In regard to agriculture, the thing is still more plain. I quote the writer's own words :

'We do not exactly understand what Mr. Ensor means by a double market. If he thinks that England would receive Irish corn and provi sions, though Irishmen refused

make use of her manufactures, he deceives himself. She now pays thirty or forty per cent. more than she could import these things from the Continent for; and, if Mr. Ensor doubts the encouragement which England gives to Irish agriculture, we refer him to his own rent-roll. Were grain only ten shillings a barrel in place of twenty, Mr. Ensor could expect only ten shillings an acre for fand which now produces him twenty. We don't mean to say that such a state of things, provided they were permanent, would be injurious to his tenantry for it is an advantage, which agriculture alone possesses, that the price of land is always regulated by the price of agricultural produce. The landlord may reside where he pleases-even in Algiers-without injury to his tenant; for rent is that sum which remains, after the farmer has made his proper deductions for labour, interest of capital, &c. If the landlord by his presence enables the farmer to get high prices, he gets a high rent: if, by his absence he contributes to low prices, he gets a low rent. In either case the farmer's profits are the same.* Absence or residence is a

question of prudence to be decided by the landlord. Irish proprietors are the last men who should declaim against England, for the connexion contributes considerably to their annual income.'

At another time I shall prove

This shows, contrary to Mr. Ensor's opinion, that there is a material difference between rent paid by absentees, and tribute paid to a tyrant. The one is fixed, the other is variable. The one is taken by force, the other is demanded as an equivalent for the use of lands.'

laws.

Macculloch's doctrine erroneous; but I think this article in the Magazine unanswerable, and, therefore, I recommend it to the serious perusal of my readers. The enemies of emancipation are continually crying out that the miseries of Ireland spring from Absent. ecism, and not from the penal Lord Liverpool and others have said so. Prove that they are wrong, and you bring a new and powerful proof of the actual evil of the infernal Popery Laws. The Irish people are very naturally averse to Absenteeism; and, certainly, their landlords have a right to live among them; but when the debtor and creditor side of the question is examined, there will appear nothing in favour of their residence, as long as the Union exists. Коск.

THE RISING VILLAGE. GENIUS is not hereditary. have a proof of this in the poem before me; for, though written by a collateral descendant of Oliver Goldsmith, it is far, alas! very far inferior to the Deserted Village.' From this, however, it does not follow that the author is not a young man of talents; for who has written like the poet of Auburn ? Goldsmith, though he was sometimes weak enough to affect contempt for his native country, was at heart an Irishman, and never could behold a Paddy in distress, without endeavouring to relieve him. It is well known that the original picture of Sweet Auburn' is to be found in the spot where he first drew his breath, in the county of Longford; and that the village

The Rising Village, a poem. By Oliver Goldsmith, a collateral descendant of the author of the Deserted Village." John Sharpe, 1825.

↑ I recollect having read, some years ago, in the Farmer's Journal,' specimens of some poems written by a man named Martin, who lived near the birth-place of Goldsmith. The editor, in recommending these productions, informed his readers, that Martin laboured under the most adverse circumstances, and called upon Irishmen to relieve indigent merit. Since that time I have heard nothing of these poems,

curate was none other than his brother Henry. The grandson of that very Henry is the author of

The Rising Village.' He bears the name of his celebrated prede. cessor, and is, at present, an officer of his Majesty's Commissariat, now quartered in Nova Scotia. In the dedication to his brother, he says,

The celebrated author of the “ Deserted Village" has pathetically dis played the anguish of his countrymen on being forced, from various causes, to quit their native plains, endeared to them by so many de. lightful recollections; and to seek a refuge in regions at that time unknown, or but little heard of. It would, perhaps, have been a subject of astonishment to him, could he have known that some of his relations were to be among the number, and that a grandson of his brother Henry, to whom he dedicated his "Traveller," would first draw his breath at no great distance from the spot where

"Wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,

And Niagara stuns with thundering sound."

If, while you weep, you think the "lowly train"

Their early joys can never more regain, Come, turn with me where happier pros pects rise,

Beneath the sternness of our Western skies.

