of pleasure or of hope: but she looked again, and it was fairer and brighter-again, and it was still more so; each day brought more light and beauty; and as the future became fairer than the past, was that past forgotten. It was to her, like to the child of the forest, who had come at the dawn to lave his feet in the ocean; for he had heard its waters, in the distance, murmur sweetly, in the grey, clear air, on the sand. He had seen the rolling prairie, and the ocean of leaves, from the giant Magnioli's tower; but never until now had his eyes rested on, to him, the eternity of waters. He stood in fear and awe, for the prospect was dark as the dreamy future of Nella. He looked forth on the wide bosom of the deep-no sound, nothing disturbed the sight or ear: he saw the purple dawn in the far-distant sky, and the waters blushing as if tinged with the hue of the rose. Gradually with the advancing sun and increasing light, strange lands arose to his view-like the dreams of the geologist, glorious, lightsome, and beautiful-with colours such as this earth hath not to give he felt that he saw the home of spirits, not of men; yet did he gaze in desire, 'till the veil of time hid them from his view, and then left with a sigh for his forest home, those golden climes of the east.

But of Nella and the path.-Though it was thus endeared and well known to her, she now stopped short, as if terrified by the general stillness; and the noise of a small stream, as it dropped its waters in a kind of eascade on a gravelly bottom, seemed, whilst it broke the stillness, only to add to the melancholy darkness around

"Did you hear anything, Suina?" said she, looking fearfully about her; "I thought I heard something." "So did I too, Signora I heard voices." "Yes, indeed," said Nella in a whisper, and turn. ing pale with fear.

Heaven protect us, signora !" exclaimed the old woman, in the same tone; "let us fly to St. Catherine; the grotto is almost dark, and we can hide there."

The two females crossed themselves devoutly, and then entered the cavern. which was only a few paces from them; but scarcely had they entered they had not time to dismount-when they were both surrounded by a number of armed men, whom the darkness of the cavern had hindered them from seeing. B. H.

(To be continued.)

MISS MITFORD.-This celebrated authoress is, we regret to state, in so straitened circumstances, that her friends have deemed it necessary to open a public subscription in her behalf.

ROYAL AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY OF IRELAND.. The medal of this Society has been awarded to Mr. J. Sproule, editor of the "Irish Farmer's Journal," for the best essay on manures.

THE HINDOSTAN STEAM-SHIP.-This stupendous steamer, which left Southampton for Calcutta on the 24th Sept. 1842, arrived at Madras on the 20th of the following December, having, including delays at intermediate ports, made the passage in 87 days-under steam, she averaged 200 miles a day.

AWFUL CALAMITY. AN AVALANCHE.-The French papers give the details of a calamity which occurred in the department of the Isere-the destruction of the village of Valsenestre by an avalanche. The snow-fall buried 26 houses, containing 82 inhabitants-72 of whom were, however, subsequenty restored to the light of day, by means of ropes and ladders let down the chimneys of the houses, from wells dug through the snow which covered them. Amongst the ten persons who perished, nine were crushed to death, or smothered by the snow which enveloped them on every side. The tenth, the mother of the forestkeeper, died in the arms of her son, who was extricated from his critical position twenty-four hours afterwards. The following particulars are interesting The fatal descent took place between the hours of three and four in the morning, when the villagers were buried in slumber, and the stealthy tread of the mountain-spirit is well expressed in the fact, that but few of the sleepers in the buried houses, or in the cottages which it spared, were awakened by his coming. It was not till day-break that the latter were aware of the calamity which had befallen their neighbours; and the former (those of them whose homes the casualty had covered but not crushed) fancied the dawn was long in appearing, and concluded at last, in each case, that the common occurrence among the mountains of a night of snow having blocked up their doors and windows, had made temporary prisoners of them, and awaited the succour of their immediate neighbours without alarm.

GIFTS. These, however trifling, add to the general stock of harmless pleasures, by quickening the affections and nourishing the growth of those sympathies which bind us to each other. They are eloquent in their silence, and speak most unpretendingly of love, friendship, and kind remembrance. They are the sunshine of a loving heart, and like sunshine, should be received as heavenly visitants, bringing with them joy and gladness.

