The Quarrels of Friends.-Why is it that the most fervent love becomes more fervent by brief interruption and reconciliation? and why must a storm agitate our affections before they can raise the highest rainbow of peace? Ah! for this reason it is because all passions feel their object to be as eternal as themselves, of calamity that reveal to us our great men, as comets are revealed by total eclipses of the sun. Not merely upon the field of battle, but also upon the consecrated soil of virtue-and upon the classic ground of truth, thousands of nameless heroes must fall and struggle to build | up the footstool from which history surveys the one hero, whose name is embalmed, bleeding—and no love can admit the feeling that the beconquering and resplendent. The grandest of herioc deeds are those which are performed within four walls and in domestic privacy. And because history records only the self-sacrifices of the male sex, and because she dips her pen only in blood-therefore is it that, in the eyes of the unseen spirit of the world, our annals appear doubtless far more beautiful and noble than in our own. The Grandeur of Man in his Littleness.Man upon this earth would be vanity and hollowness, dust and ashes, vapour and a bubble-were it not that he felt himself to be 80. That it is possible for him to harbour such a feeling this, by implying a comparison of himself with something higher in himself, this is it which makes him the immortal creature that he is. Night. The earth is every day overspread with the veil of night, for the same reason as the cages of birds are darkened-viz. that we may the more readily apprehend the higher harmonies of thought, in the hush and quiet of darkness. Thoughts, which day turns into smoke and mist, stand about us in the night, as lights and flames; even as the column which fluctuates above the crater of Vesuvius, in the day time appears a pillar of cloud, but by night a pillar of fire. The Stars.-Look up, and behold the eternal fields of light that lie round about the throne of God. Had no star ever appeared in the heavens, to man there would have been no heavens; and he would have laid himself down to his last sleep, in a spirit of anguish, as upon a gloomy earth vaulted over by a material arch -solid and impervious. Martyrdom.-To die for truth-is not to die for one's country, but to die for the world. Truth, like the Venus di Medici, will pass down in thirty fragments to posterity: but posterity will collect and recompose them into a goddess.—Then also thy temple, O eternal Truth! that now stands half below the earth-made hollow by the sepulchres of its witnesses, will raise itself in the total majesty of its proportions; and will stand in monumental granite; and every pillar on which it rests will be fixed in the grave of a martyr. loved object should die. And under this feeling of imperishableness it is, that we, hard fields of ice, shock together so harshly, whilst all the while, under the sunbeams of a little space of seventy years, we are rapidly dissolving. Dreaming.-But for dreams, that lay Mosaic worlds tesselated with flowers and jewels before the blind sleeper, and surround the recumbent living with the figures of the dead in the upright attitude of life, the time would be too long before we are allowed to rejoin our brothers, parents, friends: every year we should become more and more painfully sensible of the desolation made around us by death, if sleep-the ante-chamber of the grave-were not hung by dreams with the busts of those who live in the other world. Dignity of Man in Self-sacrifice.-That for which man offers up his blood or his property must be more valuable than they. A good man does not fight with half the courage for his own life that he shows in the protection of another's. The mother, who will hazard nothing for herself, will hazard all in defence of her child; in short, only for the nobility within us-only for virtue, will man open his veins and offer up his spirit: but this nobility -this virtue-presents different phases: with the Christian martyr, it is faith; with the savage, it is honour; with the republican, it is liberty. Fancy.-Fancy can lay only the past and the future under her copying paper; and every actual presence of the object sets limits to her power: just as water distilled from roses, according to the old naturalists, lost its power exactly at the periodical blooming of the rose. Derham remarks, in his Physico-theology, that the deaf hear best in the midst of noise; as, for instance, during the ringing of bells, &c. This must be the reason that the thundering of drums, cannons, &c., accompany the entrance into cities of princes and ministers, who are generally rather deaf, in order that they may the better hear the petitions and complaints of the people. -Translated by T. De Quincy. DANIEL O'ROURKE, THE SEED AND FRUIT. BY LEWIS KINGSLEY. "Tis not its blood that bursts the vine "Tis not with angry stroke but kind, The sculptor hews the marble stone; His blows, their scars, if we will mind, But loose the angel there confinedAn angel from a shapeless stone! "Twas not in wrath, the psalmist old, His inspired hand swept o'er the strings And vexed his harp with beatings bold: A purer, holier music rolled E'en from its sharpest quiverings. And thus in all the world's great round, When we its meaning full divineFrom fiercest twangs the sweetest sound; By sharpest strokes the soul unbound; From sorest bruise the sweetest wine. So to the faith now tossed with fear All seeming ills shall prove to be Each one the seed for harvests near: "Though Christ was dead, he is not here;" There needs the cross, the funeral bier, Ere we the resurrection see. Harper's Magazine. DANIEL O'ROURKE.1 BY T. CROFTON CROKER. People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O'Rourke, but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the walls of the Phooka's tower ! I knew the man well; he lived at the bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right-hand side of the road as you go towards Bantry. An old man was he at the time that he told me the story, with gray hair and a red nose: and it was on the 25th of June, 1813, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from The Quarterly Review said that this humorous tale was "a fine Dutch picture of nightmare, rivalling in its way the sublimer vision of Burns." It is from the Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland. 183 the sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the morning at Glengariff. "I am often axed to tell it, sir," said he, "so that this is not the first time. The master's son, you see, had come from beyond foreign parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go, before Buonaparte or any such was heard of; and sure enough there was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and low, rich and poor. The ould gentlemen were the gentlemen, after all, saving your honour's preThey'd swear