apple pye, and the Convivator seemed to pride himself very much on the delicate repast he had provided for us.

CHAPTER IX.

Belfast.

I HAVE now been a week in Belfast, which has rolled not unpleasantly away. In the morning I walk the streets, and frequent the libraries; and in the evening I go to card parties and concerts. I am, therefore, in some degree competent to speak of the place and people. I do it without reluctance, for I can say little of either but what is good.

Belfast is a large and well-built town. The streets are broad and straight. The houses neat and comfortable, mostly built of brick. The population, in a random way, may be estimated at thirty thousand, of which probably four thousand are Catholics. These are almost entirely working people. A few years ago there was scarcely a Catholic in the place. How much Presbyterians. out-number the members of the Established Church, appears from the circumstance of there being five meeting-houses and only one church.

Three of these meeting-houses are in a cluster, and are neat little buildings. Neatness and trimness, indeed, rather than magnificence, are the characteristics of all the public buildings. A large masshouse, however, to the building of which, with their accustomed liberality, the inhabitants largely contributed, is an exception.

The new college, when finished, if like the Edinburgh college, and, for the same reason, it is not doomed to remain for ever unfinished, will, I should suppose, be another.

The principal library is in one of the rooms of the linen hall. 1 spend some hours every day in it-solitary hours; for the bustling inhabitants of this great commercial town have little leisure (I do not know that they have little inclination) for reading. Round the hall there is a public walk, prettily laid out with flowers and shrubs. I meet with as few people here, as in the library. Young women appear to walk as little as the men read. I know not whether this is a restraint of Presbyterianism, or of education; but let the cause be what it may, it is a very cruel oneyoung women have few enjoyments; it is a pity, therefore, to deprive them of so innocent a one as that of walking. I have conversed with them at parties, and generally found them rational and unassuming. To an Englishman, as may be easily conceived, the rusticity of their accent would at

first be unpleasant. But his ear would soon accommodate itself to it, and even find beauties in: itthe greatest of all beauties in a female, an apparent freedom from affectation and assumption. They seldom played cards, nor did the elderly people seem to be particularly fond of them. Music was the favourite recreation, and many were no mean proficients in it. They are probably indebted for this to Mr. Bunting, a man well known in the musical world. He has an extensive school here, and is organist to one of the meeting-houses; for so little fanaticism have now the Presbyterians of Belfast, that they have admitted organs into their places of worship. At no very distant period this would have been reckoned as high a profanation as to have erected a crucifix. I was highly gratified with Mr. Bunting's execution on the piano-forte-nor was I less so with the voice of a gentleman of the name of Ross. He is, I think, one of the finest private singers I ever heard. Mr. Bunting is a large jolly-looking man; that he Tshould fail to be so is hardly possible, for Bel. fast concerts are never mere music meetings-they are always followed by a good supper, and store of wine and punch. Mr. Bunting is accused of being at times capricious, and unwilling to gratify curiosity. But smusicians, poets, and ladies, have ever been privileged to be so. I went to the meetSing house at which he performs, to hear him on the

-organ, but as it was only a common psalm he accompanied, I had no opportunity of judging of

A

I heard a very rational discourse from Doctor Drummond, minister of the congregation. The Doctor is likewise principal of an academy in the neighbourhood, and a poet. He has published a long work in verse on the Giants' Causeway, of which I know not the success. He does not ap pear to me to have been judicious in his choice of a subject. Topography cannot be made interest. ing, even by rhyme it is like hanging a garland of roses round the neck of a skeleton. I have taken but a cursory view of his work, yet it appears to me, that Doctor Drummond emits, at times,aspark of true poetry-If he "straight grows cold again," it is, perhaps, in a considerable degree, the fault of his profession--a poèt, above all men, must have the imagination free-a Presbyterian clergyman is fettered by customs, usages, and modes of thinking-he is obliged, therefore, to curb his Pegasus, when he should rather slacken the rein.

I know of no other literary man in this town or neighbourhood, except Doctor Drennan-He is principally, or indeed only, known as a writer of politics, and people will judge his writings differently, according to their sentiments on this subject. He is a little smart man, between fifty and

sixty years of age. I have no acquaintance with him; but I learn he is a valuable member of society, and an exemplary character in private life.

If literary men are scarce, merchants, however, are plenty. They predominaté as much in society here, as lawyers do in that of Dublin. When disengaged, I dine at an ordinary with a large party of them, mostly young men, who have no establishments of their own. They seem agreeable and good-natured, as ready (a rare thing in Ireland) to listen as to talk, and, after supper, more disposed to sing than to do either. The last evening I was there, the box which contains the records of the club was brought forward, and unlocked, in order to shew me, what was deemed an almost invaluable treasure this was a letter from a no less important person than Sir Francis Burdett, in answer to an address of theirs-the whole letter was commented on in terms of high approbation; but a paragraph, in which Ireland was termed a long-suffering and much-injured country, was repeated with admiration. The people of Ireland are so far a-kin to the people of England, that they seem never so happy as when proved to be the most wretched people under the sun. I have, I believe, on a former occasion, taken notice of the singular veneration in which Sir Francis Burdett is held in this country. I have