These

ROMAN ANTIQUITIES.-There have lately been discovered near the town of Hyères, in the Var, the remains of an ancient Roman city. Excavations having been made to the extent of between 80 and 100 yards in a line from the sea-shore, there have been opened out a hypocaust of large dimensions, reservoirs, &c., and several walls faced with curious paintings, one of which is semi-circular. paintings were at first very fresh, but faded on exposure to the light and air. They are composed of arabesques, figures of men and animals, flowers, and other ornaments, fantastically arranged, similar to the most beautiful of those found at Herculaneum and Pompeii. Pottery, vases, medals, coins, &c. have also been dug up.

SINGERS. It is to their determination to be stronger than Nature that we owe the rapid decline of some of our best singers. Pasta, for instance, who had a husky and limited voice, would sing up to C sharp; and, thanks to her indomitable will, did so. But the organ, thus painfully constructed, lasted only some ten years.-Athenæum.

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MIGNONETTE. This favourite plant now natura lised to our climate, is a native of Barbary. Many years since it was introduced to the South of France, where it was welcomed by the name of “mignonette"little darling.

TRAITS IN THE CHARACTER OF
LORD BYRON.

The pretty fable by which the Duchess of Orleans illustrates the character of her son, the regent, might, with little change, be applied to Byron. All the fairies, save one, had been bidden to his cradle. All the gossips had been profuse of their gifts. One had bestowed nobility, another genius, a third beauty. The malignant elf, who had been uninvited, came last, and, unable to reverse what her sisters had done for their favourite, had mixed up a curse with every blessing. He was born to all that men covet and admire. But in every one of those eminent advantages, which he possessed over others, there was mingled something of misery and debasement. He was sprung from a house, ancient indeed and noble, but degraded and impoverished by a series of crimes and follies, which had attained a scandalous publicity. The kinsman whom he succeeded had died poor; and, but for merciful judges, would have died upon the gallows. The young peer had gained intellectual powers; yet there was an unsound part in his mind. He had naturally a generous and tender heart; but his temper was wayward and irritable. He had a head which statuaries loved to copy; and a foot, the deformity of which the beggars in the streets mimicked. Distinguished at once by the strength and by the weakness of his intellect affectionate, yet perverse a pocr lord, and a handsome cripple-he required, if ever man required, the firmest and most judicious training. But, capriciously as nature had dealt with him, the relative to whom the office of forming his character was entrusted, was more capricious still. She passed from paroxysms of rage to paroxysms of fondAt one time she stifled him with caressesat another time she insulted his deformity. He came into the world, and the world treated him as his mother treated him—sometimes with kindness, sometimes with severity, never with justice. It indulged him without discrimination, and punished him without discrimination. He was truly the spoiled child of nature, the spoiled child of fortune, the

ness.

One of the most striking passages in the Memoirs of Lord Byron's early days is where, in speaking of his own sensitiveness on the subject of his deformed foot, he describes the feelings of horror and humiliation which came over him when his mother, in one of her fits of passion, called him "a lame brat." In the opening of his drama, "The Deformed Transformed," we find these lines:

spoiled child of fame, the spoiled child of society. His first poems were received with a contempt which, feeble as they were, they did not absolutely deserve. The poem which he published on his return from his travels was, on the other hand, extolled far above its merit. At twenty-four he found himself on the highest pinnacle of literary fame, with Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and a crowd of other distinguished writers, beneath his feet. There is scarcely an instance in history of so sudden a rise to so dizzy an eminence.

Every thing that could stimulate, and every thing that could gratify the strongest propensities of our nature the gaze of a hundred drawingrooms, the acclamations of the whole nation, the applause of applauded men, the love of the loveliest women-all this world, and the glory of it, were at once offered to a young man to whom nature had given violent passions, and whom education had never taught to controul them. He lived as many men live who have no similar excuses to plead for their faults. But his countrymen and countrywomen would love him and admire him. They were resolved to see in his excesses only the flash and out-break of that same fiery mind which glowed in his poetry. Every thing, it seemed, was to be forgiven to youth, rank, and genius. Then came the reaction. Society, capricious in its indignation as it has been capricious in its fondness, flew into a rage with its froward and petted darling. He had been worshipped with an irrational idolatry. He was persecuted with an irrational fury. Much has been written about those unhappy domestic occurrences which decided the fate of his life. Yet nothing is, nothing ever was positively known to the public, but this that he quarrelled with his lady, and that she refused to live with him.

