gladly would he have torn from the book of fate the leaf on which the name of king was written: The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things; Death lays his icy hands on kings: Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. I wandered into the church-yard on Sunday last. The people were going to church-I staid outside a church-yard is the best temple, and a tomb-stone the best sermon-I could have heard none so good within. In Ireland, I have elsewhere remarked, churchyards are not open to the stranger in the promiscuous manner that English ones are. An unprejudiced person might hesitate, before he gave an opinion which of these two modes is right-I am, perhaps, not unprejudiced, but I think the English mode is wrong. It tends materially to weaken that holy awe, and sanctimonious reverence, with which every person should contemplate death. It encourages pertness and flippancy, to treat with levity the most awful of all human subjects. The traveller strolls into a church-yard for amusement, not for instruction. He walks over the mouldering heaps of what 『 like him were men. It is not to reflect by how precarious a tenure he holds his existence; that, perhaps, in a few months, certainly in a few years, he will be as they are-but to collect food for laughter, to seek after quaint and ridiculous epitaphs. Surely those men must have their judgments strangely perverted, who find merriment in a tomb.The grave is the isthmus which unites eternity to time-when once our eyes are closed in it, we do not know whether ever we shall wake again, or if we do, in what state we shall awake.-This surely is a solemn consideration, and one should imagine, might make him think, who never thought before. I remained an hour here, I do not know that I spent it usefully.-I spent it solemnly, however.The gloom of the place communicated itself to my mind, as it does now to my pen.-I did not seek out laughable epitaphs-if such were there, I saw them not-I endeavoured to penetrate the darkness of the tomb-youth was there that fro. licked past those walls, where now it moulders, and bustling manhood, and opening years, as well as spent old age. In fancy I contem plated those sheeted tenants of the grave, each in his narrow house-I saw the changed face, the hideous yellow of the body newly buried-I saw the blackening hue of putrefaction, the decaying 1 garments, the crawling worms of what had lain longer in the ground-I saw the green and melted mass of the next stage of this shocking process, and the consummation of all, in the little heap of dust, about to be mingled with the great mass of matter, from which it sprung. ‹ And is this, then, the history of man-is this the end of his joys, and his sorrows, his hopes and his fears-is it for this he traverses countries, and wanders over oceans is it for this the extremes of the earth are ransacked, to procure him raiment and food-is it for this he is a villain-is it for this he inflicts misery, and sacrifices thousands to his ambition? Is it for this beauty disdains deformity ?-they are both deformed here. Is it for this riches despises poverty?-they are both poor here. Is it for this fashion shrinks from vulgarity?they are both of one fashion here. Oh, man! in wisdom an infant, but in folly full-grown, raise your head above the stars, but your feet rest here-deck yourself with jewels, but your garment is a shroud-feed yourself with dainties, but a worm will feed upon youbuild palaces, but this is your abode. "This is your journey's end, this is your butt, CONCLUSION. THAT the present is the most important period which has occurred in our history, few, I fancy, will be disposed to dispute. The present war, as has been often remarked, bears a different character from all our former ones; undertaken, as they were, for objects comparatively trifling, conducted with eivility, and concluded, without leaving any irritation behind, But this is a war of ruin and death; it has engendered and kept alive the vilest and most turbulent passions; with very short intermission, it has continued for nearly twenty years, producing a waste of treasure and blood, almost unpa ralleled in the history of mankind, and most probably, it will terminate in the destruction of one of the parties. Such, at its commencement, was the language of its great advocate, the late Mr. Burke, when opposed to France, torn by factions, and with Europe on our side, he anticipated a favourable result. But a new order of things has arisen ; "Jam nova progenies coelo dimittitur alto." I shall, therefore, without any apology, make a few observations on the present state of Ireland; they will, probably, not be very accep table to any party. That, as far as I am myself concerned, is a matter of small consequence. Yet, whether it is the suggestion of reason, or the foreboding of melancholy, as the impression on my mind of impending calamity is at times very strong, I own I should wish to communicate to the breasts of others, a part of what presses on my own; otherwise, it might be better for me not to be credited. Men seldom love those who tell them unwelcome truths. It was the misfortune of Cassandra always to do so; it was, perhaps, her blessing that she was never believed. Were Ireland a small island in a remote ocean, I think no Englishman, (I am sure no humane Englishman,) could contemplate her without emotion, or be indifferent about the changes she is likely to undergo, before she ascends to that natural level to which she is tending, and which society, like water, whether slowly or quickly, whether roughly or smoothly, is always sure of finding. But Ireland is not a small island in a remote ocean; she is an essential part of the British Empire; she is within a few hours sail of England, they are grappled together, and must undergo one fate, "equal joy, or equal woe." On the importance of Ireland to England, it is unnecessary to dwell. England does not produce food enough for the consumption of her inhabi |