And theu, dear spirit! whose harmonious lay

Didst lovely Auburn's piercing woes display,

Do thou to thy fond relative impart
Some portion of thy sweet poetic art;
Like thine, oh! let my verse as gently flow,
While truth and virtue in my numbers
glow:

And guide my pen with thy bewitching hand,

To paint the Rising Village of the land.'

After an allusion to the superior advantages of Britain, and contrasting it with the wilds of Nova Scotia, he pathetically describes the hardships of the first emigrants.

What noble courage must their hearts have fired,

How great the ardour which their souls inspired,

Who leaving far behind, their native plain, Have sought a home beyond the Western main;

And braved the perils of the stormy seas, In search of wealth, of freedom, and of ease!

Qh! none can tell but they who sadly share

The bosom's anguish, and its wild despair, What dire distress awaits the hardy band, That ventures first to till the desert land. How great the pain, the danger, and the toil,

Which mark the first rude culture of the soil.

When, looking round, the lonely settler sees
His home amid a wilderness of trees;
How sinks his heart in those deep soli-
tudes,

Where not a voice upon his ear intrudes; Where solemn silence all the waste pervades,

Height ning the horror of its gloomy shades;

Save where the sturdy woodman's strokes resound,

That strew the fallen forest on the ground. See! from their heights the lofty pines descend,

And crackling, down their pond'rous lengths extend.

Soon, from their boughs, the curling flames arise,

Mount into air, and redden all the skies; And, where the forest late its foliage spread,

The golden corn triumphant waves its bead.'

But even then other difficulties are to be encountered:

How bless'd, did nature's ruggedness appear

The only source of trouble or of fear;
How happy, did no hardship meet his view,
No other care his anxious steps pursue;
But, while his labour gains a short repose,
And hope presents a solace for his woes,
New ills arise, new fears his peace annoy,
And other dangers all his hopes destroy,
Behold! the savage tribes, in wildest
strain,

Approach with death and terror in their train;

No longer silence o'er the forest reigns, No longer stillness now her power retains ; But hideous yells announce the murd'rous band,

Whose bloody footsteps desolate the land;

He hears them oft in sternest mood maintain

Their right to rule the mountain and the plain:

He hears them doom the white man's instaut death,

Shrinks from the sentence, while he gasps for breath;

Then, rousing with one effort all his might, Darts from his hut, and saves himself by flight.

Yet, what a refuge! Here a host of foes, On ev'ry side, his trembling steps oppose. Here savage beasts terrific round him howl, As through the gloomy wood they nightly prowl.

Now morning comes, and all th' appalling

roar

Of barb'rous man and beast is heard no more;

The wand'ring Indian turns another way. And brutes avoid the first approach of day.'

All these difficulties, however, are not insurmountable:

Yet, though these threat'ning dangers round him roll,

Perplex his thoughts, and agitate his soul,
By patient firmness and industrious toil,
He still retains possession of the soil;
Around his dwelling scattered buts extend,
Whilst ev'ry hut affords another friend.
And now,
behold! his bold aggressors fly,
To seek their prey beneath some other sky;
Resign the haunts they can maintain no

crease

In social life, prosperity, and peace,
New prospects rise, new objects too appear,
To add more comfort to its lowly sphere.'

All my readers have read of the village alchouse. The author before me thus describes one in the western world:

Where some rude sign or post the spot betrays,

The tavern first its useful front displays.
Here, oft the weary trav'ller at the close
Of ev'ning, finds a snug and safe repose.
The passing stranger here, a welcome
guest,

From all his toil enjoys a peaceful rest ;
Unless the host, solicitous to please,
With care officious mar his hope of ease,
With flippant questions, to no end confined,
Exhaust his patience, and perplex his mind.
Yet, let us not condemn with thoughtless
haste,

The hardy settlor of the dreary waste,
Who, long with the wilderness immured,
In silence and in solitude, endured

A banishment from all the busy throng, And all the pleasures which to life belong, If, when the stranger comes within his

reach,

He long to learn whatever he can teach. To this, must be ascribed in great degree, That ceaseless, idle curiosity

Which over all the western world prevails, And ev'ry breast, or more or less, assails: Till, by indulgence, so o'erpowering grown, It sighs to know all business but its own. Here, oft, when winter's dreary terrors reign,

And cold, and snow, and storm, pervade the plain;

Around the birch-wood blaze the settlers draw,

To tell of all they felt, and all they saw." When, thus in peace, are met a happy few, Swoet are the social pleasures that ensue.

