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no other young Irish singer to whom we can point from whom more should be expected in the future. He has just the qualities which will ensure him a lasting hold upon his countrymen-mirth, pathos, tenderness, and music. There is a genuine lilt in his song, and it breathes now of the spirit of gaiety, now of the spirit of tears.
I have arrived at the close of my rapid survey. It is possible that in a field so vast I may not have given to some writers that measure of consideration which is fairly their due; to such my apology is warmly tendered. It was, however, my object to show that the Irish Muse in our day is capable of giving forth that concord of sweet sounds which distinguished her in the past; and this, I think, I have fully established. Irish poetry is not dead; on the contrary, there are symptoms of a strong reawakening of the ost chords. No land can be permanently unhappy which possesses the noble heritage of song. Ireland has had many sorrows; may she soon come to the end of them in a natural, and therefore the best, way. Let Divine Poesy do her share in the regeneration. Though her influence is subtle, and apparently impalpable, that influence is one of the deepest and most potent of all the humanising forces in a nation's life.
G. BARNETT SMITH.
A TALE WITH A MORAL.
THE clock of St. Paul's was just rapping out Four!
“Ha, waiter, the menu !” he cried, as he took
“Sir, the dinner is served !" the head waiter observed ;
" That mysterious young man bounded into a chair, And joyfully beamed his proud face I declare, As he glanced round the table and marked what was there. He swallowed the soup, and he gobbled the fish, And didn't he tuck into every dish! Into venison patés, ragoûts, meringues, And an ortolan stuffed who had seen some fat days;
Into Périgord pie, and a sweet vol au vent
Now, would you believe, that with impudence doosid,
Six days all have vanished, behold now the banished
To show there's no malice between us, we'll dine
McLoosum bowed low; and, like lightning, lo!
I spare you the sufferings horrid
My Lodging is on the Cold Ground.
A STORY, IN THREE PARTS.
By the Author of “His Last STAKE,” &c.
Six months later Mrs. Douglas, with her nurse and child, was in London. She had taken handsome rooms in Brook Street. Edward Sinclair was at Long's Hotel, and she had definitely promised to become his wife in August. It was then May, and town was very full. She had tried to put off the marriage until she had been a year a widow, but her lover's entreaties had finally prevailed, and she yielded. She could not truthfully give as a reason for delay that the friends of her late husband would be aggrieved by her second marriage, just nine months after his terrible death; for, as far as Sinclair knew, not one of the Douglas connection had taken any notice of her. But he asked no questions. In truth, she seemed absolutely friendless, and she would not allow Sinclair to bring any of his friends to call
“No," she said and he could not refuse any request that was made with her lovely dark eyes fixed upon his face—“I cannot meet strangers just yet. Let us have a quiet wedding, and go abroad for a year. When we come back to England, you can introduce me as your wife.”
But to old friends whom he met-generally at his ClubSinclair spoke without reserve of the happy change which was about to take place in his life. One or two remembered the tragic fate of Fredericka's husband at the foreign hotel, and said, “Poor devil! he kept queer company then, did he not ? She