To Greece Lord Byron was attached by peculiar ties. He had, when young, resided in that country. Much of his most splendid and popular poetry had been inspired by its scenery and by its history. Sick of inaction-degraded in his own eyes by his private vices and by his literary failures-pining for untried excitement and honourable distinction, he carried his exhausted body and his wounded spirit to the Grecian camp. His conduct, in his new situation, showed so much vigour and good sense as to justify us in believing, that, if his life had been prolonged, he might have distinguished himself as a soldier and a politician. But pleasure and sorrow had done the work of seventy years upon his delicate frame. The hand of death was on him he knew it; and the only wish which he uttered was that he might die sword in hand.

sick bed, in a strange land, amidst strange faces, without one human being that he loved near him. There, at thirty-six, the most celebrated Englishman of the nineteenth century closed his brilliant and miserable career.-Edinburgh Review.

EXPENSE OF AN OVERLAND ROUTE TO INDIA.This is generally estimated at £134-viz.: £4 from London to Paris-£10 from Paris to Marseilles£28 from Marseilles to Alexandria-£12 from Alexandria to Suez-whence the fare in the steamer to Bombay is £80.

SENSATIONS.

Some ideas are acquired by sensation and reflection united. Thus the ideas of beauty, grandeur, sublimity, symmetry, harmony, proportion, &c. The idea of the beauty of a prospect cannot be acquired by sensation alone; because, if it could, the horse we ride upon would have as good an idea of it as we ourselves, he being as quick sighted as we; which is absurd. Neither can it be acquired by reflection alone; for, if it could, a blind man would have as good an idea of it as one that could see, since one has the power of reflection in as great a degree as another; but this is also absurd.

All the five senses may be very properly considered to be different modifications of feeling. Thus, seeing an object is only feeling the image of it struck upon the retina of our eyes by the particles of light; taste is feeling any thing with the tip of the tongue; smell is feeling small particles of the effluvia of any thing with the inside of the nose; hearing is feeling the air striking the sound upon the drum of the ear; and feeling is a sense which no animal can do without. It constitutes the life of every thing. Where there is no feeling, there is no life: it seems to be the distinction between the animate and inanimate part of the creation.

Qualities are powers of affecting us, or causing changes in other objects, making them affect us differently from what they did before. For instance, heat in fire is the power of affecting us with the sensation of warmth, and of melting wax, &c., whereby things or matter are made to exhibit another appearance than they did while cool and hard. The former are called sensible qualities; the latter more frequently powers. Sensation conveys to the mind the qualities of bodies, Primary qualities are those which may be conceived to exist in the objects, such as they are perceived by the senses; for instance, solidity, extension, figure, motion, rest, number, &c. Secondary qualities are those which cannot be conceived to exist in the objects, such as they are perceived by the senses; namely, sound, tastes, colours, smell, heat in the fire, &c. Secondary qualities depend or the primary; for instance, a penknife would not have the quality of sharpness without solidity to force its way in cutting.

Heat in fire is only a secondary quality; because heat does not really exist in the fire. All that exists in the fire is a body of sharp-pointed particles, which gush out from the bars of the grate; and this violently striking upon the flesh, produces a sensation of pain which we call heat. But surely the heat we feel and what exists in the fire are quite different things; that is to say, the sensation we feel, and the cause of that sensation, are different things. This fact may be proved by several arguments. If you ask a person who says there is heat in the fire, or that the fire is hot-if you ask him "how he knows it," he will dis tinctly tell you "because he feels heat from it." He therefore makes the sensation which he feels, and the cause of it, the very same thing. But it may be proved that the heat which we feel and the heat which exists in the fire are two very distinct things. For example, if a person hold a burning coal in one hand and a lunar caustic in the other, and shut his hands, he will perceive the same effects from both; and if his eyes be shut, he will not be able to distinguish which hand holds the coal, and which the caustic. The man will tell you that the coal is hot; but he will not pretend to say that the caustic is hot, because it is in reality a cold powder. Yet he has no more reason to say that the coal is hot than that the caustic is hot, since that the caustic burns him as much as the coal; and all the reason he can give for saying that the coal is hot, is because it burns him. The fire which at one distance produces in us the sen