What lively joy each honest bosom feels, As o'er the past events his mem❜ry steals, And to the list'ners paints the dire distress, That marked his progress in the wilderness; The danger, trouble, hardship, toil, and strife,

While chased each effort of his struggling life.'

His description of the church which tops the neighbouring hill,' betrays a little cant, for which reason I pass it by, and prefer the following:

While now the Rising Village claims a

name,

Its limits still increase, and still its fame, The wand'ring pedlar, who undaunted traced

His lonely footsteps o'er the silent waste; Who traversed once the cold and snowclad plain,

Reckless of danger, trouble, or of pain,
To find a market for his little wares,
The source of all his hopes, and all his cares,
Established here, his settled home main-
tains,

And soon a merchant's higher title gains. Around his store on spacious shelves arrayed,

Behold his great and various stock in trade. Here, nails, and blankets, side by side, are seen,

There, horses' collars, and a large tureen; Buttons and tumblers, codhooks, spoons, and knives,

Shawls for young damsels, flannels for old wives;

Woolcards and stockings, hats for men and boys,

Mill-saws and fenders, silks, and infants' toys;

All useful things, and joined with many

The physician of the mind has also found a place in The Rising Village.'

Beneath the shelter of a log-built shed The country school-house next erects its head.

No “man severe," with learning's bright display,

Here leads the op'ning blossoms into day: No master here, in ev'ry art refined, Through fields of science guides th' aspiring mind:

But some poor wand'rer of the human race, Unequal to the task, supplies his place, Whose greatest source of knowledge or of skill

Consists in reading or in writing ill;

Whose efforts can no higher merit claim, Than spreading Dilworth's great scholastic fame.

No modests youths surround his awful chair,

His frowns to deprecate, or smiles to share,
But all the terrors of his lawful sway
The proud despise, the fearless disobey;
The rugged urchins spurn at all control,
Which cramps the movements of the free-
born soul,

Till, in their own conceit so wise they've

grown,

They think their knowledge far exceeds his own.'

Every thing and person requisite to form The Rising Village' having been described, the author ob

Sports not less welcome lightly they essay, To chase the long and tedious hours away. Here, ranged in joyous groups around the fire,

Gambols and freaks each honest beart inspire:

And if some vent'rous youth obtain a kiss, The game's reward, and summit of its bliss, Applauding shouts the victor's prize proclaim,

And ev'ry tongue augments his well-catned fame;

While all the modest fair one's blushes tell. Success had crowned his fondest hopes too well.

Dear humble sports, Oh! long may you impart

A guileless pleasure to the youthful heart, Still may thy joys from year to year in

crease,

And fill each breast with happiness and peace.'

The poem concludes with a tale which has nothing particular or poetical in it; and, from the extracts which I have given, the reader will observe that Oliver Goldsmith, author of The Rising Village,' and Oliver Goldsmith, author of The Deserted Village,' are two very different persons, though nearly allied to each other. To this little poem is affixed a preface, written by the Bishop of Nova Scotia. He tells us, the author is a very amiable young man; and that an aged mother depends, in some measure, for support on the public appreciating the literary claims of her son. I therefore wish him every success.

A BLIND VIRTUOSO.-Cardinal Albani, although quite blind, had acquired, by the exquisite delicacy of his touch and the combining powers of his mind, such a sense of ancient beauty, that he excelled all the virtuosi of his time, in Rome, in the correctness of his knowledge of the verity and peculiarities of the smallest medals and intaglios.

ROCK NOTICE.

O'CONNELL IN LONDON; or, Cobbett at Home; a Farce-is nearly ready.

LONDON:-J. Robins and Co. Ivy Lane, Paternoster Row; J. Robins, jun, and Co. 38, Lower Ormond Quay, Dublin, and all Booksellers, &c.

