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A DUTCH POST-BOY.

THE sullenness of Dutch drivers is such, that it is with the utmost difficulty you can procure an answer to any question you may ask. This humour in the lower order of the Mynheers is truly characteristic. A Dutchman is always wrapt up in himself, whatever may happen to be his condition. He is smoking his pipe, and you disturb him; he is meditating upon his own business, and you interrupt him. It is true you hired his chaise, at a certain rate, to transport you from this place to that, which he will faithfully perform: there ends your contract. You did not hire him to be your gazetteer, or interpreter. Curiosity is sure to be baffled by such a fellow. He will either be deaf to the question, or surly if repeated; or ignorant touching the matter questioned; or unsatisfactory in his answer.- How many leagues, honest friend, do you count it to Gircum?' 'Ugh!' says Mynheer; How many did you say?' Ugh! ugh! ugh!' which is as much as to say, you might have inquired that before you set out. Shall we be there by dinner-time, think you?'- Ik verstaa u niet!'

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I don't know what you mean.' - What fine castle is that?'-' I gaat my niet aan !'-that's no bread and butter of mine, says the Dutchman ;-you may make use of your eyes, and welcome, thinks he; but Satan may be your decipherer for me.

He takes upon himself the whole command, and is to all appearance no less the master than the driver. No man, he thinks, has any right to interrupt or direct him in his business, which he knows and will execute upon the mere principle of duty. He sits in the front of the carriage, under the awning, and consequently interrupts your prospect. He lights his pipe, and fumigates you at pleasure, without ever inquiring whether such incense be grateful to you, especially before breakfast;-if you like it, so much the better; if you dislike it, you will not have a whiff the less. His perfect serenity and total disregard of his company is such, that you would almost be induced to think his business was to recreate himself rather than to serve you. When he is tired of sitting, he stops the horses and dismounts; walks them leisurely, and marches by their side. When he has stretched his legs, he stops them again, remounts, and reassumes the reins. He has his regular houses of call; at each of which he is presented with a dram, and a fresh pipe, ready charged with tobacco. He takes the glass from the attendant; drinks one-half of its contents, and returns it. He next takes the pipe in one hand, and the fire-pan in the other. He is sure to have his pipe well lighted. He then swallows the remainder of his liquor.

Between whiles, he takes from his pocket a parcel, neatly wrapped up. He begins to unfold it. You perceive several clean paper wrappers, and begin to wonder what they are; they are so distinct as not to interfere with each other. In one there is bread, in another cheese, and in another ham, or hung beef, or it may be a pickled herring; and lastly, (in a small pot or saucer) is butter. He spreads his butter upon his bread, lays his strata of hung beef and cheese, and claps on it its farinaceous cover; these he eats with great composure, driving his horses accordingly. His meal finished, he thinks a little walk would not be amiss, so dismounts as before, by way of aiding digestion.

An English coachman, post-boy, or waterman, generally expects some

grace from the passengers, over and above his fare, neither is it an easy matter to content him on that score. A Dutchman has no such expectation. Is it his modesty, think you, that prevents his asking? No. What then? Perhaps he has been taught that it is unmanly to beg, and that the stated price of his labour is sufficient to support his rank. I believe there is something in that. If it comes without begging, says he, well and good, I shan't refuse it; but I have no title to ask.

After all, it may arise from a consciousness that he has not deserved anything. His sorry behaviour to his passengers, in my opinion, indicates no less.

THE HOUR OF PHANTASY.

BY THE LATE ISMAEL FITZADAM.

THERE is an hour when all our past pursuits,
The dreams and passions of our early day,-
The unripe blessedness that dropped away
From our young tree of life,-like blasted fruits,
All rush upon the soul: some beauteous form
Of one we loved and lost; or dying tone,
Haunting the heart with music that has flown,
Still lingers near us, with an awful charm!
I love that hour,-for it is deeply fraught

With images of things no more to be ;→→
Visions of hope, and pleasure madly sought,
And sweeter dreams of love and purity ;-
The poesy of heart, that smiled in pain
And all my boyhood worshipped-but vain!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I.

