acquaintances of his, who had gathered round him, and arrested his progress across to his rooms. 'Why, Hamilton, where have you been?" said my friend; " you seem travel-stained."-" It is only the dust of the Rock Road," he answered; "I was down there taking a swim this hot day, and have walked back." Five minutes after this, he was up in the seventh heaven of natural philosophy. He was then, I think, only a freshman in college. I was surprised and sorry to see him the other day at the fellowship examination in Dublin, looking pale and baldish, and twenty years older than he did then; I hope he is not overworking himself because great things are expected of him.

But to return to Cork, whither you arrive by Watergrass Hill and Glanmire; the latter is a sweet wooded glen, with a small river of the same name, gliding along at the bottom. Leaving this, you open out on the marine river of Cork, which Spenser styles,

The spreading Lee, that like an island fair Encloseth Cork, with his divided flood.' For two or three miles you skirt along its margin, gazing on the flood upon your left, studded with streamers, and busy with all sorts and sizes of craft and pleasure yachts. On the far side, the river is bounded by the village of Blackrock, with its castle and picturesque light-house, where, in days of yore, I learned to cleave with sinewy arm the glassy flood, and which the worthy author of the "Fairy Legends" always delighted to draw, even on his thumb nail, failing a scrap of paper, much on the principle an Irish arithmetical friend of mine used always to devote his leisure moments to "working a sum," an occupation which he contended fully redeemed any man from the imputation of idleness. But, alas! tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis. C, I grieve to learn, grows rheumatic, and his pencil un steady,-gout in the great finger of my left foot bids embrocations of the briny wave avaunt. The ould castle of Black rock is burnt down, and a new one, handsomer they say, built in its place, on which Mr Paine, the architect, has very liberally spent twice as much as the Corporation allowed for it, at his own expense. Mathematical Mulcatry, too, is gathered to his fathers. Old Tim will walk no more to Mallow, to take his bowl of soup, and then walk

back again, pocket laden with slate stones, inscribed with the diagrams of new problems, which he had been inventing, and working all the way. And the doctor of doctors, who is fly to every thing from the Chaldee M.S. to tol-de-rol-lol in the corner, is gone away to the smoky and Thames-watered village of London. But I wander laudator temporis acti me puero, and sigh over joys departed, which time can ne'er again renew.

I left you on the Glanmire road, skirting along the river towards the city, and told you only what you saw upon the sinister hand. Above you, to the right, rises a sloping ascent, crowned with sumptuous villas, and fringed with tasteful plantations; and, pursuing the high road between this and the river, you pass into Cork over the bridge, at the end of Patrick Street, which is said to resemble strongly the Ponte della Trinita at Florence. One of the hill-topping villas which you pass on the Glanmire road, is Gerard Callaghan's, the member that is to be for Cork. Mr Callaghan is of a Roman Catholic family, which grew rich by trade, and with a fair character, and he having early renounced the errors of popery, knavery, brass mo ney, and wooden shoes, has since continued a stanch Protestant, and zealous for his altered opinions, after the usual manner of neophytes. I am glad he is to be member for Cork, partly for his own sake, and partly because of the abuse which, with rather more than even his usual beastliness, the late member for the county of Clare, Mr Daniel O'Connell, has been plea sed to pour out upon him. I am ashamed of the Irish-even the tag-rag and bobtail of them-that they should still suffer themselves to be gulled by this O'Connell. Time after time, he has manifestly, openly, palpably, been willing and eager to desert them, and creep into favour with the powers that be, on any terms; and still, when he is thrown off with contempt by those to whom he would crouch and cringe, back he comes to the besotted rabble of Ireland, who again believe him, and will be again deceived.

Cork lies, for the most part, on a marshy island, in a deep valley-indeed, its name imports a fen, or boggy place. Sometimes it is not raining there; though they tell a story of an East India captain, who, after remaining three weeks in Cork harbour, and

never meeting a dry day, spoke a friend at sea, as he was returning from the East, and learning that he had left Cork harbour about a fortnight before, shouted back an enquiry, "Whether the shower was nearly over that he had left falling there?" Yet the place is not considered unhealthy.

