commanding fine views in all directions. The structure is modern, though it seems to have been built upon an old foundation of a similar kind. From this point, it is said William Penn embarked for the New World. Below this point, the river expands into the dimensions of a lake, hence called Lough Mahon; then, a mile or two lower down, a green island lies across the channel, and a little to the right, is seen the village of Passage, beautifully situated, just where the wide reach of river ends, and where it contracts into little more than river breadth. Beyond this again, the river sweeps to the left, where Cove, or Queenstown, is reached, commanding the capacious and magnificent harbour of the Bay of Cork. But I stopped at Passage, as it was growing dusk, though there was still light enough left to enable me to see the long reaches of the bay, under the mellow evening's light.

Passage looks picturesque from the river, for something has been done for it in the way of whitewash, and a few pretty cottages are scattered along the heights. But when you pass into the village, you find that the "distance lent enchantment to the view." The place consists of a few straggling streets and many middens and sump-holes: its odour is anything but fragrant. There was a small bustle about the one street-corner, where a number of women and children, with several men, stood lounging about, the latter smoking, and nearly all, men, women, and children, talking. The village was quite alive,-heads were projected over most of the windows, and women stood discoursing in most of the doorways. The number of children, who must have been all out of doors at the time, seemed prodigious for the size of the place. I wandered up the hill,-past dismantled houses, which lay as they fell, past rotting old boats, empty slips, logs of wood, swine tenements, whose occupants were squeaking and grunting their loud satisfaction, and then I reached, at length, the height overlooking the village. The bay lay asleep; a ship at anchor in the stream threw its long shadows in the water, the few whitewashed houses on the further side seemed to sleep under the falling night, and the beautiful variety of water, wood, and swelling knoll, died away in the distance. The only sound heard amid the general stillness, was the hum of voices rising up from the village below. I shall never think but with delight of the charms of that beauteous landscape.

But lo! there is the bell of the last steamer for Cork, the Princes. She is just rounding the headland near Monkstown, about a mile below stream, so we hurry down to the quay again, in time to get on board. The Princess is full of passengers,-mostly on pleasure-trips. Some have been down to Queenstown, others to Monkstown, the lovely day has attracted many abroad. The bell rings again, and we are away up stream. Though the night was quite clear when we set out, we had not proceeded a mile on our way before a dense fog came on, and the boat had to proceed warily; and before other ten minutes had passed, the words "Stop her," brought us almost to a standstill. It had now grown dark as well as foggy. The skipper did not know whereabouts his ship's head lay; but guessing his course with what accuracy he could, the steam was put on again. We were hailed by a loud voice from the shore, "Steamer

66

ahoy!" Ay, ay!" "Alter your course, "called

the voice, 66 or you'll be ashore in two minutes!" The engine was stopped. "What house is that?" asked our skipper. "Mr. Oliver's," answered the voice. "How does our head lie?" There was a laugh at this, and a voice called out, "Feel it: you'll find it thickish!" Our boat's course was altered again; and we steamed on slowly. We were in the

Lough, where there is water enough in the channel, but we must sound for the shallows and sand-banks, so a man was placed in the boat's bows with a lead. At first there was some difficulty in finding one; but a heavy bolt was attached to a string, and the "heaving of the lead " commenced.

Now arose a great discussion and altercation on board. Everybody had an opinion to give, as to the direction of the "castle lights". A group gathered round "the captain," and a loud altercation took place. The difference of opinion was great; but each man had his argument, which was as good as the captain's, and he was evidently lost in a mist. The man at the lead sung out "Four fathoms !" next "Three fathoms!" then, "Two fathoms and a half!" "Stop her!" called out the captain. So the boat lay to, and the discussion went on. Some one called out "Light a-head! What ship is that?" "The Alice ! "Is your head lying up stream?" "Ay, it is!" "Do you see the castle light? "No; it's light is no better nor a farthing candle any time! "Whereabouts does the castle lie?" "Look to your compass, and be to you!" shouted a

savage voice, at length, from the strange ship. "Ay, to be sure," said some of the passengers, "examine the compass." "We have not got one aboord!" said the captain. "What! no compass? Are you allowed to sail without one?" But it was so! There was nothing in the shape of a compass on board,-neither a ship's compass, nor a pocketcompass, which may be had any day for a shilling! "Can you lend us your compass for a moment?' asked our skipper of the strange ship, which we had now come alongside of. "Ay, send on board, and I'll let you have it. But why do you dare to sail without one?" "We never need it." "Then you don't need it now!"