at a body a little, to be sure, and may be give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we were no losers by it in the end; and they were so easy and civil, and kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes; and there was no grinding for rent, and few agents; and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that did not taste of his landlord's bounty often and often in the year;-but now it's another thing: no matter for that, sir, for I'd better be telling you my story. sence. To "Well, we had everything of the best, and plenty of it; and we ate, and we drank, and we danced, and the young master by the same token danced with Peggy Barry, from the Bohereen-a lovely young couple they were, though they are both low enough now. make a long story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost, for I can't remember ever at all, no ways, how it was I left the place: only I did leave it, that's certain. Well, I thought, for all that, in myself, I'd just step to Molly Cronohan's, the fairywoman, to speak a word about the bracket heifer that was bewitched; and so as I was crossing the stepping-stones of the ford of stars and blessing myself-for why? it was Ballyasheenough, and was looking up at the into the water. Lady-day-I missed my foot, and souse I fell 'Death alive!' thought I, I'll be drowned now!' However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for the dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never the one of me can tell how, upon a dissolute island. "I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as day, or your fair lady's eyes, sir (with your pardon for mentioning her), and I looked east and west, and north and south, and every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog;-I could never find out how I got into it; and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure and certain I was that it would be my berrin place. So I sat down upon a stone, which, as good luck would have it, was close by me, and I began to scratch my head and sing the Ullagone-when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the world as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face; and what was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom of Kerry. So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, 'Daniel O'Rourke,' says he, 'how do you do?' 'Very well, I thank you, sir,' says I; 'I hope you're well;' wondering out of my senses all the time how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. 'What brings you here, Dan?' says he. 'Nothing at all, sir,' says I; 'only I wish I was safe home again.' 'Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan?' says he. "Tis, sir,' says I; so I up and told him how I had taken a drop too much; and fell into the water; how I swam to the island; and how I got into the bog and did not know my way out of it. 'Dan,' says he, after a minute's thought, though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Ladyday, yet as you are a decent sober man, who 'tends mass well, and never flings stones at me nor mine, nor cries out after us in the fieldsmy life for yours,' says he; 'so get up on my back, and grip me well for fear you'd fall off, and I'll fly you out of the bog.' 'I am afraid,' says I, 'your honour's making game of me; for who ever heard of riding a horseback on an eagle before?' "'Pon the honour of a gentleman,' says he, putting his right foot on his breast, I am quite in earnest; and so now either take my offer or starve in the bog; besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone.' down there, and many thanks to your worship.' "Arrah, Dan,' said he, 'do you think me a fool? Look down in the next field, and don't you see two men and a gun? By my word it would be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I picked up off of a could stone in a bog.' 'Bother you,' said I to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up he kept flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use. Where in the world are you going, sir?' says I to him. 'Hold your tongue, Dan,' says he; 'mind your own business, and don't be interfering with the business of other people.' 'Faith, this is my business, I think,' says I. 'Be quiet, Dan,' says he; so I said no more. "At last where should we come to but to the moon itself. Now you can't see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reapinghook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way (drawing the figure thus ✪ on the ground with the end of his stick). "Dan,' said the eagle, 'I'm tired with this long fly; I had no notion 'twas so far.' 'And my lord, sir,' said I, 'who in the world axed you to fly so far-was it I? did not I beg, and pray, and beseech you to stop half an hour ago?' 'There's no use talking, Dan,' said he; 'I'm tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I rest myself.” 'Is it sit down on the moon?' said I; 'is it upon that little round thing, then? why then, sure, I'd fall off in a minute, and be kilt and split, and smashed all to bits: you are a vile deceiver-so you are.' 'Not at all, Dan,' said he; 'you can catch fast hold of the reaping. hook that's sticking out of the side of the moon, and 'twill keep you up.' 'I won't then,' said May be not,' said he, quite quiet. 'If you don't, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.' 'Why, then, I'm in a fine way,' said I to myself, 'ever to have come along with the likes of you;" and so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he'd know what I said, I got off his back with a heavy heart, took a hold of the reapinghook, and sat down upon the moon; and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that. "It was true enough as he said, for I found I. the stone every minute going from under me. I had no choice; so thinks I to myself, faint heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance:-'I thank your honour,' says I, 'for the loan of your civility, and I'll take your kind offer.' I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark. Little I knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up, up, up-God knows how far up he flew. Why, then,' said I to him-thinking he did not know the right road home-very civilly, because why?-I was in his power entirely;—‘sir,' says I, 'please your honour's glory, and with humble submission to your better judgment, if you'd fly down a bit, you're now just over my cabin, and I could be put "When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said, ‘Good morning to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said he, 'I think I've nicked you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year' ('twas true enough for him, but DANIEL O'ROURKE. how he found it out is hard to say), 'and in return you are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a cockthrow.' "Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute you!' says I. 