Cork has been called the Bristol of Ireland, but with little justice: doubtless there is a river at Čork, and there is also a river at Bristol; at Cork they call it the Lee, but the name of the river at Bristol is "out of my prains." Bristol is the crowded dingy resort of mutton-eating mercantile Protestants, who love pudding, and the constitution (that once was) of 1688; whereas the spreading Lee rolls its luscious salmon into the maws of men who cultivate the mathematics, and eat fish, by constraint, o' Fridays. In Cork the women are fair; at Bristol, let a man shut his eyes and open his mouth, that it may be well with him, and he may eat savoury meat, such as his soul loveth. Did you ever hear how Bristol came to be so thickly peopled? The story is, that when wise Jamie came to the throne of his cousin Elizabeth, he ordered some troops to Bristol for embarkation, and on their arrival there, learned they were deficient in the necessary supplies of shoes and stockings, wherefore he commanded an order to be dispatched to a certain town in the north country for a cargo of hose and brogues; but the secretary not being a remarkably distinct amanuensis, the constituted authorities mistook the words for hores and rogues, according to the then mode of orthography; and so, to the great scandal of the good town, an emigra tion of that nature took place accord ingly.

The precept to Peter, to "kill and eat," the Corkagians and Bristolians divide betwixt them. At Cork they slay, and masticate at Bristol-whence the Hibernian queen of the south is celebrated in song as "the city of slaughtering, and prime mess beef." If we have writ our annals true, it is there, and be it recorded to the honour and glorification of the great and good Queen Bess, that all her ministers were wise, her captains valiant, and her maids of honour ate beef

steaks to their breakfast. Gladly, therefore, may the hungry reader swallow the information, that the city of which we treat is the shambles of the kingdom; and he who has money or a good name, will there receive by no means lenten entertainment: of a surety, the inhabitants thereof may count among their numerous excellencies that important element in Saint Paul's beau ideal of a bishop, that they are given to hospitality.

If my gentle reader love rather the feast of reason and the flow of soul, let him go hear the Dean (Burroughs) preach, and afterwards spend a social evening with him. His sermons are perfect models of pulpit eloquence ;by the by, I am delighted to see there is a volume of them forthcoming speedily from the press. In private life there is a strong spirit of humorous satire about him, which, while it beams in his rich expres sive eye, is delightfully chastened and softened in its expression by the mildness and decorum suited to his profession, which he never forgets. He, and his predecessor Magee, who now presides over the archdiocese of Dublin, used to be accounted the funniest and punniest men of their day. Some father on them the story of the two sitting down together to read with but one candle between them, so small that it often necded snuffing. B. at length, annoyed at the frequency with which he had to ply the snuffers, tried to go as close as possible, to save a speedy repetition of the decapitation of the wick; but unluckily, he snuffed out the candle, when, turning to M., who was already growing savage at the sudden darkness, he exclaimed, with provoking archness,

"Brevis esse laboro; obscurus fio."

This is enough to immortalize thir teen common men, but I think I have heard the story of Burke and Sheridan, and the mot attributed to Burke. Ano ther rich thing, which more certainly belongs to the illustrious author of "The night before Larry was stretched," was uttered on meeting a countryman in Stephen's Green, jogging in from the county of Wicklow, at what is technically called the "butter and eggs" pace, with his wife on a pillion behind him. The good lady was lectu

me.

Post equitem, sedet atra Cura.'” In Cork, as in most great towns of Ireland, but especially the metropolis, religious dissipation is exceedingly fashionable with a certain set. Chiefly among silly women, who keep to themselves teachers, having itching ears, and turn away themselves from truth and soberness, and are turned unto nonsense, which, under a strong delusion, they mistake for true religion; being led captive by fat-headed young men, who have distinguished themselves as candidates for cautiers in college, (the Irish name for being plucked,) and who, disdaining the ordinary means of intelligence and usefulness in their profession, on get ting into orders pursue a short cut to glory, by professing peculiar gifts in the provinces of preaching and living: meaning by the latter, eating of the fat of the land.

Their public library in Cork is a capital one, and they are free and easy (I hate the word "liberal") about the admission of strangers, when respectably introduced; which is right, and becoming the Cork people, exhibiting an equal hospitality in li terature as in liquor. The principal defect of the library is, that they take only twelve copies of Maga, in consequence of which by the third day after its appearance, the whole twelve are almost worn out with repeated readings. I recollect having walked into the library once, after a long absence, and, finding a new porter there who did not know my face, I desired him, after my accustomed fashion, to bring me the Magazine. "Which Magazine, sir?" said he. I saw he was a genuine Munsterman, and of course knew Horace as well as the cries of Cork, so I answered, "Quod legeret, tereretque viritim, publi.

cus usus."

