The whole essay is, as Dryden justly observes, a finished poem; all the rules of composition are embraced within its limits; it is pleasant yet severe, and so perfectly natural that the art employed to construct it is not perceived. As Addison declares, and there needs no further eulogy, it is a masterpiece, and has never been excelled.

We have already spoken of the Earl's translation of Virgil's Sixth Eclogue, which has been appreciated by the greatest poets of our land, as likewise have his two Odes, the twenty-second of the first book, and the sixth of the third book of Horace; then follows his most lengthy and valuable translation, "Horace's Art of Poetry." To each of these he has added the most comprehensive notes, which, if read by themselves, apart from the poem, are deeply interesting; to this he prefixes a lively notice, with some remarks on Ben Jonson; and Edmund Waller the " courteous wrote some verses which form a prologue to the translation, and on account of its length, cannot be more than mentioned here. The Earl had a profound acquaintance with both Greek and Roman literature, as well as with that of other countries; and his knowledge of the mythology, the philosophy, the religion, the customs, the rhetoric, the poetry, the drama, the military art, and the great representatives of each of these branches, make his explanations clear and in

structive.

In His paraphrases include one on the Scene of Care Selve Beate in

Pastor Fido, and one on the 148th Psalm, both of them vigorous and rendering the force of the original.

That the Earl was a man full of poetic fire, sound judgment, and intellectual activity, this article will serve to prove. He might have written more had he not lived in so gay and troubled a period. He was held one of the first wits of his time, and Dryden regrets that England should not have the honour of claiming so great a man. Much of that great mine of classical knowledge which he possessed he gathered in Italy and other countries, where he attended those brilliant assemblies of men of genius, who met and discussed various topics, and which years after another illustrious Irishman, Oliver Goldsmith, was likewise to attend, not indeed in the garb of an earl, but in that of a wanderer. The Earl claims great honours, he deserved them; but to Goldy will our sympathies incline.

We know nothing of the Earl's personal appearance, though to have been considered so great a wit, and to have been received in the best company, he must have been a gallant. Whatever his failings may have been, he did good workwork which not one indecent word or thought sullies; all his compositions being bright, pure, and classical, adjectives which could not be applied to many writers of his time. Even in these days, when profligacy has not the same licence, an author must possess a shrewd and determined spirit to write nothing which on his deathbed be would not wish to retract.

abuse of King William, of "glorious, pious, and immortal memory."

Old Jack Boyle had a bad illness brought on by vexation at his son's conduct; he died, was honourably waked, and decently buried.

But the widow and eldest son did not shake off their grief after the funeral, as the villagers expected them to do. Instead of this, Nelly sat weeping by her lonely hearth, and Alick went to his work with dejected step and bent head. Thus a fortnight went by. At length a neighbour resolved to remonstrate with Nelly, and going into her house, began to remark upon the folly of "taking trouble," ie., mourning too bitterly. "Why but you try an' get your mind a wee lifted, Nelly, dear? Jack, decent man, has done wi' the troubles o' this world, an' sure you wouldna wish to keep him frae his rest?"

Na, na, Katie, I'm no lamenting after Jack now: I was put from it, an' I'll just tell you the way it was. It was the night after the funeral, that I heerd Jack's foot on the floor, an' then I felt his hand on my shoulder happing me; but I couldna speak till him. Weel, he came three nights after other, an' still I didna speak; and says Alick, when I tould him, says he, "Mother, keep up the fire the night, an' see if you can see him."

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Weel, Nelly? " from her breathless auditress.

"Weel, I made a bonnie wee fire, but that night he didna come ava; but yesterday in the gloaming, when Alick was sitting on the stane at the side o' the house, he felt a waft of cold air coming up frae the garden, an' he knowed his father was there.

"If you're my father," says he, "speak an' say what's keeping you frae your rest."

With that the father's voice made

answer, "It's your mother an' you wi' your crying an' lamenting that's keeping me out of heaven. I'm flying about near the earth, an' I canna get to my rest. Tell your mother to stop her crying after me, an' be you a good son to her, an' keep yourself quit, an' keep the house quiet, an' have patience wi' thon poor rambling boy, an' now, fareweel!-I an going to my rest."

No more tears were shed by Nelly or Alick, and the younger brother, impressed, perhaps, by his

father's remembrance of him in another state of being, became sober and respectable.

Almost as touching as the above superstition, is the Roman Catholic. belief that the souls of the dead return to earth, and visit their friends every Hallowe'en.

In Donegal, upon that sacred vigil, as night approaches, the door is left wide open, the hearth carefully swept, and food provided; and seats are always placed for the silent and invisible guests, who are believed to form part of the company. It does not matter that the food remains untasted, that no footfall has been heard, the people are convinced that their lost parents, children, sisters or sweethearts, still interested in their fate, have come to visit them.

In Carrigans, the village above referred to, reside three old unmarried people, a brother and two sisters, "poor, desolate orphans," as they call themselves; though as they have been orphans for upwards of thirty years, the pity they excite on that account, is not so fresh as it once was.

But their remembrance of their parents is as fresh as ever; and for thirty years their door has been left open on Hallowe'en, their hearth carefully swept, and two stools have been placed before the fire, while at either side sit the grey headed" orphans," firmly con

vinced that their father and mother are bearing them company.

It is but rarely that the spirits of the restless dead appear to survivors, but occasionally some broken hearted mourner has to tell a story of such appearance; or some child lisps that his mother has returned to him from the undiscovered country; and living mothers, knowing the tender clinging of a mother's heart, find it easy to believe him.