OH when the lips we loved are cold, and fixed in silent death,

The tender tale that once they told parts not with parting breath;

A word-a tone survives its hour-an angel's passing strain,

Once heard when dreams from heaven had power, and never heard again!

II.

From eyes that death hath closed, a gleam thrills softly o'er the heart!
That joins with life its blessed beam, 'till life itself depart!
Then from its last exhaling fires it purely parts above,
And with the mounting soul aspires to light it up to love!

Z. Z.

ON VISITING WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

How shall I sleep the sleep of death?
Where shall I wait the promised morn,
When I have gasped my latest breath-
When I life's final pang have horne ?
Shall I amid the sons of song
Repose, or with the vulgar throng?

It matters not :-Yon marble cold

Which Shakspeare's earthly semblance wears, As well the homage can behold,

Or kindle at the envied tears

By living genius duly shed

Above the minstrel's narrow bed ;-
As can the slumbering dust below.-
No sculptor's art, no poet's fire,
May consciousness again bestow,—

May rapture's thrill again inspire :— "Tombed in a desert, as serene,

As sweet, as blest,-his sleep had been!
Why then repine, though Fate to me
The fancied privilege deny,
Within this splendid sanctuary

With loftier bards in death to lie?

I cannot tell-but oh! I pant,

To be such mansion's habitant!

Give me the hope,-my soaring soul

Invention's heaven of heavens shall scale :-
Though fraught with woe my years should roll,
Though worn with care, with watchings pale;
Poor, friendless, wretched-Oh! such lot
Were bliss!-I would not be forgot.

I know it vain-I feel it dear

This passion for sepulchral fame :
"Twas God infused the instinct here,
That God who lit the quenchless flame
Which marks me for a child of song-
It may be wild-it is not wrong.

Father of Spirits !—Man to man

Is mystery all, but not to Thee :-
Each hidden fitness Thou canst scan,-
All in Thy sight is symmetry:
This bootless craving-weakness, pain-
Nought is assigned its place in vain!

If but the destined end it reach,

Thou wilt be honoured, he be blest :Through life,-in death,-submission teach, And wheresoe'er this form may rest, Receive my spirit to thy heaven,

Its blindness purged,—its guilt forgiven !

T. G.

MIRTH AND MELANCHOLY.

A SKETCH OF IRISH MANNERS.

ABOUT thirty miles to the west of Cork is a beautiful and romantic glen, called the Leap, which, in the history of the county, has long been of great importance, and still marks the boundary between the savage and the civilized; for the old adage even yet retains its full force, of beyond the Leap, beyond the law.' For the space of two miles along the valley, one side of the road is shadowed by a thick forest of oak, forming a strange but pleasing contrast to the high and barren hills which rise upon the other; and after passing the bridge, situated at the extremity of the dell, the traveller is instantly struck with the wildness of the scenery, which encreases at every step. But, wild as it appears, it still has its peculiar charms; and though, over a plain of miles in extent, little is to be seen but bogs and morasses, yet it is so interspersed with innumerable lakes, some of them highly picturesque, that, to the eye of a poet, or a painter, the prospect must be one of interest, if not of beauty; and the political economist only would exclaim, All is barren!' To the traveller, its charm is heightened by the change from the gloom of the dark forest to the level plain; whilst a few broken relics of some old castles, over many parts of which the plough has passed, and weeds have grown, serve as a relief to the sameness of the view, and afford subjects for meditation as he travels on his bleak and barren journey. In the distance he beholds the high hills rising above the valley in rude magnificence; with here and there a little cultivated spot, on which its smoke only enables him to distinguish the clay-built cottage from the rocks around it. Miles beyond them he perceives Hungary mountain towering above the rest, and seeming to look with equal scorn upon the hills and the valleys beneath, proud only of its barrenness; for its whole extent does not afford pasture for a flock of sheep; whilst man, the Lord of the Creation, shuns it equally with the beings of the lower world. Its summit is crowned by an unfathomable lake, with which the peasantry have long associated tales of superstitious wonder, many of them having seen its only inhabitant, an enormous serpent, stretch forth its head, until they have lost sight of it in the clouds !