Whereupon he smilingly went, and engaged the reversion of Maga for me, expectant on the departure of five per

The chief topographical glory of Cork, is its river and harbour. The sail down the Lee, with the richly housed and planted acclivity on the Glanmire side, and Blackrock, the nunnery, the church, the castle, Castle Mahon, and the wooded heights in the distance, may vie with any river scenery in the kingdom. About seven miles down, you enter the noble expanse of water which constitutes Cork harbour, with Haulbowline and Spike islands before you, and Passage, a port for the larger merchant vessels to load and unload their cargoes at, on the right hand. To the extreme left is Rostellan, the seat of the Marquess of Thomond. The mouth of the harbour is about a mile wide, from Dog's Nose to Ram's Point: The heads are considerably wider asunder. The steep hills on both sides are strongly fortified, as well as Spike and Haulbowline. Cove forms the back of the harbour opposite to the entrance. This place has been improved amazingly within the last score of years. In days of yore, it was a dirty, disgusting little fishing island, of which the one description serves for all :

And on the broken pavement here and there
Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie;
A brandy-and-tobacco shop is near,
And hens and dogs and hogs are feeding
by;

And here and there, a sailor's jacket hangs to dry;

At every door are sun-burnt matrons seen, Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry, Now singing shrill, and scolding oft beScold answers foul-mouth'd scold; bad tween,

neighbourhood I ween.

At present it is a fashionable bathingplace for the citizens of Cork; and the air is so mild and salubrious that it is frequently recommended to such pulmonary patients, as their physicians will not suffer to burn out the taper of life in peace and stillness, at their own pensive and quiet firesides. But this recalls sad recollections, and I must stop. I have written you a long letter, though it may be a short sketch; and now I remain, in the name of myself and the other good Irish Tories, Your faithful well wisher,

Ω.

FRENCH literature! There is a some thing light and airy in the very thought of it, which could alone in these sultry summer months seduce us to the labour of an article, and the handsome volume of M. Ventouillac, which lies before us, clad in rose-colour and light blue, wooes us to the gentle exercise of our critical functions. This book is a something new in its way; its object is to be a guide to those who wish to form an acquaintance with French literature, and to furnish them with a catalogue raisonné of the best books, recommended by the authority, not of the compiler of the catalogue, but of various English writers or popular journals, whose opinions have been given to the world respecting these books. Thus the name of each work in the catalogue, is attended by a short notice from such authority as English readers are accustomed to regard with some deference, and the student of French literature may choose according to the measure of his faith in the authority cited. The authorities, too, appear to have been selected with marvellous impartiality, and he must be a fastidious man who will not find some of them to his tastehere is a stricture of Bishop Horne the pious, and there from Gibbon the profane; on this page appears the recommendation of Charles Butler, and on that the criticism of the Quarterly Review. Some of the authorities would doubtless provoke a sinile in a reader of Maga. Such as those of Lady Morgan, and of the New Monthly Magazine, and some more of that stamp; but a catalogue of this kind is made for all sorts of people, and if the Times, or the Kitty Magazines, want to have French books, it is as well to provide them with the authorities which are most level to their apprehension.

The catalogue is introduced by a sketch of the progress of French literature, in order that the person about to form his French library may come to the selection, with a general and

outline knowledge of what deeds have been done by Frenchmen in the great field of written knowledge. In this little essay, in which M. Ventouillac ventures upon a more ambitious task than that of a mere arranger and compiler, he acquits himself with very considerable ability; and there is a certain vein of modesty withal, running through the composition, which must have the effect of softening the wrath of hard-hearted criticism, were there any thing to provoke it, which, in truth, there is not. Considering the extent of his subject, and the limited space in which it is discussed, it is impossible that we should find criticism either very profound or very minute, upon the numerous authors who are mentioned; but as an historical sketch of the literature of France, it exhibits a very comprehensive acquaintance with the subject; and if the remarks which are made, are in no instance very striking, they are always judicious, and imbued with a feeling in favour of religion and virtue, which is very creditable to the author. It may to some be a matter of interest to know that this essay, written in English, and in a style generally correct, and every where easy, flexible, and idiomatic, is the work of a Frenchman, who, upon his arrival in this country some years ago, did not know one word of the language.