However, we neared the vessel, which was lying at anchor in the stream, and after mooring ourselves to her, the mate went on board for the compass. The compass came, the master of the vessel accompanying it. They took their station over the paddleboxes, and then the strange captain called for a lantern. "Bring here the lantern," called the master of the Princess. Some minutes elapsed, and then the cabin-boy brought a farthing candle stuck in a pint-bottle,- -one of the lights which had been standing on the cabin table ! The dismal light glimmered and flickered under the boy's cap, which vainly sheltered it. The candle was blown out before he could ascend the paddle-box, and there was only the stinking red wick in the shape of light. "Bring a lantern," said the strange captain again. "Please, your honour, we haven't got none!" 7. Νο lantern? Egad! This is a genuine Cork boat, I see! Send on board my brig again for the loan of a lantern." So another trip was made to the Alice, and a lantern borrowed. At last, the compass was examined, the crew and passengers, with both captains, taking part in the discussion.

For an hour, at least, the discussion continued, and at last, when something like unanimity had been reached, after a greater waste of words than it ever had been my lot to hear, the rope was thrown off, and the boat moved again. The tide had now turned, and was running strong down the river. It was eleven o'clock, and quite dark; but the captain was still on the look out for the ineffectual Blackrock light. It was nowhere to be seen. "Try the lead again." The lead was cast, but after a few throws, the string came up without it. The string had broke. "The lead's gone," cried the man. "Take

a bolt or key," said the skipper, "I think they'd do well," said a private soldier, "to take the skipper's head, there's lead enough in that," "The lubbers,"

said another, "they all have their trade to learn yet." An iron bolt was brought, and a piece of rope, but before the soundings could be taken, there was a heavy rubbing under foot, a heaving roll of the ship, as if it had run upon a bank of mud or sand, and then the captain pronounced that "We have stuck." "Stuck in the mud, you are!" said a voice. And so it was. We must lie there till five next morning, when the tide would turn! Adieu bed for this night; and for the friends of the numbers of people on board, anxiously waiting for them at home, night-long distress and lamentation! But no! For some there was hope yet. The ship's bell was set a-ringing, and in ten minutes the sound of oars was heard approaching through the dark. The boatmen of Blackrock had heard the signal, and put off for a job. And a rare night's work they must have had. The first two went off laden deeply. But the water was still, and not a breath of wind stirred. I went off with the third boat, and after about half an hour's rowing, was landed at Blackrock about twelve o'clock; from thence to Cork it was about four miles, and thither we trudged along the solitary road. Two Cork ladies and another gentleman formed the party; but their lively spirits made the road short, and the night was fine and starlit, though the fog still lay thick over the river below.

Leaving the party, when we reached the outskirts of the city, for my own particular quarter, I soon got puzzled by the quays, and lost my way, groping along the badly lighted streets. I now found the town had a double set of quays, along the two branches of the Lee. The streets were quiet and seemingly deserted, though here and there a loud howl of an angry woman rose up in the darkness of the night. Occasionally, also, a wretched creature would issue from under cover of a wall,-and, passing along a dark part of the quays, a tall woman in a cloak suddenly sprung up from behind a harbour-post, against which she had been leaning. Poor wretches! Perhaps homeless! But I reached, at last, the more frequented streets, now abandoned by all save an occasional watchman, and a few groups of women. These streets, at this late hour, seemed to be used as cesspools, they smelt villanously, the same odour and put to the same uses as the streets in the Old Town of Edinburgh were some fifty years back. My nose told me, in the most emphatic way, that the scavenging of Cork must be in the most imperfect state. But, doubtless, these things will be mended yet.

At last, I reached my quarters. My uncle was enveloped in dreams; but when the following morning, I told him of my adventures, he confessed that my trip to Passage had been worth my while; and that scene on board the Princess,-without compass, without lantern, without knowledge, without business-like promptitude and decision, but with such abundance of oratory,-he declared he should have liked to witness it, "It was," he thought, "so thoroughly characteristic." Whether this be so or not, let those who know better than I pretend to do, determine.

THE OLD MAN AND HIS GRANDCHILD.

FROM THE GERMAN.

THERE was once a very old man, whose eyes had become dim, his ears deaf, and whose knees trembled under him. When he sat at the dinner-table he could scarcely hold his spoon, so that sometimes he spilt his soup on the cloth. His son and his daughter-in-law were much displeased at this, and at last they made their old father sit in a corner behind the stove, and gave him his food in a little earthen

dish. He never got as much as he could eat, and he would often look towards the table with wet, longing eyes. One day his shaking hands let the little dish fall, and it was broken. The woman scolded, but he said nothing,-only sighed. Then they bought an iron dish for him.

