as regards the amount of manufactured produce turned out of hand, are quite prodigious.

Every industrial process, nowadays, is performed by drilled bands of artizans. Not a pin is made without long training and discipline, and without the co-operation of many hands. Some twenty-five men go to form a pin, each passing it through a process for which he has been specially drilled and disciplined. In this way, it takes more than one man to make a pin's head! So, sub-divided into battalions, and regiments, and companies, and ranks, are the privates of our modern industrial armies. And it is the same in all departments of production.

There is a risk here. It is possible,-nay, exceedingly probable, that the operative, by being confined exclusively to one small mechanical process, in which, however, he is perfect, may become a kind of machine. His mental powers are not called into action by the mechanical process he is engaged in,his invention is never taxed, he is a very small part of a large system, of the beginning and end of which he may be alike ignorant. Like the soldier, he acts, without reflecting to what end he acts. Thus the Drill has its evils, as well as its advantages; and these evils can only be corrected by making men as far as possible self-dependent, by means of a course of sound mental discipline and culture.

Do not, however, let us underestimate the advantages of the industrial drill. Why is Ireland so poor? Because her people have never been drilled to act in concert, to work in concert, to produce in concert. Why is England so rich and so powerful? Because her people have carried discipline into every home, into every workshop, into every farmstead. We are a disciplined, a drilled people, and, therefore, a successful people.

We have said that the Drill is found in the farmsteads of England. But there is room for improvement here. Agricultural workers work too little in concert; and hence their want of success, when compared with the artizan and industrial population of the towns and cities. Hear how the Spectator describes this backward specimen of the great army of industry, in the year 1851 :—

"We have seen at the Exhibition specimens of the British labourer in full canonicals; a familiar object, but seen under a new aspect. Of all the agricultural implements, this one struck us as the least improved. In the international display of costume this staple of the British nation, its country's pride,' did not stand forth in very picturesque aspect. If low diet has left any substance in the man, his dress is the best disguise of it. It is, you see, not unlike a woman's bed-dress, with differences not in its favour. The stitching, especially, which he preserves with so much traditional affection, much detracts from the dignity naturally inherent in the simple drapery of a night-gown. On the breast and between the shoulders no small portion of the stuff is drawn into gathers,' firmly stitched and restitched, and forming in either case a sort of plate a few inches square. The effect is peculiar. Behind, few things could so well aid the slouching shoulders, in destroying every appearance of breadth. In front, the little stomacher, flat amid the unshapely fullness around it, gives to the chest the appearance of being stove in. On his feet this agricultural implement wears boots which constrict the ankle and destroy the play of the foot; humanly speaking, the man cannot walk, he can only hobble. But by long practice and a perfect resignation, he does contrive to get along in a measured hobble, which suggests a certain dignity of patience. He cannot walk, he cannot talk; his mind hobbles as slowly as his legs. The pains are bestowed in stitching his smock: his legs are defended from the

possibility of being active; his mind,-that has been left merely fallow. No system of rotation crops has been extended to that. The man is the living exemplar of agriculture in its boasted prime! Talk of backwardness or slightness, no implement in the whole Exposition is so ill-contrived as this, so rude, at once so slight and so heavy, so ill-adapted for working in any kind of soil. There can be no question that farmers would derive material benefit from an improvement of this machine. Besides, if we may trust a country tradition to that effect, this that we have been considering as a machine is by nature allied to the human species, and ought to have a soul, which might perhaps be worthy cultivating on its own account. But our cautious readers will warn us that here we are trenching on the dangerous ground of theology. We say no more. We make no positive assertions-no peremptory suggestions; we will not presume the question of soul; we will not insist that anybody ought to interfere. have made a motion without being aware of it, we hasten to withdraw it, as they do in Parliament."

If we

We want some better drilling, then; some more efficient schooling, and discipline, and training for our agricultural labourers, than they have yet obtained. We want armies of organized labourers set to work upon our fields. Why, for instance, should not the poorer classes, who are driven to "the parish" for subsistence, be employed, under proper captains, in reclaiming the wastes and swamps of this and the neighbour island?

In Holland, the state has formed home colonies of the poor, located them on waste land, drilled them to work, and trained them up to be industrious and self-supporting citizens. They have not only increased the quantity of productive land in their country, and thus added to the supply of food for their population, but increased also the number of productive and trained labourers, on which the wealth and wellbeing of a state mainly depend. It is easy to see, also, how, by drilling the helpless classes to industrial habits, you increase their powers of self-dependence, and enable them either to provide for themselves without being a burden upon others at home, or put them in the way of carving out their own career as emigrants in new lands beyond the sea.