sation of warmth, at a nearer approach to it produces a sensation of pain. There is no more reason for saying that the heat is in the fire, because it prodnces in us that sensation, than to say that the pain is in the fire, because it produces in us that sensation. Again a penknife in cutting the skin produces a smart: yet no one pretends to say that the smart is in the penknife; for surely there is no resemblance between the smart we feel and the edge of the knife; yet we may with just as much reason, say that the smart is in the knife, because it produces it, as that heat exists in the fire because it produces it. Lastly, a feather when rubbed over the flesh produces a tickling; yet no one pretends to say that the tickling is in the feather; but we may, with as much reason, say the tickling is in the feather as that heat is in the fire. Taste is a secondary quality. Manna, when applied to the tongue, produces a sensation which we call sweetness; and for that reason, and for that only, we are apt to say that the sweetness is in the manna. But the sweetness really is not in the manna; for, all that there is in the manna is such a texture of inward parts so suited, as, when applied to the tongue, to cause a sensation which we call sweetness. Several arguments tend to prove that there is no sweetness really existing in the manna. For instance, the self-same manna, when it gets into the stomach, causes a sickness; but no one pretends to say that the sickness is in the manna, or that the manna is sick; while hardly any one will hesitate to say that the sweetness is in the manna, or that the manna is sweet; but let such an one inquire what better reason he has for saying that the sweetness is in the manna, than for asserting that the sickness is in the manna. He says the manna is sweet, because it produces that sensation in him. Why, then, is not the manna sick, because it produces the sensation of sickness in him? We have no more reason for saying that the sweetness is in the manna, because the manna produces the sensation in him, than we have for saying that the smart is in the penknife, because it produces that sensation in him, or for saying that the tickling is in the feather.

Sound is also a secondary quality. There is no sound in a bell. All that there is in a bell is a vibrating motion, which, when propagated to the air, strikes the drum of our ear, and produces a sensation which we call sound. It is plain that the sound which we perceive and the vibrating motion of the bell are two very different things. This is proved by the fact that it is not improper to ask whether the sound is base or shrill, flat or sharp, &c. ; but it would be a downright absurdity to ask whether the vibrating motion were base or shrill, flat or sharp, &c. The two foregoing arguments of the knife and feather will serve for this case likewise; for there is no more reason for saying that sound exists in a bell, because we perceive it, than there is for saying that smart exists in the penknife, or tickling in the feather, because we perceive them.

Smell is also a secondary quality. If we hold a rose to our nose, it produces a sensaton which we call smell; and we are apt, because it produces that sensation in us, to think that it really exists in the rose; but all that exists in the rose are small particles of effluvia, so suited to the inside of the nostrils as to cause the sensation which we call smell.

Colour is also a secondary sensation. If a carpet be produced to our senses, it creates in us a sensation which we call colour. The colours are caused by the rays of light coming on the carpet, and thence rebounding back to our eyes, so as to cause the sensation of so many colours.

Hence, heat, tastes, sounds, smells, colours, &c. do not exist in the objects themselves, but are only the sensations produced from them.-London Journal.

THE MAID OF LISCANNER. The last rays of a glorious sun were stretching the dark shadow of a range of lofty cliffs over Liscanner bay, and the mouldering walls of the ancient castle were tinged with its beams: the green fields and verdant foliage of the trees told that the summer season was at hand; and the light canoes of the fishermen were leaping here and there over the waves. On the cliff a maiden was tracing the narrow path which led by its summit, as the broad swelling water of the atlantic struck the iron base beneath her, or murmured plaintively as it swept the pebbly beach and dashed its sparkling foam into the cavities of each protruded rock. Long white lines of distant breakers rolled over the sparkling strand of Lahinch, which, with the white washed cottages of its peaceful village situated at the top of the shore, formed a contrast to the dark frowning cliffs which towered their stupendous bulk and jutting ramparts, as if defences against the ocean's swell. On the Liscanner side, a bright ridge of sand-hills, which stretches for a mile along the strand of the watering place, were gilded with the last rays of expiring day. The scene, which would have been worthy the encil of Raphael or Caracci, lay unregarded by the young woman; she held in her white hand a lock of raven hair, on which her eyes were intently fixed. "'Tis Edward's my own loved Edward's!" She deposited it again in her bosom as she spoke those words aloud, believing no one near. A footstep startled her; she looked 'twas Edward, who had come up the path unperceived. "Dear, dear Mary !" he exclaimed, as in agitation he caught her hand. "nothing to live for! all hope is lost!" The colour faded from the cheek of the maid. "You have seen my father," she faltered "Yes yes; he has blasted all the hopes of my breast; all is lost to me now." A tear hung on the long silken eyelash of the noble minded girl, then coursed slowly down her cheek. "Will you meet me to-night Mary, and we'll fly?" he then asked. "Meet thee Edward!" she replied" yes I will!" "Very well," he continued, "on the quay when the tide is full in, to-night mind." During the conversation they had followed the beaten track; in this part the cliff slopes gently until it comes to a level with the shore. Adieu now, dear Mary," said the young fisherman, "I'll meet thee again at the quay.' He jumped over the gap and was soon running across the meadow. The long row of fishermen's dingy cabins now met her view; the black canvass canoes drawn up on the sand close by the cottage doors. Mary quickly repaired to her home, and resolved to meet Edward again if possible at the appointed place on that night.

