dridge kept a copy of every letter or note he ever wrote, labelled and put by for posthumous use. While Madame D'Arblay spent her best hours in elaborating her revelations of the transactions, private and public of her day; and revising, for publication, the expressions of fondness and impulse written to sisters and others long dead! "Can such things be?" And, also, that she herself has made it a condition with her most confidential correspondents, that no letters of hers shall be preserved. "The privacy," she writes, in her "Life in the Sick Room" -"the privacy I claim for myself, I carefully guard for others. I keep no letters of a private and passing nature. Those who know in their own experience the liabilities of fame, will understand, and deeply feel, what I have said." Heaven keep us from ever incurring these fearful liabilities! And yet the remedy is a very simple onewe would write only to those whom we loved and trusted.

Oh, yes, there are some letters which the writer could no more bear to see again than to have notes taken of the outpourings of his heart in hours of confidence and abandonment, leave alone having them submitted to the cold and curious comments of the multitude-written, perhaps, in excitement, or depression, or in anger—if the latter be possible, which we very much doubt. One may, and too frequently does, utter harsh and bitter words in the heat and passion of the moment, but to sit down deliberately and write, seal, and dispatch an unkind letter, seems an anomaly in human nature. Still, however, there is very much oftentimes that would have been better left unrecorded; and how soothing at such moments is the reflection that but one will ever gaze upon these sad revelations of our inmost souls that they were as safe as though still in our own keeping. We have no doubt now-no mistrust-but looking back with the clear eye of faith, feel as though it were all a wild dream!

"Letter writing," says Mr. Roberts, who has devoted much learning and research to this interesting subject. "Letter writing has its laws; and one of those laws is, that nothing dried or laid up for use should find admission; its fruit should have upon it the bloom

of our youngest thoughts, and a maiden dew should be upon its leaf. Letters defy imitation, and refuse to be transplanted. They are delicacies which will not bear handling-felicities which seem to come of themselves, while they mark the perfection of skill!"

Then there is a charm-a freshness in their very rarity. Who knows half a dozen people in the whole world to whom they really care to write or hear from? Perhaps not so many; but the circle ever brightens as it grows smaller! It is a privilege to be able to name one only—a glad holyday-feeling apart from every-day life! How often have we sat down to answer some unfortunate letter that had invariably made a point of staring us in the face every time we went to our desk; trying pen after pen; spoiling two or three sheets of paper before we could make up our minds whether it should be note or letter fashion, "compliments," or "dear sir," or "Madame," as the case may be; there seems an insincerity in the latter mode, unless the person addressed be really so. Well, it is finished at last in a fair stiff-looking hand. What a relief off our minds! And now we mean to be very good, while we are about it, and answer two or three more of the same class who have waited equally long; but, somehow, in looking for them, chance to stumble upon one of quite a different stamp; and pleasure, as is too frequently the case, drives away all notions of duty.

How rapidly thoughts and words flow together. How much we have to ask and tell it is like speaking. Four sides of the paper are filled in half the time it took us to compose that brief note; and we only abstain from crossing, from a sort of vague idea, that it is sufficiently incomprehensible without; but, then, there is no fear but what they will make it out, they must be so used to our hieroglyphics by this time.

Then it is just the same with the letters we receive, some of which we fling carelessly aside to await a leisure moment-others opened with a sort of wonder what so and so can possibly have to say!-a hope that there is no one ill; and being satisfied on this point, all the rest is a matter of comparative indifference ;-and a few which we

love to steal away and peruse in quiet, where no eye bears witness to the folly of our mingled tears and smiles. How soon we detect the least change in their delicate wording, and fancy the very mood in which they were written. With aching brow, perchance, and a world-wearied spirit, that found a strange balm in pouring itself out in words, and is only less explicit from the fear of giving pain, while even as they write it passes away, and the end is cheerful, and full of sweet consolation; or all is bright and unclouded, and it seems as though they could not rest without our warm, glad sympathy in their rejoicing!

