all the praise I gain'd, This was the dearest far to me! Now I, unloved, uncheer'd, alone, Life's dreary wilderness must tread, But, "Father of the fatherless," O! thou that hear'st the orphan's cry, And "dwellest with the contrite heart," As well as in "thy place on high!" O Lord! though like a faded leaf That awful tide which leads to thee! Still, Lord! to thee the voice of praise Shall spring triumphant from my breast, Since though I tread a weary way, I trust that he I mourn is bless'd! MRS. OPIR |