OWNEY SULLIVAN.

made life joyous and happy; her parents had fallen in the attack upon the cottage; her lover was no more, and she herself Heaven, in mercy, did not permit her to survive her honour./

The wretch who had sold the pass,' who in a fit of jealousy betrayed his comrades into the hands of their enemies, had shame enough left to hide his face for ever from the eyes of all who knew him. He quitted the country, and was never afterwards heard of by those who detested his treachery

ON CONTENTMENT.

CONTENT is a prize far exceeding in worth
The gems that are dug from the bowels of earth.
The di'mond may circle the brow of the fair,
Repose on her bosom, or blaze in her hair;
For a moment its radiance may transport impart,
But contentment, once cherished, will never depart.

The man of ambition may dream of a throne,
Tho' titles, and splendour, and wealth, are his own;
While crowds at his levee submissively bend,
He may look, but in vain, for the smile of a friend;
Unsuccessful may rack the inventions of art,
But content is a guest that will never depart.
The miser with rapture may add to his store,
Nor heed the poor mendicant's voice at his door;
He may count o'er the spoils of his guilty career,
But his days and his nights are embittered with fear;
For the stings of remorse ever prey on his heart,
And he sighs for that peace-that can never depart.
'Tis a feeling of bliss, whose sunshine may smooth
The rough path of life-and his miseries soothe.
Contentment, tho' ever a stranger to pride,
Of the lowly is oft the consoler and guide;
Midst his toils and his troubles relief may impart,
And, unchecked by misfortune, entwine round bis

heart.

ELIZABETH BOWER BLEASE.

SATURDAY NIGHT IN LONDON.

Of all days in the week I love Saturday best. In London it is a homily which I am continually studying, and from which, as well as I can, I strive to draw useful instruction.

There has always been an inconvenient superabundance of the milk of human kindness within this breast of mine; it overflows spontaneously at the sight of a pitiable object, blessing and fructifying, like the waters of the Nile, all that comes within the range of its wide-spreading influence. The sight of struggling poverty awakens within me an indescribable desire, not only to remove the appearance of want, but to ascertain the cause and consequence of haggard or pallid looks, tattered or thin garments, shoeless feet, or the uncovered head. I have frequently-say not improperly, insinuated myself into an alley, merely to listen, unperceived, to the heart-rending dialogue of a family of match-sellers-the speaking silence of the father, the solicitude of the shivering mother, and the lisping prattle of the little onesdoleful or cheerful as they had been successful or otherwise, in disposing of their bits of wood tipped with sulphur. To hear them express their little anxieties, feelingly speak to each other of their wants, and breathe to Heaven a petition for relief, was a painful luxurythough followed by a donation that left wisdom behind it, when suddenly emerging into the busy street, crowded with the vehicles of commerce and wealth.

At other times I have walked, on a Saturday night, through half a dozen streets, within hearing of an 'unwashed artificer,' and his consumptive-looking companion, when on their way to the market. It is more than instructive, to see the poor wife leaning on the left arm of her lord, while he carries the little basket-the depository for the weekly provender, in his right hand. Her affectionate closeness to his side, her asking eye cast lovingly upon his indifferent-looking face, not from principle, but habit, and her efforts to be

cheerful, are so many chapters in the volume of human life, which all should attentively peruse. If you draw a little closer, you will hear him, if he be kind, detailing the little history of his workshop, commenting on the hard-heartedness of the employer, for having made certain deductions, and cheering the sinking spirits of his partner, by anticipating more wages on the ensuing Saturday. Or, if the husband be a gruff bear of a fellow, as it too often happens, you will hear the miserable wife, with studied solicitude, insinuate her interrogatories in a tone of inquisitive apprehension; coming again and again to the charge, relative to the sum total of the capital in his pocket. This is a pair which sickens the heart; they ought to be loving and happy. The world is cruel enough to require being mitigated, by affection, and the children of poverty stand most in need of some kind balm, to heal the wounds which the rough ways of life never fail to inflict.