We have heard of people professing to judge of the character and disposition of individuals, wholly unknown to them, by a simple glance at their handwriting; and who have, in one or two instances, been singularly successful in such delineations, while others have completely failed. The former arising, most probably, from some accidental coincidence, and the latter being the usual result of all such species of divination. If this were indeed the case, autographs would possess a tenfold value, and be sought after more eagerly than they are at present. It is dangerous to judge of people even by the letters themselves, leave alone a mere casual glance at the handwriting. The imagination may be warm and animated, while the heart remains cold as ice. Eloquence is not truth, but a gift very apt to blind and dazzle us as to the real cha

racter of its possessor. A correspondence carried on between those personally unknown to each other, has many perils as well as many charms, and too often ends in disappoint

ment.

Women are, in general, far better correspondents than men, but then they have more time. The latter write from out the world of busy life, pregnant with incident and event; the former from the little world of their own hearts, made up of sentiment and affection.

"I do not know how it is," said a young sailor, to his sister, "but you girls can actually make a long letter out of nothing at all; while I, who ought to have so much to say and tell, find the greatest difficulty in collecting materials for a few pages." Collecting

materials, that's the very thing—a letter ought to come naturally.

D'Israeli seems to be of the same opinion. "A she correspondent, for my money," observes he, in his usual quaint, off-hand manner, "always provided she does not cross."

Men deal less in idealities; they dash into a subject at once, and have done with it, giving their opinion on most topics, without circumlocution, and with a lordly air of superiority, as though the matter was from that moment a settled thing. Their letters sparkle over with the most brilliant wit, or are full of a delicate flattery that must needs be irresistible—at least they think so. There are, however, exceptions to every general rule, and most of us can name some such, with a mingling of pride and reverence.

But we are wandering strangely from that peculiar branch of our subject, with which this brief sketch was commenced-old letters; the letters of the lost-the changed-the dead! Types and memorials of past happiness! Relics of by-gone hours, and days, and feelings, that can never come again, save in dreams! How many

such there are in the world, unknown, unsuspected, utterly valueless to any but the possessors. Thousands upon thou

sands of time-stained, tear-stained epistles, sad, and yet sweet revelations of the human heart-evidences of a love that, passionate as it would seem, had no strength to stand the test of adverse circumstances-of a friendship sealed by many a vow long since broken and forgotten. "Words, words, words!" as Hamlet disparagingly terms them. We have questioned, in our pride, why such letters should ever be preserved.

"Love," was the tearful reply, "casteth out pride, and having once root in the human heart, is never wholly eradicated, however we may attempt to deceive ourselves and the world. It may be crushed and stricken down, but it cannot die! To love once is to love for ever! None but those who have nothing else left to cling to, can imagine how unutterably dear such sad memorials of the past may ultimately become."

Who shall venture to gainsay this? And if it be true even of that class of old letters to which we have alluded, what a world of joyous recollections

must cluster around, and become consecrated in others to which no such melancholy reminiscences are attached. Of those whose affection knew no shadow, no coldness but that of the grave, from which their voices still seem to speak to us in love. Of the absentthe unchanged the friend and com. panion of our dream-haunted childhood-the guide and counsellor-the lover of our youth! How the heart throbs at the silent resurrection of long buried thoughts! How it revels in the sweet past, conjuring back, as by a soothing spell, old memories and affections; while tears drop fast and silently on the page before us-tears from which time has stolen away all bitterness. Oh, well may the poet designate such records, "a priceless store !"

