nessing, more correctly, and probably, would not half so energetically. An Irish peasant, like a Frenchman, speaks with every part of his body, and his arms and countenance, are as eloquent as his tongue.

I was invited to day to a christening, but was prevented from going by the weather. It has been raining the greatest part of the day, and I have passed my time, (not unpleasantly passed it,) between the kitchen and parlour of my friend's house. Parlours are pretty much the same every where. I shall, therefore, say nothing of his I cannot, however, pass the kitchen over so qui etly. I do not say that there never was a merrier one; but certainly it was a very merry, a very noisy, and at the last, a very musical one.

In the forenoon it was occupied by the churn my host makes great quantities of butter for sale; it is, therefore, an immense one, and so is the churn staff. This latter is made of the mountain ash, or rowan tree as it is commonly called. Superstition attaches to the rowan tree as many valuable properties, as it does to the witch elm, and churn-staffs are universally made of it: Then no planets strike,

No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,

So hallowed and so gracious is the wood.

I cannot here, forbear throwing out as a conjecture, that, perhaps, the passage in Macbeth

Had

which has so much puzzled commentators, instead of the usual reading, might be better rendered, thus

Moɔ břɛ zis eid bas

sugnos ald A row'nt thee witch!-the rump-fed ronyon cries i ew id 8 eer Drecollect asking poor Mr. Malone's opinion of Ithis emendation, the last time I was in & last time I was an in his com pany. He was about tom bozen! 9280 to answer me, when a lady nedetid sil gapwied

coming up interrupted him, and I can never more

ask it of him now

After the churning was finished, the servants evovod Joan and labourers were set down to their dinner at

the kitchen table. They had a cal

Jon ob.
most abundant

This

one. It consisted of milk, butter, potatoes, and greens, pounded together, and oatén cake. is Wednesday, or else, in addition to the milk Caring fod and butter, they would have had bacon, or hung beef.br Wednesdays and Fridays are perpetual fasts of the church of Rome, and no luxury or dainty could tempt the poor Irish peasant to eat flesh meat, on either of those days, or during the whole course of Lent. Admirable forbearance! when the hardship of his situation is considered and admirable must the religion be which so strongly inculcates it. Let others talk of the doctrines of the church of Rome, I love it for its observance of Lent. What is the value of every doctrinal point of every religion in the universe, compared to that blessed one, which twice a

X

week, and for six weeks in every year, preaches peace and good will, not to man alone, but to the birds who carol in the air, to the beasts which bound on the lawn-which preserves the turtle to his dove, the lark to his song, and saves from slaughter the helpless chicken, and the sportive lamb, to which it is the perfection of innocence to be compared.

As soon as the kitchen was cleaned up after tea, the maids sat down to their wheels-the fire was, if possible, made more blazing, and the fireplace more cleanly swept. I seated myself in a corner, and pretended to fall asleep. The maiden's song makes the hum of the wheel an instrument of wild music, and I wished that it should flow free and unconstrained.

I continued sleeping, and the spinners continued singing for several hours. To say that I was gratified, would be saying little. I was delighted. I was rivetted as it were by a spell, and regretted when a summons to supper, (a daylight supper, and soon finished, as I write this after it) compelled me to waken. I do not deny, however, but that a part of the pleasure I received, may have depended on my being well acquainted with the tunes. Music is an emanation from heaven, and partakes of the unperishable. nature of its origin. It owes none of its charms to novelty, but grows more and more delightful

by time and association. Yet, I think it impos. sible but that the simple pathos, and melancholy wildness of Irish music, even when first heard, must find their way to the heart of every person of sensibility. To me there are times when its plaintive wailings seem scarcely human, and resemble rather the noise of the wind, mournfully complaining through the vallies, or the subdued sounds of murder and woe, as fancy forms them, when in dreams we wander alone, and at midnight, on some waste heath.

I speak here of Irish music in its original state, not in the form in which Sir John Stevenson has thought proper, lately, to present it to the English world. I respect Sir John's talents as a general composer; but he appears to me, to be totally' unfitted to do justice to Irish music. In almost every instance, he seems to have substituted in place of the wonderful charm of melody, the ostentation of science, and mere trick of execution. Nor has Mr. Bunting, I think, succeeded much better. They have both built on an entire wrong foundation. It is wonderful, indeed, how any men who have hearts in their bosoms, should be so far misled by the ear, as not to perceive that native Irish music would lose its charm the instant that it was shackled by the symphony and accompaniment of modern art. It is like taking the lark from the forest, and bidding it pour

forth its "wood notes wild" in a cage. Shall I give a stronger illustration? It is like putting a madman in a strait waistcoat, when, if we wish to contemplate him in his grandeur, we must see him alone, and baying at the moon.

The wild melancholy of Irish music has been remarked by all, and attempted to be explained by many. An elegant writer attributes it to the depressing influence of the English invasion. "Sinking beneath the weight of sorrow, the bards became a prey to melancholy, and the sprightly Phrygian (to which they were before wholly inclined) gave place in all their subsequent compositions to the grave Doric, or soft Lydian measure."

This is ingenious, and probably, in a degree, (a small degree) is true. But I have doubts whether ever Irish music was essentially other than grave Doric, or soft Lydian. Melancholy is its essence, and incidents could do no more than heighten it. Climate, soil, and descent, must have combined with events to give it this character. Were I to seek another cause, I should, perhaps, find it in the great susceptibility of the passion of love in the native Irish. Some of their songs breathe the soul of tenderness and affection, and would do honour to any age or nation. It would be well for many writers of the present day, who give the debasing ravings of desire, instead of the ennobling