Once as he was sitting thus in the corner, his little grandchild of four years old played on the floor near him with some pieces of wood. "What art thou making?" asked the father, smiling.

"I am making a little trough," answered the child, "for father and mother to eat from when I am grown big!"

The man and his wife looked at each other in silence, and then their tears flowed fast. They brought the old grandfather back to the table, they gave him as much food as he wished, and they never again spoke an angry word when his trembling hand spilt the soup on the cloth.

RE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS.

MY BIRTHDAY.

MOTHER, there's no soft hand comes now
To smooth the dark curls o'er my brow;

I hear no voice so low and mild

As that which breathed "My own loved child!'
No smile will greet, no lips will press,
No prayer will rise, no words will bless,
So fond, so dear, so true for me,
As those I ever met from thee.

Oh! that my soul could melt in tears,
And die beneath the pain it bears;
The grief that springs, the thoughts that goad,
Become a heavy maddening load ;
For all that heart and memory blends
But hotly scathes and sorely rends;
And feeling, with its biting fangs,
Tortures with sharp and bleeding pangs.
My Mother! thou didst prophesy,
With sighing tone and weeping eye,
That the cold world would never be
A kindred resting-place for me.
Oh, thou wert right! I cannot find
One sympathetic link to bind,
But where some dark alloy comes in
To mar with folly, wrong, or sin.

My Mother! thou didst know full well
My spirit was not fit to dwell
With crowds who dream not of the ray
That burns the very soul away.
That ray
is mine,-'tis held from GOD,
But scourges like a blazing rod,
And never glows with fiercer flame
Than when 'tis kindled at thy name.
My Mother! thou'rt remembered yet
With doting love and keen regret ;
My birthday finds me once again
In fervent sorrow, deep as vain.
"Thou'rt gone for ever: I must wait
The will of Heaven, the work of fate;
And faith can yield no hope for me
Brighter than that of meeting thee.

FLORAL SYMBOLS.

IN TWO PARTS.

PART I.

YE poetry of woods! romance of fields!
Nature's imagination bodied bright!
Earth's floral page, that high instruction yields;
For not, oh, not alone to charm the sight,

Gave God your blooming forms, your leaves of light;
Ye speak a language which we yet may learn-
A divination of mysterious might:

And glorious thought may angel eyes discern Flower writ in mead and vale, where'er man's footsteps turn.

CHARLES SWAIN.

SYMBOLISM has been a prominent feature in the history of the human race, and has manifested itself in an infinite diversity of forms. Men have ever sought for the expression and embodiment of the sentiments and passions of their hearts, and have found them in the appearances of nature. The green world of nature, with its multiplicity of beauties,whether of field or forest, of mountain, glen, or river,has thus become a great allegory of the human mind in all its phases and manifestations; hence the invention of symbolic language, or the adoption of types as expressive of the hopes and fears and Protean sentiments of the human heart. This symbolism had its first origin as a system among the imaginative and luxurious people of oriental climes. Under a soft, serene, and intensely blue sky, glowing with unclouded sunshine during the day, and glittering with unnumbered stars by night, it is not surprising that the imagination, once kindled by the contemplation of beauty, should trace, in the varied forms of loveliness which adorned the bosom of the earth, a language expressive of the phases of the human mind, and a sympathy for human sorrows in the enchantments of the earth and heaven. And thus, in these sunny and luxuriant climes, the highest aspirations of the human soul,-religion and poetry, the veneration for beauty and holiness, found language and expression in the symbolic vocabulary of nature. From these lands, blessed with exuberance and fertility, this language has found its way to our own cold and cloudy shores, having been brought hither by pilgrims, who have toiled across the wide deserts, and through the fruitful valleys of the East, to pay homage at the consecrated shrines of nations and temples which have now no other existence than as fragments in the history of the past. We may now linger over the beautiful features of these mystic languages, and dwell upon them till we become enraptured. If the divine passion of love stirs within us, we may read the history of the sentiment, as a part of the individual history of the universal soul of man, from the first spark which kindles a new emotion in the enthusiasm and fervour of youth, and which in due time becomes a great passion, heaving and pulsing within, till it expands and grows into universal philanthropy, and lights up all the world with its generous flames. Or if in melancholy mood, we can pity the despair which may be spoken by a present of myrtle, interwoven with cypress and poppies ; and whatever feelings may sway us, we shall find their prototypes among the flowers; for this is but another mode of translating the universal language of nature, and will be cherished and cultivated as long as poetry exists.