But this does not deter me from persevering; I keep still in their footsteps. They stop before entering the market, reckon their money, deduct for the rent, and then consult about the Sunday's dinner. Every thing good is too dear. They resolve and re-resolve, and, at length, determine to put up, once more, with liver and bacon. But, see that tall shadow of a man, leaning on the ordnance-looking post, beyond the bustle: he wears the garments of an operator; but is he in employment? Alas! no; the thinly covered-helpmate, who now approaches him, visibly declares the contrary. She looks silently into his face, opens the rush basket-looks into it he follows her example. There is some tainted flesh there. They speak not, but walk faintly away: I must follow and relieve them.

When I turn from the contemplation of the crowd, from the vociferous cries of the butchers, and walk down a dark street, I am sure to overtake some poor woman, with a little girl by the hand. The child talks feelingly, while trudging through the mud, and it is about the price of bread, and potatoes, and cabbages; she dreams not of toys or dolls; she has grown beyond

the attractions of playthings; poverty, and associations of poverty, have made her, prematurely, a woman. Life's cup comes unblessed to her lips. If she lives to a 'green old age,' she looks back upon the world, unable to recall one day free from heart-corroding care. Once more I find my fingers playing with the loose silver in my breeches pocket. The recollection of Mrs. Tearful's affectionate admonitions rush upon me, and detain my hand. I weigh well all her arguments, touching my improvidence and want of prudence, let fall the silver-it jingles; the little girl turns about,her innocent looks of soberness, and the melancholy tone of her pale countenance, assail my heart. I think of the little Tearfuls-reflect that there are no fears of their being ever like this little one, and then--; but I shall not say the amount, it would look like ostentation,-it would serve no purpose; for few, very few, would follow my instructive example.

The great Lexicographer was wrong when he said, that there was no entertainment in the anecdotes of poverty: human nature is amusing and instructive under every form; and, perhaps, the two extremes, penury and unwieldy wealth, furnish matter best calculated to awaken surprise or pity. I prefer the former. The world of fashion is a world of monotony; it is a dead sameness; for all is disguise,-nothing is real,-nothing is natural. Poverty, on the contrary, is explicit,-is open; man is there not always virtuous, but seldom in a mask. I dislike to see him wretched, and that is precisely the reason why I so often come in contact with him. Let no one suppose that it arises exactly from a fellow feeling,-from an hereditary propensity. Quite the contrary; I am of aristocratic descent, and boast abundance of good blood, though I am SAM TEARFUL.

ALFRED AND ETHELWITHA.

THE character of our great and favourite King Alfred, M. D'Arnaud, the Richardson of France, contemplates with a degree of enthusiasm, which bespeaks the goodness of his own heart. The following anecdote, which is mentioned by some of our more ancient historians, he has given in a manner peculiar to himself; but which, while it diffuses a sweeter charm over the whole composition, renders it almost untranslatable:

'In Alfred, the most renowned king of the Saxon dynasty in England, with what delight do we contemplate the benevolent and equitable man! He was the worthiest monarch that ever swayed a sceptre, and nothing was wanting to his glory but to be born in a more enlightened age, and to have an historian of genius. He was at once the conqueror, the legislator, and the great man. He scattered in England the first seeds of talent, virtue, love of order, and patriotism.'

This prince so effectually established the government by justice and salutary laws, that if, in the night time, a vessel of gold had been left in the highway, the proprietor would have found it again the next day. Hume, in a few words, gives this rare panegyric of him, that he seems indeed to be the model of that perfect character, which, under the denomination of a sage or wise man, philosophers have been fond of delineating, rather as a fiction of their imagination, than in the hope of ever seeing it really existing.'

A single act of justice, however, which we now pro⚫ ceed to relate, has secured him immortal fame;-better far than all his feats of arms, which, ages ago, have been forgotten.

The reign of Alfred was in that period (the ninth century) when sovereigns were only the first men in their courts. The great lords that surrounded them enjoyed those privileges which were derived from the feudal system. A private nobleman was admitted into the company of his master, and lived with him in the most intimate familiarity. He would even invite him