Already Industrial Schools have been established for the drilling of poor children to industrial labour, in different parts of the country,-of which that of Norwood is the most complete. The Poor Law authorities in several parishes and unions have also made experiments in drilling adults in like manner to agricultural industry, the results of which, especially at Farnley Tyas and Sheffield, have been eminently successful. We have heard of other parishes preparing to follow their example; and we look for valuable results from such experiments, before many years are over.

On efficient drilling and discipline, men's success as individuals, and as societies, entirely depends. The most self-dependent man is under discipline,--and the more perfect the discipline, the more complete his condition. A man must drill his desires, and keep them under subjection, they must obey the word of command, otherwise he is the sport of passion and impulse. The religious man's life is full of discipline and self-restraint. The man of business is entirely subject to system and rule. The happiest home is that where the discipline is the most perfect, and yet where it is the least felt. We at length become subject to it as to a law of Nature, and while it binds us firmly, we yet feel it not. The force of habit is but the force of Drill. It becomes unconscious. Look at the violin or the piano-forte player. See what discipline has done for those wondrous ten

fingers of his! He executes brilliant passages with most extraordinary rapidity, and yet is scarce conscious of the feat, so far as his muscular organs are concerned.

The first drilling-place of every human being, and the best, is the Home; the next is the School; the third is the Workshop. Here we have the moral, the intellectual, and the industrial discipline of the human being provided for. When the Home of the poor is " no home," as Charles Lamb says it is, then the more necessary is the School, though it never can supply the education which the home ought to provide. But it may do much; look into the Infant schools, the Ragged schools, and the Industrial schools, and you will find that they combine the home with the school, as much as that is possible. But if there be neither the discipline of the home, nor the discipline of the school, what have you then?-an untrained, untaught, rude, and savage generation, whom the Workshop may drill into wealth-producing machines, but whose existence, as regards its higher ends, can only prove a miserable failure.

First, then, let us help the people to good Homes, next to good Schools, and lastly, to good Industrial Discipline. Unfortunately, it is too much our practice to put the last first, and think little or not at all of the others, which are infinitely more important.

WHO KNEW BEST?

A TALE.

On the outskirts of the little town of Bernau, with a garden between it and the road, stands the house of Master Baptist Heinzelmann, a respectable citizen and cabinet-maker, or tischlermeister, as the Germans call it, so surrounded and overshadowed by tall trees and shrubs, that it reminds you of true contentment, which is always quiet and retiring where it reigns in the heart. Nimble vine-branches climb up the walls and over the roof, so thick and shady, that birds build their nests among them, and rest every night under the sheltering leaves. Besides this there is no other garnishment or decoration to be seen about the dwelling, although Master Heinzelmann is in very comfortable circumstances. As it had come down from his father and grandfather, so stood the house at the time of our tale; one storey, compact and solid. From the garden you entered the spacious outer room, the ordinary play-place of the children, and from that into the living-room, and from that into the large workshop, where Master Heinzelmann kept his ten or a dozen journeymen at work from one year's end to another, without reckoning the apprentices. His business flourished greatly, for the townsfolk preferred to go to him whenever they had orders to give or purchases to make. His workmanship was tasteful and durable, and what was more than all, he overcharged no one, which pleased people, and on that account they did not mind the walk to his house, although it was, as before said, a little off the road, and out of the way.

What the house wanted in grandeur and ornament, was made up by the contentment and the gentle but full-hearted happiness which had taken up their abode within it. Free from cares of whatever sort, Master Heinzelmann passed his days in the circle of his family. Providence had bestowed on him a good-looking, intelligent wife, and three healthy and lively children, on whom his whole affections hung, and when they assembled each evening, after the labours of the day, none looked comelier and happier than they. At seven o'clock, Master Heinzelmann left off work, and dismissed his men ; the noise of

saws, hammers, and planes ceased, and a peaceful stillness reigned in the house; and he, having put on his comfortable indoors jacket, filled a pipe, and looked about for his family. In summer, he found them nearly always in the garden, or in the outer room, near the open door, from whence there was a pleasant view over the sweet-scented flower-beds. His wife welcomed his coming with a friendly nod and a cheerful smile, and the children ran to meet him, clung to his hands, and strove to climb up for a kiss. Such was Baptist Heinzelmann's daily pleasure, abounding in all that makes life happy. After lifting up and embracing his children, he would sit and listen to their lively prattle, or watch their simple sports, in which he himself often took a part, while their mother made ready the evening meal. When this was over, they went and sat in the pretty summerhouse, and talked about the little occurrences of the day. There was always something to relate, concerning the children, or the housekeeping, or the garden, or of other matters, nor was there any lack of simple gossip, which, however insignificant it might seem, yet had a meaning and an interest for a family bound together by the strongest ties of love. Father, mother, children, enjoyed the quiet gladness of a household into which the noise of the great world without seldom penetrated. And in what else does happiness consist, than in gladness and contentment? He who possesses them needs to ask for nothing further. Had Master Heinzelmann always remembered that, he would have saved himself from much turmoil and vexation.

