mad to be at it. For a purtier crathur he'd never seen in all his travels, aǹ that was saying a dale for Fin Mac Coul. The beautiful shiev eyes, that shone like blackberries; an the black raven locks, an all, that 'twas worth a mile of ground to be seeing of her. By and by, Fin sthrips to the very skin, as well became him, a sthrapping, clever boy, as he was; an widout more ado, up he walks to the king, an making as nate a bow as any dancing masther of 'em all, or, for all the world, as if he was at coort all the dear days of his life, he up and says:

"Plase your majesty," says he, "an if 'tis a thing that wouldn't be no ways angren to your majesty,' says he, "but I'd make bould to take that bit of a leap, your majesty," says he, "for the sake of that purty crathur, yandher," says he, "an that she is every rope's length of her," says he.

On hearing this, the king puts his two eyes upon him, an afther looking well at him for a time, being cute enough, he sees that he was a brave, clever bouhel, an come of dacent people, like enough: an so he says

I'm not partic'larly agin you making the thrial," his majesty, says he, "but have a care, my bouheleen, what 'tis you're doing."

Wid that, sir, Fin makes a bow to the young lady, an perplexed an bothered she was wid 'em all; so that, in her own mind, she was praying heartily for Fin's success, as 'twere. Fin, my dear, flings his caubeen, (hat,) if 'twas caubeens at all that they wore in them days, a one side; ties a sort of a sugaun (rope) of a handkerchief round his waist, pulls up his breeches, an makes a run at the leap. Many were the bettings they had going on among the coortiers, an they thinking in their hearts widin, that 'twas all over wid poor Fin Mac Coul. But Fin had a mighty brave heart of his own an he was no sich fool ather, as they tuck him for.

"By my sowkins!" says one, as he saw him preparing for the work, "but he's a clever make of a man,

an 'twould be no ways wondheren," says he, "if he tuk the shine out of her leddyship, afther all," says he. The duoul! man," says another, says he, "but you're right, an I'm moral sartain," says he, "that sich a fine lad will have the since," says he, "not to knock his head agen the ould sinners of rocks below," says be.

In the mane time, sir, Fin Mac Coul takes his run, an before they knew where he was, high and dhry he stood on the side opposite 'em, with the great sthrame screeching between 'em, an the ugly rocks grinning, ready to ate him up alive. When the king an the people sees how 'twas wid him, they set up a great ullabulloo of a shout; an you'd think they'd niver have an ind of it, the woices an the echoes had sich fun wid one another, sending the sound backwards and forwards, at no rate. The king, seeing that 'twas to no purpose to make any mouds about the business, puts the best face he can upon it, an in a short time has F'in buckled (i. e. married) to his daughther. "An och! my dear Masther agragal," apostrophized my story-teller, "that I had the English to inscribe her to you, fairer nor the moon, wid lips as red as blood, an as well-spoken and genteel a young woman, for a king's daughther, as if she'd had the edication myself had. For, as I'm tould, in them hathen times, not a Christian sowl amongst 'em knew B from a bull's foot, nor even how to read the prayer book!

'Well, to be sure, if there wasn't faisting galore on the night of the wedding, there never was. An 'twas they that had the fun, and the roysthering, an the music, an the dancing, an all sorts of things. Musha that I wasn't there; the teeth are wathering wid me but to think of it. However, it happened that while they were all taking their pleasure, a girl stepped out to the well, that was in within the heart of the town, to bring some wather. Now there was a big stone down a-top of this well, covering it up always at night, because there was a prophecy, that if 'twas left uncovered a single night, the whole city would be

swallowed up an dhrowned. An there used to be a senthrey always guarding it, for fear of accidents, you know. But this night it happened, that they forgot to put the senthrey; and the girl, in her dirty hurry, forgets also to put the stone upon it agen, after dhrawing the wather. Mille-à-murther! 'twas a thousand pities. The dirty stump! What tanthrums she must have had in her head, to be losing it this way, out an out. If I was her misthress, 'tis I that would pay her well! But no matther. The whole town went to bed, as usual, fataigued afther the exertions of the day; an when the time for awaking in the morning came, not a bit of the city was there, but the great lake swimming about, as if not knowing what to do wid itself. An this was the way, sir, that the Lakes of Killarney came to be where they are; an many's the tale that's tould of these same lakes; an no wondher, wid the city an all the dhrowned people buried at the bottom. I know several, sir, who've seen the steeples an things of a clear day; but I never have myself, yet.'