It has been made a serious complaint by a late celebrated author, that half the genius of the age should be flittered away in letter-writing, and thus lost to the world. But is it so? Oh, surely not, if these letters serve to cheer and gladden the beloved ones to whom they are addressed, who make the writer's little world, in which he is wisest and happiest, who is best

content to remain. Who would not instantly fling aside the finest poem that was ever written, for one tiny note, traced by some kind and well known hand. The author, let him be ever so gifted and experienced, sends forth his work with fear and trembling, having a name to win or lose. What years of toil and study have been expended in its production, and yet he cannot be quite sure how it will be received. While the letter-the loveful task of a few hours at most, is despatched, in all trustfulness, to its destination. The first may possibly bring fame and new friends; but the sure guerdon of the last, is love and kind remembrances from our old ones! If we must needs choose between the two, who would not prefer the rose before the laurel ?

And now we hasten to conclude; not in weariness of a theme which might, indeed, be spun into volumes, but lest we should weary others. The antiquarian, the philosopher, the connoisseur, may rave about old medals and manuscripts, old paintings and sculpture; but the human heart, in all ages and countries, breathes forth a silent blessing upon old letters!

FLORENCE.

"HAPPY is the bride that the sun shines on," is a proverb generally applied to a blushing and timid lady, clad in virgin white, with a flowing lace veil and orange flowers, when the beams of the god of day brighten her marriage morn: but no lovely girl is now before us, about to sever the ties of home, of kindred, and to bid farewell to the old familiar faces she had known and loved from childhood, to dwell with the elect of her heart. We stand at the source of a river, which, small at first and feeble as the infant, grows stronger and bolder as it approaches maturity, and sweeps along in silver sheets in its prime, now skirting waying woodlands, now bursting through the narrow glen-the spreading tree overhead lending a dark shadow to the water, and anon swelling into a lakelike expanse. We propose, dear reader, to guide you along the banks of another Munster river, to lead you pleasantly through lovely yet lonely scenes; and there are many such, unknown save to those who had been hunters in the days of their youth. There are many unexplored districts in Ireland, full of beauty; many, which only want the aid of trees and roads to render them attractive haunts to every lover of nature.

The source of the Bride is in a wild mountainous district, in the proximity of a range of highlands, called Nagle's Mountains, in the County of Cork. The Irish name of the district, Lurg anoireagha, signifies "the excellent plain," though what was the nature of the good quality does not distinctly appear. It seems a tract of unreclaimed land, where Irish kings might have indulged their martial or sporting propensities, in fighting or hunting; or, in later times, where the rapparee might seek refuge, or the whiteboy have his berth. A wild and picturesque district is this mountains stand steeply over smiling valleys, where cultivation is scanty, but vegetation bountiful. Even where the ploughshare has invaded the simplicity of nature, and the husbandman disturbed the repose of the glens, neither has been able to deprive the VOL. XXVII.-No. 157.

scenery of its original character of a land fresh from the hand of the Great Creator.

Like the land, the inhabitants are a primitive race, partaking much of the nature of their secluded dwellings. Vague and strange traditions come down like shadows from the lofty hills, as unreal and unsubstantial; tales of fairy elves dancing on the heath beneath the moonbeams-of the wailing banshee, foretelling the approaching death of one with an ancient name-of the gigantic phoocha, or the tiny leprehawn, shoemaker to the fairies;themes like these are rife. A beetling mount, on the summit of which is a mossy stone and well, is called Sighen na feighe, "the fairy of the mountain's top;" and the story is told of an enchanted princess doomed to dwell on the height of the mountain, until the lord of the opposite hill could reach his hand across to help her down. How the lady was seen frequently arranging her flowing tresses by the side of the well the glassy water her only mirror; and how the lord of the opposite hill often tried to stretch his hand across in vain, until a benefactor, in the shape of an old beggar-woman, supplied him with an arm that would have shamed Artaxerxes Longimanus, and he released the enchanted princess from one thraldom, to bring her into another and happier one.

The river wends its way through the lonely mountains towards the hill of Gleannasach; and on the highland on the south bank is Glenville, a small village in the parish of Ardnaghahy. Close to the village is the residence of the Dean of Armagh, who has expended a large sum of money in improving the appearance of this part of the country. The soil in this neighbourhood is not very productive-chiefly rough pasturage, sprinkled with bog. A good system of tillage obtains when the ground admits of agriculture. The church is a neat structure close to the village, and at some distance are the ruins of an ancient church romantically situated.