Of these floral symbols, some are of such a general character, and they would be adopted and appreciated so readily by any people, that it would be difficult to recognize them as individual facts. flower would ever be a type of all innocence and beauty. The lovely hues and symmetrical forms

The

which flowers display, would ever suggest an æsthetical or ideal beauty pertaining only to the soul. Their brief existence and decay would render them fit representatives of our own fleeting lives. Literature abounds with metaphors and symbols of this general character. Thus of Corinne, that warmhearted daughter of Italy, whose soul brimmed with passionate affection, as warm and pure as the sunlight of her native skies, Madame de Stael writes: "This lovely woman, whose features seemed designed to depict felicity,-this child of the sun, prey to hidden grief,- -was like a flower, still fresh and brilliant, but within whose leaves may be seen the first dark impress of that withering blight which soon shall lay it low. . . . The long black lashes veiled her languid eyes, and threw a shadow over the tintless cheek." Beneath was written this line from the "Pastor Fido;

Scarcely can we say this was a rose.

a

A similar passage occurs in a lament for Lady Jane Grey:

Thou didst die

Even as a flower beneath the summer ray,
In incensed beauty, and didst take thy way,
Even like its fragrance, up into the sky.
J. W. ORD.

In such a tone of subdued eloquence does the sister of Sir Philip Sydney mourn over the memory of her sainted and incomparable brother.

Break now your garlands, O! ye shepherd lasses,
Since the fair flower that them adorned is gone;
The flower that them adorned is gone to ashes;
Never again let lass put garland on :
Instead of garland, wear sad cypress now,
And bitter elder, broken from the bough.

The language of deep feeling is ever poetical, and in every age of the world's history flowers have aided in giving force to the utterance of the heart's passion, whether of love, hate, sorrow, or joy. Perhaps love and sorrow have created more poetry than any other sentiments which have ever had birth in the breast of humanity.

If bliss be a frail and perishing flower,
Born only to decay;

Oh! who, when it blooms but a single hour,-
Would fling its sweets away?

Among the many chaste and poetical allegories which occur scattered up and down the eastern literature, is the following:-"As this dark mould sends upwards, and out of its very heart, the rare Persian rose, so does hope grow out of evil, and the darker the evil the brighter the hope, as from a richer and fouler soil comes the more vigorous and larger flower." There is another of this class, which conveys in a most elegant form a symbolical embodiment of the refining influences of the pure and the beautiful. "A traveller, in passing through a country in Persia, chanced to take into his hand a piece of clay which lay by the way-side, and to his surprise, he found it to exhale the most delightful fragrance: "Thou art but a poor piece of clay,' said he,

an unsightly, unattractive, poor piece of clay: yet how fragrant art thou! How refreshing! I admire thee, I love thee; thou shalt be my companion, I will carry thee in my bosom. But whence hast thou this fragrance?' The clay replied, 'I have been dwelling with the rose !'" In another Persian legend, we are told that Sadi the poet, when a slave, presented to his tyrant master a rose, accompanied with this pathetic appeal :- "Do good to thy servant whilst thou hast the power, for the season of power is often as transient as the duration of this beautiful flower." This melted the heart of his lord, and the slave obtained his liberty.

The well-known "Language of Flowers," was first introduced into this country by Lady Mary Wortley Montague; but in the modern system nothing is preserved of the fresh poetry and brilliancy of thought which characterized the floral symbolism of ancient eastern nations. The rich imagery and startling truth of the eastern metaphors and symbols, have crumbled into ruins, like the temples dedicated to their gods. Sickly and weak as is the modern language of flowers, it is yet as prevalent in use as ever, and has been rendered tame by its universal adoption in the intercourse of life; instead of being preserved as a part of religious worship, and of the highest forms of poetry. Lady Montague tells us, that in Turkey, you may, through the assistance of these emblems, either quarrel, reproach, or send letters of passion, friendship, or civility, or even news, without ever inking your fingers; for there is no colour, no weed, no flower, no fruit, herb, nor feather, that has not a verse belonging to it. So, too, no Turkish lady would send a congratulatory message, or a ceremonious invitation, without sending with it some emblematical flowers carefully wrapped in an embroidered handkerchief, made fragrant by the odours of flowers, which conveyed also an emblematical meaning. But these are merely fragments of the ancient customs of the eastern nations, where all was symbol, emblem, and allegory; and where the imagination usurped the power and controlled even the affairs of the state.