HAMPSTEAD HEATH.

THE goddess Hygéia, who loves the wild heath,
The charming blue sky, and the flowers beneath,
Thus sends to the lovers of oak, air, and elm,
(Who from the invaders protected her realm)
Her very best thanks. For to her a vast hall,
A castle, a tower, is nothing at all:

All orders appear to the goddess most horrid,
Corinthian, Tonic, or Gothic, that's florid.

L.

She cares not for those; the sweet nightingale's song,
When by the cool zephyr its wafted along,
Is heard through the walls of a cottage the best,
Where lovely Hygéia doth commonly rest.
And then in the morn to her heath she'll repair,
To partake of the skylark and butterfly's fare,
The pure air to breathe, and the flowers to admire,
No one in a city has pleasures that's higher.
Pray what would she do the harsh trowel to hear?
The birds leafy bowers would soon disappear,

And poverty's look, in the newly raised walls-
Its form in the old ones the goddess appals.

A poor-house would rise, and the wretched be sent, That Death mayn't be stopped when on mischief he's bent;

For sportsmen must be the more certain of hitting,
When game in a very small compass they're getting:
Then Vice among houses his face would be showing,
Though police and watchmen were ever so knowing,
Huge chains would be clanking, where dungeons were
made,

The murderer convulsed, at his dream there'd be laid,
And trembling, sad, debtors of daylight afraid!
With taste, such as hers, the young goddess may well
Thank those who've a fancy for mountain and dell;
The heath, once enclosed, to its beauties adieu,
The mossy, green hillock would vanish from view,
And this does she add; all her friends she invites,
If weary should they be of London's rare sights,
To see a fine view of that city, the best

From Hampstead, and gratified must be each guest.
The gout to come walking by Highgate's advised,
Who'll soon have the strength which he ought to have
prized;

For botanists there is a banquet of flowers;

For artists, its known, there's amusement for hours; The poets may scribble the epic, or lyric;

For lungs that are weak there's a feast, atmospheric.

A rose is her badge, and the goddess imprints
On cheeks of young ladies its loveliest tints;
So pa and mamma, they can surely believe
When told, 'been to Hampstead,' can any deceive?
Now, parents and guardians, the young and the old,
That health is a blessing you need not be told;
If ye don't know, just wait till the doctor, with pill,
Shows terrible bottles, turn which way you will,
You'll find out too late the kind goddess you've
slighted,

And ring for fleet horses, you'll still be benighted.
SARAH HODING.

TALES OF A GRANDFATHER.*

It is always pleasant to see Wisdom stooping to the amusements of Infancy: the picture has something primeval in it; and never fails to awaken pure and innocent associations. Charles the Fifth has been a favourite of curs since we read of his having converted himself into a hobby for one of his children; but we confess the gambols of Francis' great opponent are far less interesting than the literary playfulness of Sir Walter Scott and his little grandson. In the one case we see nothing but a full flow of animal spirits, but in the other we find instruction blended with amusement; the overflowings of the heart awakening the intellectual faculties of the head-the most delightful wisdom in company with the most artless joyousness.

Hume, it is said, recommended a lady to read history as a very delightful species of romance, and Sir Walter seems to be of pretty much the same opinion his novels have made the world acquainted with Scottish history, and the work before us introduces the same subject into the nursery, and certainly not in a less pleasing form. But though amusing, these stories are instructive the facts of history are strictly adhered to, and the reflections are such as a wise and prudent grandfather would wish to impress upon the young mind of his grandson. The work even demands a higher attention than a child could be expected to bestow on it; and the topics are so judiciously selected that a knowledge of Scottish history is imperceptibly acquired, while the reader is thinking only of amusement. The thread of events is preserved entire, from the earliest period to the union of Scotland with England; and our artist has selected for illustration a passage of fearful interest. The massacre of Glencoe must ever remain a stain upon the character of William the Third, although, as Sir Walter observes, 'he probably was not aware of the full extent of the base

*Being Stories from the History of Scotland. Edinburgh, 1829. Cadell and Co,