From the side of the hill, on the

D

summit of which Glenville is built, the sight enjoys a lovely scene. Here is a charming valley of considerable extent, the Bride winding its silvery course along the plain-now bright and shining in the sunlight, anon lost amid clumps of trees or shady bowers. To the left rises the lofty ridge called Glonnasack, clearly defined against the sky, showing dark lateral dells richly clothed in wood. In front is a hill called Toureen, stretching to the base of which is a furzy heath, redolent with the fragrance of wild thyme and blossomed furze. Suffering the eye to follow the course of the Bride, we behold fertile lawns dotted with thriving plantations, until a range of blue misty mountains mingles with the horizon.

The road now leads abruptly down hill to the river, over which a good bridge of three arches conducts. There are a few cottages by the road side; and close to the water's edgeindeed so close that the river washes the foundation-stand a wall and gable, indicating the mouldering remains of a dwelling, once tenanted by Barry Yelverton, Lord Avonmore, and Chief Baron of the Exchequer in 1805. Methinks there is always something touching in looking on ruined buildings, consecrated by recollections of the good and great, who have left memories more enduring than monuments could bestow. Here, in this retired nook, at some period of his lifetime, dwelt a master mind. Nature is never trammelled by classmen of all ranks have been objects of her bounty. No "tenth transmitter of a foolish race" can pretend to secure a monopoly of her favours.

She

sows the seeds of genius far and wide; and while the young aristocrat may exhibit only briars and thorns, the peasant youth may receive the heavenly nourishment, and develope talents, spreading a luxuriant growth over his humble origin. Yelverton, as well as his celebrated cotemporary and friend, Curran, were natives of the county of Cork.

Curran was born at Newmarket, a small town, situated in a wild and picturesque district. Here Curran, when celebrated and rich, purchased a place called the Priory, from his rank as Prior of the monks of St. Patrick, or the Screw, and used to spend his long

vacations after the Cork Assizes. As we find Lord Avonmore, with some other members of the Munster circuit, constantly in the habit of visiting Curran at the Priory, it is not at all improbable that Yelverton occupied the house near the Bride during the summer months. That he was a member of the Munster circuit, and went once to Tralee, is well authenticated. His career at the bar was most distinguished. He figured in the foremost ranks of the great men of the epoch of the Irish parliamentary independence; and there were giants in those days. He was the founder of the Order of St. Patrick, numbering from fifty to sixty of the men of Ireland, most remarkable for intellectual powers. All those who have left on record their estimate of Lord Avonmore's character and abilities, fully corroborate the fidelity of this picture.

Bidding farewell to the venerable wall, we trace the stream in its onward course. The road follows the windings of the river through a pretty glen. On the north is a heath-clad hill, affording scanty herbage to the flocks doomed to seek nutriment on its surface; the south bank is low, and probably flooded in winter, which accounts for the richness of the vegetation; clumps of trees, in many-tinted foliage, are scattered through fertile lawns. Another neat bridge spans the Bride near Killuntin, and forms a foreground for a landscape. Behind the bridge rises a high conical hill, with a beetling front, rocky and barren. Opposite is a wooded dell, watered by a mountain rill which joins the Bride. In the valley is Mr. Ryan's paper-mill, turned by the streamlet, which joins the river at Kain's-bridge. The demense of Killuntin is well wooded, and the view from the house extensive. A handsome mansion, called Bridestown, lies on the north bank; the offices in the rere of the house remind one of a French chateau, and are striking from their novelty. A small stream now becomes tributary; it is called Clash na breac, "the sporting or the diverting of the trout," and from its name should afford amusement to the lover of the angle. To the north of the river is an old residence, formerly occupied by Mr. Roche, father of E. B. Roche, M.P., Kildinan; and