One fine summer evening the Tischlermeister left his workshop as usual, put on his lounging jacket, lit his pipe, and turned his steps towards the front roon, from whence came the noise of merry laughter and shouts of fun. Softly he approached behind the open door which concealed him from his wife and children, leant himself at his ease on the lower half, and looked smilingly down on the frolics of his little ones. The mother, with the youngest girl on her lap, sat on the doorstep, while Fritz and Hans crawled about the floor. They were playing a hundred tricks with the kitten, which had come into the world only a few weeks before. Fritz had got a piece of coloured cloth for a plaything, and flung it across the room, but with a thread cunningly fastened to it, so that he might pull it back again. The kitten, according to the manner of young cats, leaped and seized the lure with comical antics, but just as she fancied it was fast between her paws, came a sudden pull, and away flew the prize, while she looked after it with ludicrous astonishment. Then rose bursts of merriment and shouts of delight, and the mother, glad in her children's pleasure, laughed with them, and took care that the old cat should not disturb their sport by any sudden outbreak of ill-temper.

Master Heinzelmann looked on for a little while, and amused himself, without being seen, with his children's diversions. All at once, however, he made a grave face, and said, "Enough, little ones ; let the kitten go, and come to supper. Come, dear wife, it is all ready."

As soon as the children heard their father's voice, they thought no more about the kitten, but sprang up and ran towards him with merry faces. But he did not hug and kiss them as he was accustomed to do; he gave them only a short salute, and the same to his wife, who came towards him with her hand held out, and the youngest child on her arm.

"Baptist," she said, "dear husband, we have had rare fun this afternoon; you should see how cleverly Fritz can spring about with the kitten! But what is the matter? You look angry. Has anything happened to vex you?"

"Not exactly vexatious," replied Heinzelmann, "and yet, as I saw you sitting there so pleasantly, I was a little fretted to think that I had promised Master Vollbracht to go into town this evening. I would much rather stay at home with you."

"Go to town, Baptist, to-day?" asked Frau Margaret in astonishment. "And what have you to do there?"

"Oh, it is about some town affairs," answered Baptist; "I don't myself know rightly what they are; when Master Vollbracht told me, I did not altogether understand, but, at all events, I promised to go for a short hour, so as to be quit of him. You know well, Margaret, that to speak truly, the locksmith is no special friend of mine-he is too fond of the publichouse. Still, a promise is a promise, and I must keep my words; so let us have supper quickly, for the sooner there, the sooner shall I be back again."

Frau Margaret said nothing, although it could be seen in her face, that her husband's going out in the evening was not at all agreeable to her. She went and got the supper ready, Master Heinzelmann ate a few mouthfuls hastily, and then rose up and put on his coat.

"Good-by, Margaret," he said, "good-night, children! I expect to be at home again soon, wife."

"Go, then," she answered with a cheerful look, "and I will wait for you; but do not stay too long.' Baptist promised, and went. Frau Margaret felt uneasy as she looked after him. It was the first evening since their marriage that she had been left alone in the house. When she heard the garden gate shut behind her husband, she became fearful, and pressed her hand over her eyes, out of which a few tears had forced their way. Presently, however, she said to herself "Timid heart! what matters it if you are left alone for once? It will not happen often, for he loves me; yes, and the children too. How can I be so silly!'

So she thought, and then put on a cheerful face, and played and talked to the children, as though nothing had happened. But that pure gladness, which leaps from the care-free heart as a clear spring, was wanting. She sent the youngsters to bed earlier than usual, and placed herself at the window, and looked silently forth into the garden, which the moon, with its pale light, seemed to have covered with a veil of silver. Thus she waited for her husband's return. At ten o'clock she hoped he would come: by-and-by eleven struck, he was still absent: another anxious half-hour passed-at last he came. She heard his footstep still far off, heard the garden-gate creak, and flew to meet him.

"So late! you bad man," she cried merrily, but with a slight reproach in the tone of her voice.

"You

"I could not do otherwise, dear wife," replied Baptist, who was visibly a little excited. should only have been there! They paid me great honour, and when I was coming away at ten o'clock, they all cried out for me to stay, that my opinion had great weight with them, and so, really I could not leave. But you should have gone to bed, Margaret."

"No; I was not at all tired," answered the wife. "But, now, make haste in; you are heated, and the cool night air may do you harm.'

