some relics of the lore of better days, so, in the schools and religious establishments of the continent, her sons still continued to retain all their former superiority, and among the dwarf intellects of that time, towered as giants. In England, where, since the death of her great Alfred, both sacred and literary knowledge had sunk to so low an ebb, that at length no priest could be found capable of writing or translating a Latin letter, the Irish were, in this century, the means of restoring some taste for liberal studies. With that devotion to the cause of religion and instruction which had become in this people (as an author of those times expresses it), a second nature, a number of Irishmen, described as conversant with every department of knowledge, secular as well sacred, retired some time before the year 940 to Glastonbury. This monastery had already been long distinguished as a favourite retreat of their countrymen; and, within its walls, so great was the reverence felt for their patron saint, that from an early period, the establishment had been called Glastonbury of St. Patrick.' From the Irish who fixed themselves there in this century, the Abbot St. Dunstan chiefly received his education, and while he imbibed, as we are told, under their discipline, the very marrow of scriptural learning, they also instructed him in the science of arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy, in all of which they were, it is intimated, more deeply skilled than in the refined niceties of classical literature. With a taste too highly characteristic of their country, they succeeded in awakening in their pupil so strong a love and talent for music, that it was in after life his frequent practice, when

worn with business or study, to fly for refreshment to the soothing sounds of his harp'

"

MOORE'S HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL POEMS. To do justice to the brilliant and witty produc tions with which the exhaustless pen of Moore has enriched our satirical literature, would be a task demanding space equal at least to all this volume. We have not dealt with these works separately, but have deferred their consideration in order to group them together, and we find that we can only devote a small space to their consideration. For nearly forty years Moore, either in volumes or in "occasional lines," lashed with unspanewspaper ring pen the enemies of religious and civil freedom. In the "Twopenny Post-bag" the vices of the Prince Regent, and the meanness of his flatterers, are well pourtrayed. In the "Fudge Family in Paris" we have a trenchant castigation of the foreign policy of Lord Castlereagh. In the "Fudge Family in England," the disinterested gentlemen, known later as the "Exeter Hall School," are well shown up. The "Fables of the Holy Alliance contain several caustic passages. In the last edition of Moore's works will also be found a large number of poems, some serious and some humorous, which appeared from time to time in the public newspapers.

Moore was admittedly the most witty writer of the day, and his wit was always directed against the enemies of liberty. Our reader must go to the works we have named above for full confirmation

of this opinion, for we can only indulge him with a very few of Moore's productions in this line.

THE SPIRIT OF MISCHIEF.

(Lord St-nl-y's first attempt in Verse.)

How various are the inspirations
Of different men, in different nations!
As genius prompts to good or evil,
Some call the muse, some raise the devil.
Old Socrates, that pink of sages,
Kept a pet demon, on board wages,
To go about with him incog,
And sometimes give his wit a jog.
So L-nd-st, in our day, we know,
Keeps fresh relays of imps below,
To forward from that nameless spot
His inspirations-hot and hot.

But, neat as are old L-nd-st's doings-
Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings-
Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will,

I'd show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief combining boyhood's tricks
With age's sourest politics.

The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall,
Both duly mixed, and matchless all;
A compound nought in history reaches,
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!

Yes, Mischief, goddess multiform,
Whene'er thou, witch-like, rid'st the storm,
Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee-
No livelier lacky could they find thee.
And, goddess, as I'm well aware,
So mischief's done, you care not where,
I own 'twill most my fancy tickle
In Paddyland to play the pickle;
Having got credit for inventing
A new brisk method of tormenting-

A way they call the Stanley fashion,
Which puts all Ireland in a passion;
So neat it hits the mixture due
Of injury and insult too;
So legibly it bears upon 't

The Stamp of Stanley's brazen front.

Ireland, we're told, means land of Ire;
And why she's so, none need inquire,
Who see her millions, martial, manly,
Spat upon thus by me, Lord St-nl-y
Already in the breeze I scent

The whiff of coming devilment,
Of strife, to me more stirring far
Than the opium or sulphur war,
Or any
such drug ferments are.
Yes, sweeter to this Tory soul
Than all such pests, from pole to pole,
Is the rich" swelter'd venom got
By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;"
And, thanks to practice on that land,
I stir it with a master hand.

Again thou'lt see, when forth hath gone The war-church cry, "On, Stanley, on!" How Caravats and Shanavests

Shall swarm from out their mountain nests,
With all their merry moonlight brothers,
To whom the Church (step-dame to others)
Hath been the best of nursing mothers.
Again o'er Erin's rich domain

Shall Rockites and Right Reverends reign;
And both, exempt from vulgar toil,
Between them share that titheful soil;
Puzzling ambition which to climb at,
The post of captain, or of primate.

And so long life to Church and Co.
Hurrah for mischief!-here we go.

MISS FUDGE'S LAMENT ON THE ERRORS OF
HER TWO "PIOUS" SERVANTS.

Just in time for the post, dear, and monstrously busy
With godly concernments-and worldly ones too;
Things carnal and spiritual mixed, my dear Lizzie,
In this little brain till, bewildered and dizzy,

'Twixt heaven and earth, I scarce know what to do. First, I've been to see all the gay fashions from town, Which our favourite Miss Gimp for the spring has had down.

Sleeves still worn (which I think is wise) à la folle,

Charming hats, pou de soie-though the shape rather droll.
But you can't think how nicely the caps of tulle lace,
With the mentonnières, look on this poor sinful face;
And I mean, if the Lord in His mercy think right,
To wear one at Mrs. Fitz-Wigram's to-night.
The silks are quite heavenly; I'm glad, too, to say,
Gimp herself grows more godly and good every day;
Hath had sweet experience-yea, even doth begin
To turn from the Gentiles and put away sin-
And all since her last stock of goods was laid in.
What a blessing one's milliner, careless of pelf,
Should thus "walk in newness as well as one's self!

So much for the blessings, the comforts of spirit
I've had since we met, and they're more than I merit!
Poor, sinful, weak creature in every respect,

Though ordained (God knows why!) to be one of th
elect.

But now for the picture's reverse.

You remember

That footman and cookmaid I hired last December;

He a Baptist Particular-she of some sect

Not particular, I fancy, in any respect;

But desirous, poor thing, to be fed with the Word,
And "to wait," as she said, "on Miss Fudge and the
Lord."

Well, my dear, of all men, that Particular Baptist
At preaching a sermon offhand was the aptest;