These emblematic verses are in the form of enigmas, and are founded on a sort of crambo or bout rimé. M. Hamma has collected about a hundred specimens, but they are exceedingly untranslateable. We quote three of the most manageable which we can hit upon,

Almonde.-Wer bana bir Ominde.
Pear.-Let me not despair.

Rose. You smile, but still my anguish grows;
Rose. For thee my heart with love still glows.
Tea. You are both sun and moon to me,
Tea.-Your's is the light by which I see.

But these are arbitrary and fancied similarities founded on the mere rhyming and jingling of words, and although occasionally conveying an idea, are upon the whole, mere frivolities to fritter away the hours which might be better spent in the growth of ideas, in tracing out the real symbolical expressions of nature, in establishing these as keys to the æsthetics of all beauty, and as the frame-work of the noblest poetry. The real language of flowers is as old as Adam, and the antiquity of floral emblems dates from the first throbbings of love in the human heart. Indeed, by love it is supposed to have been invented, as a parable speaking to the eye, and thence teaching the heart.* The bower of myrtles and roses was the first temple dedicated to love and beauty; and to this happy spot the enamoured youth invited the chosen one of his heart by means of floral emblems.

To catch a glimpse of floral symbolism, when yet in its pristine vigour and poetical sublimity, we must go back into the dim vista of departed years, and search amid the mighty caves and temples where the early nations of India, Egypt, and Chaldea, knelt fervently in adoration; and where superstition clothed all things with a wild and terrible grandeur, and rendered nature emblematic of the highest spiritual truths.

Amid these relics of former magnificence, and within the walls of these crumbling temples, are

H. G. Adams.

yet to be seen the sculptured symbols which embodied the ideas of their daily faith. Dread and mystical as many of these are, even when viewed in the calm light of reason, there is yet a bewitching poetry, and a sublimity of thought associated with them, as startling and wonderful, as they are beau tiful and true. The history of the universe has been written in living characters upon the obdurate granite in which those mystic caves are hewn. The dawn of creation is represented by a leaf divided into light and darkness; when

The heavens and the earth
Rose out of chaos.

And the story of the ages has in like manner been written in symbols of leaves and flowers.

Of the flowers consecrated to religious deities by the symbol-worshippers of India and Egypt,_none occupy a more prominent position than the Lotos. Its sacred leaf was the

Emblem and cradle of creative Night.

It was anciently revered in Egypt, as it is at this day at Hindostan, Thibet, and Nepaul, where they believe it was in the consecrated bosom of this plant that Brahma was born, and on which Osiris delights to float. Naturalists have differed in opinion whether the celebrated Lotos was a hero, a flower, or a tree. Some authors have affirmed that it was a rough thorny shrub, the seeds of which were used to make bread; but the testimony of Herodotus, that the lotos is a species of water-lily, which grows in abundance in the Nile during the inundations, is so very conclusive, that no other solution of the question can be accepted. Herodotus bears testimony to the high antiquity of the Egyptian veneration for the lotos, and M. Savary assures us that at the present day, the degenerate children of the Nile are animated by the same feelings of worship and veneration. It was called the "Lily of the Nile," from its growing in abundance on the banks, and in the marshes which form the delta of that river. It is a stately and majestic plant, of the Nymphæ tribe, and rises about two feet above the water, having a calyx like a large tulip, and diffusing an odour like that of the lily. The wonderful physical peculiarities in the growth of this plant, rendered it an appropriate symbol in a worship of the most degrading and immoral character.

The plant grows in the water, and the blossoms are produced amongst its broad ovate leaves. In the centre of the flower is formed the seed-vessel, which is produced in the form of a bell or inverted cone, and punctuated on the top with little cavities or cells, in which the seeds grow. The seeds, when ripe, are prevented from escaping, in consequence of the orifices of the cells being too small, and so they germinate in the places where they ripen, and shoot forth into new plants, until they acquire such a degree of magnitude, as to burst the matrice open and release themselves; after which, like other aquatic plants, they take root where the current chances to deposit them. This apparently self-productive plant became the symbol of the reproductive power of all nature, and was worshipped as a symbol of the All-Creative-Power, the spirit which "moved upon the face of the waters," and which gave life and organization to matter. We find the same symbol occurring in every part of the Northern hemisphere where symbolic religion has prevailed. The sacred images of the Tartars, Japanese, and Indians are almost all represented as resting upon the lotos leaves. The Chinese divinity, Puzza, is seated on a lotos, and the Japanese God is represented sitting on a water-lily. The flatterers of Adrian, emperor o