James Coffee kept the hotel in the little village of Liscanner; he was a widower, with an only daughter, whom he loved with a fatherly affection. Mary was fond of solitude, and used often visit her grandmother, who lived about four miles from thence. A circumstance occurred when she was but eighteen years of age, which tended greatly to settle the destiny of her future life.

The cliffs of Moher are justly styled the "proud ramparts of our green isle:" with awful grandeur they raise themselves from the depths of the ocean-their dark summits seek the skies. On these wild cliffs did Mary love to stray-her heart then as free as the loud winds which there never cease to blow. It is a common practice at these ramparts to let men down the cliffs by means of ropes in this way they cap. ture young hawks in their nests.

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:

The eagles, the robbers, are to be taken tomorrow, so they are !" said Mary's grandmother to her, as they sat by the blazing fire of the cottage;

'they come, the villins, and take away our lambs and every eatable livin' cratur they can find; but there'll be a stop put to their roguery to-morrow."

The morrow came. Mary expressed a wish to see the fight with the eagles; but her grandmother forbad her, saying-"Child o' grace, don't think of it, for 'tis in the most dangerous cliff of 'em all the robbers builds their nests, so it is; Tom will bring us home word, for he'll be holdin' the ropes."

Mary having seated herself at the little window of her bed room, in a short time heard a loud shrill cry proceeding from the direction of the cliffs; and soon afterwards five men were perceived by her coming quickly towards the cottage, two of them carrying a dark burden in their arms. A young fisherman was borne insensible into the cottage, and laid on a bed. As soon as Judy recovered somewhat from her surprise, she exclaimed—“ Melia murdher! me—" Her son laid his hand across her mouth, at the same time whispering-" He's only wounded; he kilt the eagles, an' fought like a man: dad, mother, but you were goin' to set up the Irish cry, and the young man not dead at all; 'tould be a pity he was.'

Dr. Finucan was sent for to Ennistimon, (the post town of Liscanner,) and arriving towards evening, he pronounced the wounds to be dangerous; he visited him almost every day. Old Judy sat at his bed-side by night, while the remainder of the time was allotted to Mary to watch over him when she retired to rest she longed for the morning again to enter on her task. The young fisherman gradually recovered; in a few months he was conveyed home to Liscanner-and then Edward Ducan found that his heart remained behind in the cottage on the cliffs of Moher.

Mary did not remain long at her grandmother's after the departure of the young fisherman; the lovers often met, and their affection for each other became stronger at every interview. Duncan at length solicited the hand of the fair maid from her parent. The inn-keeper replied, "that his daughter should never wed a man whose life was at the mercy of the wind and waves, and whose fortune rested in the sea,” Edward's father, besides possessing one of the best fishing sloops on the shore, rented a small farm in the neighbourhood: but Coffee, who always kept "a head high" in the village, rejected the proposal of young Duncan with disdain.

On the night alluded to in the former part of our story, Mary left the warm cheerful parlour of the hotel, and wrapping herself up in her cloak, stole down the narrow street. The roaring of the breakers resounded through the air, as she passed the cottages on the beach, and hurried to the old quay. Edward was already there; his boat rose on the heavy swell by his side; he stretched out his hand to Mary. "Edward," she cried, "are you going to leave me?" "Will you come?" he exclaimed "will you fly now with me?" "We'll be lost!" she replied, "and oh! my poor father!" "He comes!" said he, springing into the boat! and cutting the rope which fastened it to the quay, it dashed through the surge: as it was lost to the sight, a voice cried from the foaming sea, "Farewell, Mary! I'll love thee long and for ever!". The tones were drowned by a loud blast sweeping from the land. Mary shrieked "I'll fly with thee, Edward, I will; return, and I'll brave the ocean for thy sake!" A fierce burst of the storm hurried her along towards the end of the quay: she cried“Edward, Edward, save me !" Her flowing garments were grasped by a strong arm, and she found herself firmly clasped to her father's bosom, who, on missing her from the house, had gone in search of her. The raging surge dashed itself at their feet. Coffee exclaimed at the' op of his voice, "Rash young man, come back; return, and you shall have my daughter!" but no answer was heard amid the strife of the ocean