'You ugly unnatural baste, and is this the way you serve me at last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hook'd nose, and to all your breed, you blackguard.' 'Twas all to no manner of use; he spread out his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and bawled for ever without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to this-sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month before. I suppose they never thought of greasing 'em, and out there walks-who do you think but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by his bush. "Good morrow to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said he 'how do you do?' 'Very well, thank your honour,' said I. 'I hope your honour's well.' 'What brought you here, Dan?' said he. So I told him how I was a little overtaken in liquor at the master's, and how I was cast on a dissolute island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of that he had fled me up to the moon. "Dan,' said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was done, 'you must not stay here.' 'Indeed, sir,' says I, "tis much against my will I'm here at all; but how am I to go back?' 'That's your business,' said he, 'Dan: mine is to tell you that here you must not stay, so be off in less than no time.' 'I'm doing no harm,' says I, 'only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.' 'That's what you must not do, Dan,' says he. 'Pray, sir,' says I, 'may I ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor traveller lodging: I'm sure 'tis not so often you're troubled with strangers coming to see you, for 'tis a long way.' 'I'm by myself, Dan,' says he; but you'd better let go the reaping-hook.' 'Faith, and with your leave,' says I, 'I'll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the more I won't let go so I will.' 'You had better, Dan,' says he again. Why, then, my little fellow,' says I, taking the whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, 'there are two words 185 to that bargain; and I'll not budge, but you may if you like.' 'We'll see how that is to be,' says he; and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him (for it was plain he was huffed), that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it. "Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back again he comes with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a word, he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was keeping me up, and whap! it came in two. 'Good morning to you, Dan,' says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand: 'I thank you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.' I had not time to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling and rolling at the rate of a fox-hunt. 'God help me,' says I, 'but this is a pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of night; I am now sold fairly.' The word was not out of my mouth, when whiz! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese, all the way from my own bog of Ballyasheenough, else how should they know me? The ould gander, who was their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, 'Is that you, Dan?' 'The same,' said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of bedevilment, and, besides, I knew him of ould. 'Good morrow to you,' says he, Daniel O'Rourke; how are you in health this morning?' 'Very well, sir,' says I, 'I thank you kindly,' drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of some. 'I hope your honour's the same.' 'I think 'tis falling you are, Daniel,' says he. 'You may say that, sir,' says I. 'And where are you going all the way so fast?' said the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me out. 'Dan,' said he, 'I'll save you; put out your hand and catch me by the leg, and I'll fly you home.' 'Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,' says I, though all the time I thought in myself that I don't much trust you; but there was no help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as fast as hops. "We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand sticking up out of the water. "Ah! my lord,' said I to the goose, for I thought it best to 186 THERE'S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN GIVE. keep a civil tongue in my head any way, 'fly | to land, if you please.' 'It is impossible, you see, Dan,' said he, 'for a while, because you see we are going to Arabia.' 'To Arabia?' said I; that's surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose; why then, to be sure, I'm a man to be pitied among you.' 'Whist, whist, you fool,' said he, hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only there is a little more sand there.' "Just as we were talking a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful before the wind: "Ah! then, sir,' said I, will you drop me on the ship, if you please?' 'We are not fair over it,' said he. We are,' said I. 'We are not,' said he: "If I dropped you now, you would go splash into the sea.' 'I would not,' says I: 'I know better than that, for it's just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.' "If you must, you must,' said he. "There, take your own way;' and he opened his claw, and faith he was right-sure enough I came down plump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching himself after his night's sleep, and looked me full in the face, and never the word did he say, but lifting up his tail he splashed me all over again with the cold salt water, till there wasn't a dry stitch upon my whole carcass; and I heard somebody saying-'twas a voice I knew too-'Get up, you drunken brute, off of that;' and with that I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing all over me, -for, rest her soul! though she was a good wife, she never could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own! "Get up,' said she again; 'and of all places in the parish would no place sarve your turn to lie down upon but under the ould walls of Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.' And sure enough I had; for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, and men of the moon, and flying ganders, and whales, driving me through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I'd lie down in the same spot again, I know that." THERE'S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN GIVE. There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath. Oh, could I feel as I have felt or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene; 1 The above stanzas were written in March, 1815, for Mr. Power, and were set to music by Sir John Stevenson. Byron wrote of them: "I feel merry enough to send you a sad song. An event, the death of poor Dorset, and the recollection of what I once felt, and ought to have felt now, but could not-set me pondering and finally into the train of thought which you have in your hands." Again he said, on these lines, "I pique myself as being the truest though the most melancholy I ever wrote." |