With the knowledge of this fact, the careful reader may perhaps discover an occasional mark of the style of our Gallic neighbours; but those who do not search for such indications of the country of the writer, will find nothing to remind them that his school-studies were not from the pages of Addison and Doctor Johnson. But let the reader judge for himself. After a rapid survey of French literature down to the time of Louis XIV., he comes to speak of the famous preachers of that period, and thus he delivers himself:

"Confined to the limits of a short essay,

it is impossible to enquire here into the causes which produced at one particular period, such an assemblage of great writers as never had at once appeared in any other country; but we ought not to overlook the singular fact, that in a country like France, in the midst of a voluptuous court, and under the reign of a monarch who, although he put on the semblance of religion, was 'at heart a rake,' appeared perhaps the three most eloquentadvocates of religion and morality that have been known since the establishment of Christianity; for although there may be a greater display of theological learning in the writings of the ancient fathers; although nothing ever equalled the depth of thought and closeness of reasoning found in the works of Taylor and of Barrow, of Butler and of Clarke; yet it must be allowed, that of that species of eloquence which is particularly calculated,

By winning words, to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of lear,' of that resistless appeal to the heart, which is the very spirit of eloquence, more perfect specimens were never given than may be found in the eloquent sermons of Bourdaloue, the sublime pages of Bossuet, and the delightful volumes of the tender and irresistible Massillon."

After having spoken of the religious feeling which appears to pervade this Essay, it will not excite surprise, that the writer, although a Frenchman, should dwell with patriotic indigna tion upon the moral tendency of the writings of Voltaire. M. Ventouillac has too much sense to speak without respect of the transcendent abilities of that extraordinary writer; but he reprobates his principles with just severity, and laments the effects produced upon France by the writings of one who was at once its glory and its shame. But we pass from the strictures on Voltaire to the comparison which is instituted between him and his contemporary Rousseau. If what is stated be not, in all respects, quite original, it is at all events true, and it is truth expressed in strong and original terms.

"Next to Voltaire appears, among the writers of this period, the name of one perhaps as celebrated, and by many as much admired and blamed, the fickle, the elegant Rousseau. While acknowledging, with regret, the evil tendency of some, and indeed most, of the writings of Rousseau, it would perhaps be unjust to attach to him the same degree of reproach and guilt as to Voltaire; and for

this simple reason, that Rousseau seems to have been honest, which appears not to have been the case with Voltaire. Both, indeed, were blind, but one was wilfully so. Voltaire shut his eyes to the truth, lest its blessed rays should intercept the dancing phantom (human, praise) that occupied and dazzled his sight. Poor Rousseau was actually blind; his optic nerves were too weak,, too delicate to bear the full rays of truth, and in his hours of blindness and of agony, he turned his eyes within and described what he saw, or imagined he saw, as though it had been, what he believed it to be, true. If Rousseau erred,' it was but error; Voltaire often did what he knew to be wrong, and asserted what he must have known to be false. Rousseau was the creature of impulse, Voltaire that of vanity; Rousseau wrote to relieve his overburdened heart, Voltaire to obtain empty praise, which to him was the dearest thing on earth; and thus, to sum up their character in one word, while a want of consistency was the fault of Rousseau, a want of honesty. was that of Voltaire. Both were great men, but both greatly erred from differ ent causes; and the names of both will; go down to posterity, and shine to the eyes of future generations, rather as bea

cons to warn, than as luminaries to attract."

This is clever writing, and we have said that it is true; but it is not the whole truth, and has the effect of lea ving rather a more favourable impres sion of Rousseau than we should wish the students of French literature to. entertain. We should wish to lay upon Rousseau rather a less gentle hand. He was by no means a harmless madman, but one to whom Rosalind's cure of "a dark house and a whip" would have been useful and appropriate. He was all rottenness within, with a fair gloss of refinement on the outside; a filthy obscenity lay beneath his superficial but exquisite polish. You cannot break through his delicate surface-work without. coming to something nasty;-he was fit for his times, and his times fit for him.

But rapid and brief as the sketch of M. Ventouillac is, we cannot afford space to travel side by side with him ; we can only add, that passing to more modern times, he speaks with strong and well-deserved praise of that extraordinary woman, Madame de Stael, and also dwells upon the works of the