Tourists in the highlands of Donegal, on their way to Carrick and Glen-columb-kill, pass through the beautiful town of Killybegs, situated on the edge of a noble harbour, and flanked by the gigantic mountain range of Cronarad. In sight of this lovely spot is a wild district called Crocknafiōla; and in a cabin in the district the following events are said to have taken place :

James Doolan's wife was about to die. The doctor had done all that skill and kindness could suggest; the priest had performed the last offices of his religion, and the husband and neighbours were "waiting on her," i.e., watching her last moments.

Kitty, the sickly little child, whose piteous wailing had hardly ceased during the mother's illness, began to cry loudly at this moment, and the dying woman opened her eyes, and gazed anxiously at her and her little brothers.

She beckoned to the father, and as he bent down to catch her faint utterance, she said, "Don't forget me, James, and never put another woman in my place, over those childer."

"Never, never," replied the weeping husband.

"But you be to promise it," persisted the poor mother, "promise, promise!" and she looked from father to children, with a wistful look, as if loth, so loth to leave them.

James Doolan, in his sincere grief, was very ready to give the promise she required, and added to it a spontaneous assurance, intended to express all his affection and sorrow.

"Ay, Sheelah, woman, I promise that I'll put nae woman in your place, an' I'll bury you decent an' respectable; you sall hae the grandest wake an' funeral that was iver seen in this townland."

Whether Sheelah was as much comforted by these last words as he intended her to be, does not appear, for just then a neighbour put a plate into her nerveless hand, on which were twelve lighted ends of candle, supposed to represent the twelve Apostles, who give light to the departing soul.

As her hand dropped, Sheelah's dying gaze turned for the last time to the wailing child. James Doolan mourned his wife very sincerely. It was not long after the funeral that he awoke one night while the fire was still bright, and saw his dead and buried Sheelah seated in her old place.

While he looked, she got up and moved over to the bed where the children lay. She bent over them, and "happed" them carefully, particularly the little delicate one; but at this juncture James's terror became overwhelming, and as he muttered rapid Paters and Aves she disappeared.

As time went on his grief grew lighter, and at last he forgot his promise to Sheelab, and courted a handsome girl whom he had met at the fair in Killybegs. She accepted him, and the wedding-day was fixed, but as she lived at some distance, he found he must leave the children under a neighbour's care, while he went to be married.

But the day before he intended leaving home, he went to the hog for a creel of turf, locking the four children up alone in the house. On his return with the turf, he was

surprised to find that they were washed and neatly dressed, instead of in their everyday rags, as he had left them.

"Who was it washed yez, an' combed your hair, an' dressed yez sae gran'?" asked he.

"It was we'er Ma," replied the eldest boy.

"An' what did your Ma say to yez?" inquired the startled father. "She said she wouldna be coming back to see us, becase you were going to get married; an' she told us to be good childer, and bid God bless us.'

James was so terrified and conscience stricken, that he forthwith sent a message to the handsome girl, to say he "rued," and there would be no wedding.

His neighbours who heard the story applauded his conduct; they had disapproved strongly of him for thinking of breaking his promise to the dead, but it would appear that they saw little harm in his breach of faith with the living. It is to be hoped that the ill-treated maiden soon found a more desirable admirer than James Doolan.

Besides the anxiety about their children, which is supposed to keep the souls of mothers in a state of restlessness, and the uneasiness caused the departed generally by the excessive grief of survivors, there is one other cause assigned by the superstitious peasant for the alleged occasional appearance of the dead. An unfulfilled promise, or unpaid debt, will suffice to keep one who has had a tender conscience, "from his rest." If any act of dishonesty, or unrighteous dealing has been perpetrated, they say that it is impossible for the perpetrator to rest quietly in his grave. A very curious story in illustration of this belief, occurs to the writer.

Thady and Grace Connor lived on the borders of a large turf bog,

in the parish of Clondevaddock, where they could hear the Atlantic surges thunder in upon the shore, and see the wild storms of winter sweep over the Muckish mountain, and his rugged neighbours. Even in summer the cabin by the bog was dull and dreary enough.

Thady Connor worked in the fields, and Grace made a livelihood as a pedlar, carrying a basket of remnants of cloth, calico, drugget, and frieze about the country. The people rarely visited any large town, and found it convenient to buy from Grace, who was welcomed in many a lonely house, where a table was hastily cleared, that she might display her wares. Being considered a very honest woman, she was frequently entrusted with commissions to the shops in Letterkenny and Ramelton. As she set out towards home, her basket was generally laden with little gifts for her children.

"Grace, dear," would one of the kind housewives say, "here's a farrel of oaten cake, wi' a taste o' butter on it; tak' it wi' you for the weans;" or, "here's half a dozen of eggs; you've a big family to support.'

Small Connors of all ages crowded round the weary mother, to rifle her basket of these gifts. But her thrifty, hard life came suddenly to an end. She died after an illness of a few hours, was waked and buried as handsomely as Thady could afford.

Thady was in bed the night after the funeral, and the fire still burned brightly, when he saw his departed wife cross the room, and bend over the cradle. Terrified, he muttered rapid prayers, covering his face with the blanket; and on looking up again the appearance was gone.

Next night he lifted the infant out of the cradle, and laid it behind him in the bed, hoping thus to escape his ghostly visitor; but Grace was