"Something must be done to relieve the thousands who now are famishing in your streets. The city of Dublin, with a degree of humanity that will ever do it honour, has hitherto succoured them by voluntary donations. But the donations of the city of Dublin will be found inadequate to the miseries of those poor men. The non-importation agreement, entered into in 1779, afforded them some small relief for that time, but served only to augment their distress since, as maga. zines of English cloth were then formed in this country.

Another expedient was, the establishing manufactories here; but, sir, these have ended generally in the ruin of those who have attempted it.'

At such a time, and under such circumstances, it was natural to expect the Genius of Rockism to raise his head and summon his satellites about him. His fire, like that of Will-o'-the-Wisp's, is ignited only when surrounding circumstances are rotten and unhealthy; and when the country wears a gloomy aspect, it is sure to lead several people astray. The neighbourhood of Rockglen was always favourable to the designs of our family; but, on this occasion, the county of Kilkenny wore a most inviting aspect. Houses every night, like meteors, flamed amidst the surrounding darkness-and tithe-proctors were every where objects of delight to those who could catch them. Early in the spring a body of delegates arrived at my father's; and, after a few hours negotiation, I consented to become the captain of the Kilkenny Rockites. For the first time I mount ed the chieftain's cap and feather; and, accompanied by Owen and Maguire, set out for the purpose of reducing discontent to system, and teaching the Kilkenny boys how to

every thing in the most delightful state of preparation. The people were unable to pay either rents or tithes ; but still were of course resolved to live. To do this they considered it was absolutely necessary to combine for mutual support, and oppose a law of their own to the law of the land.

Scarcely had I entered on the exercise of my new authority, when a messenger from Rockglen summoned me home to close the eyes of my dying father. The aged captain, during my absence, had taken the field once more in person, for the purpose of preserving the little household property of the poor from the grasp of legal minions. In the discharge of this duty he met his death.

Mrs. O'Leary, on the death of her husband, was obliged to let her farm to a man who advanced money to pay off all incumbrances. By doing this she reserved three acres of land and an outhouse for herself and helpless family. She made every possible exertion to keep them from beggary: but, even here, the system pursued her. The grand jury cess-a tax even more Enormous than tithes was demanded of her; and, as she was not prepared to discharge it, her only cow was driven towards the pound. My father met the constable and his assistants, and desired them to desist -said the poor widow wanted the cow's milk for her little familyand insisted on their driving the beast back. This they refused to do: from words they came to blows; and, in the event, my father was wounded-a pistol ball having lodged in his body. A younger man might have recovered, but the captain's constitution had been long impaired. When he saw no hopes of life, he sent to command my attendance; and, on my arrival, he put into my hands a sealed packet.

cessary

for you to know when I am gone. Do not open that packet until I am in my cold grave; and then I request it may be done in private. I have only to add to what is contained in it, that you will never give peace to tithe-proctors and land-pirates!'

So anxious was he on this subject, that he repeated these words twice the same evening and next morning, when the shadow of death was on him, he took my hand and said, Decimus! remember! no peace for tithe-proctors and land. pirates!' In a few minutes after he breathed his last.

MOORE'S LIFE OF SHERIDAN. I RETURN with increased satisfaction to this literary monument, which the genius of Moore has erected to the memory of a great man. He nothing extenuates, nor sets down aught in malice ;' but, while he reveals the faults and foibles of his subject, he takes care to do justice to his brilliant talents, political consistency, and amiable disposition.

Mr. Moore apologizes in the prc. face for delaying the long-promised memoirs, and tells us that, though the four first chapters were written seven years ago, it was not until within the last twelve months that he set himself seriously about concluding his task. Respecting the manner in which the work is executed it must be needless to say any thing. Moore could not touch any subject without making it sparkle beneath his magic hand; and, in the present instance, he is more than usually happy. The faults of his early prose style are not to be found in this volume; and, though its pages glow with radiant images and classical similes, they are disposed with so much regularity and art, that they shed their light in every direction with out dazzling by too obtrusive brilliancy. Nothing can exceed the sensation which the work has created; and, though a variety of important subjects press upon me,