A road to the left, towards the sea coast, leads to the village of Glandore, but it is little better than a footpath, totally impassable to carriages of every description, and dangerous even to horses. The road, however, is not altogether cheerless; for, on one side, is Brade, and the beautiful demesne of Lord Kingston; and, on the other, the old mansion and rookery of Castle Jane, gives a pleasing and romantic cast to the landscape, whilst the river is seen, at intervals, between the thick wood that slopes from the road to the shore. At the distance of nearly a mile from it, is situated the village, in a valley, surrounded on every side by lofty hills, consisting of a number of straggling cottages built along the strand, with the potato-garden behind each, and fronted by the dunghill, formed as a sort of wall on either side the door. It was evening when I first approached it; an evening in autumn, and the sun was setting in all its splendour. It was the vigil of the Sabbath-day, and the villagers were assembling to pass it in their customary amusement, and, at least, harmlessly, to welcome the approach of the day of rest. At the entrance of the village I had to

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encounter the inquisitive gaze of many a country lass, sitting at her cabin door, braiding her tresses, and arranging her rustic finery, in preparation for the evening dance. A countryman, who, if he was not going my way, made it his, addressed me with It's a fine evening, your honour, God bless it!' This blessing is the general accompaniment of the Irish to every thing they admire. I have frequently heard it bestowed on things animate and inanimate-and that's a fine cow, God bless it!' or, it's a beautiful tree, God bless it!' are constant and favourite expressions. My companion, for he became one, was an old and weather-beaten sailor, who had visited one half the globe, and knew something of the other he seemed not a little vain of his superiority over his fellow-villagers, and it was with some difficulty I prevailed on him to forget the Esquimaux and the Hottentots, and to leave St. Lawrence and the Table mountain, for the Glandore hill and river. At length, in his own dialect, half seaman, and half rustic, he commenced his account of the neighbouring villas and their inhabitants, and continued to point out to me the most attractive scenes as we walked along. 'Do you see that house upon the hill yonder? that's Mr. R.'s. Oh! he's a hard man to the poor, that; 'tis a bad life that his tenants have of it; I'd as live be a slave in an Algee rover, and I was once, and by the same token I'll remember it to my death: we fought hard, but they shot away our jib-boom, and so took us. And that little island that runs away from the shore, like the deserters at Madeira,—that's Mr. M.'s; that is, it isn't now, for he's dead. Och! it's he was the good man in his time, any how. No cratur ever passed his door without the bit and the sup, barring the exciseman, the blagard that tuck his potteen, and kill't his illegant little bit of a mare: Oh wisha! every thing's bad luck to him for that same. Look at that ould castle upon the grey rock; that's Mr. O.'s. Him as made a will, and made his dead uncle put his name on it, by holding the corpse's hand, and then he swore he'd life in him; and so he had, faith! for he put a live worm in the dead man's mouth. house in the glen yonder, that's the clargyman's, with sixteen Protestants in his rich parish; and not one more! By this time we had reached the middle of the village; and my companion thinking it now necessary for me to give some account of myself, were it but in gratitude for his confidence and communications, questioned and cross-questioned me, though to no purpose. An Irish peasant is like a black-letter book, which though difficult to peruse, generally rewards the labour by opening sources of new and curious information, and is seldom closed with dissatisfaction. The very causes that have conspired to depress them, and still keep them but a half civilized race, have at the same time given them that quickness of intellect, and that penetrating shrewdness, by which they are so generally distinguished. Believing themselves, as they certainly do, mastered by strangers in their own land, they feel, or fancy themselves, called upon to act on the defensive, and to overbalance might by cunning. They are, therefore, frequently ungrateful, because unaccustomed to kindness, they often look on a favour as a bribe; or, at best, as the offering of self-interest and policy. After having borne patiently the examination of my companion, like a shrewd witness before a long-headed lawyer, who thinks before he opens his lips, and never replies until he has well conned his answer, I pointed towards one of the cottages, round the door of which a number of peasantry were assembled, and asked him what was doing there. It's the potteen, your honour; may be your honour would like to see the

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