Lovingly she drew him into the house, and listened patiently to all that he had to tell about the matters that had been talked over in the town, and how he had settled and determined nearly every question, because of his consequence and station.

"There's only one thing vexes me," he said lastly, "I was obliged to promise to go again. Two evenings in the week are fixed on for the meetings, and as everybody was in favour, I could not well say no.

However, it is but two evenings; the whole history wont last longer."

If Frau Margaret was alarmed at the beginning of the evening, she was now doubly fearful. Her quiet in-door happiness seemed to be all at once threatened by some great danger. She trembled to think that her husband could find pleasure away from homeaway from his children, and she had the sense to foresee the consequences. But she remained silent, for she was too bewildered to find words to express her apprehensions, and then, she knew that when her husband had once made a promise, nothing would lead him to break it. This made her sorrow the greater, and for the first time since her marriage, her pillow was wet with tears. She however concealed her sadness from her husband; she hoped that the good old habits would rule again, and make him dislike passing his evenings away from home.

Although Frau Margaret was prudent and sensible, she deceived herself in this matter. Truly enough, Baptist at first went out for the evening unwillingly, and not without a struggle, but gradually this resistance disappeared, and at last he longed for the hour which led him among his companions. He was a man of clear judgment, knew how to deliver his words neatly, and his comfortable circumstances gave him a certain importance, so that, quite naturally, in course of time he gave the tone to the company, and his sayings were received as oracles. That flattered his vanity, which therein got full satisfaction, and before long, he wondered in secret how he could have lived so many years in the background, and had so little to do with the world. The political and religious questions of the day, about which he had never before troubled himself, began to excite his eager attention. He read newspapers, journals, pamphlets, and became a great politician-at least in the eyes of himself and his companions. magic circle of his calm and peaceful happiness was broken. Baptist himself had done it, but without a foreboding of what he had destroyed. He fancied himself happier than ever, and could not see that all his household joys were blighted.

The

But Margaret saw and felt it. She mourned in secret; the evenings when she sat at home alone were sad and sorrowful for her, and at last, as Baptist left off observing any rule in his outgoing, but longed more and more to be away from home, she plucked up a heart, and begged of him to leave her no more. "But why not?" rejoined Heinzelmann; we do nothing wrong. We debate about matters for the good of the town and of the State. There must be great changes, Margaret, before things can be better with us. But, presto, it will come."

"Oh, Baptist, what concern have you with the town and the State?" answered Frau Margaret. "Look at your family, that is your town and State. When you are with it, and fulfil your duty rightfully, then are you one of the best of citizens. Consider well: the skin is nearer than the fleece."

"Yes, wife, but what do you mean by that?" said Baptist, a little angrily. "Perhaps I am not fulfilling my duty?"

"No longer the same as formerly, dear husband. Don't take it ill, Baptist, but my heart and conscience compel me--I must tell you. You neglect your business a little. Yesterday, you know, the town-clerk wanted his coffer; but you-you went out at five, and the coffer was not finished."

"Eh, what!" cried Baptist snappishly. "I had business in town-we were to lay a memorial before the magistrates about the pavement, and that could not be done without me; and the town-clerk can have his coffer to-day."

"No, dear husband," replied the wife, "he sent

a little while ago to say that he had got one; and now, you see, the coffer must be kept on hand unsold." "The town-clerk is an old fool," continued Baptist, fretfully. "These aristocrats!—they always want to ride on the necks of us honest traders. But patience! Our turn will come some day."

"But, dearest husband," said Margaret, soothingly, "the town-clerk has always been very agreeable and friendly with you, and it is certainly not his fault, that the coffer was not ready at the right time. Many go out for wool and come home shorn. Had you thought more of the skin than of the fleece, you would have saved yourself all this trouble. You understand your business-that's the skin; the street paving that's the fleece."

"Yes, I understand well enough what you mean,' rejoined the Tischlermeister, "but I understand it quite otherwise! You, however, do not understand me: men were meant for general affairs, for great matters. Their mind stretches far beyond the narrow circle of housewifery. Only let me alone, and don't mix yourself up in things which don't concern you, and which you don't understand."

But

Frau Margaret saw plainly that her remonstrance made no impression, and she remained silent. her sad and downcast looks spoke more loudly to the heart of her husband than her words. Heinzelmann found that her view was not far wrong, after all, and made an attempt to withdraw from his companions, and again live a domestic life. But his attempt failed. Vanity, and the desire to appear somebody, led him back again to his crooked ways, and soon they became

worse.

The insurrection at Paris broke out-the Republic was proclaimed-and the news of these events fell on the minds of the German people like a spark in a barrel of gunpowder. Blow followed blow, feelings grew hot, and almost every town had its own revolution. That was something for Master Baptist Heinzelmann. He was called to the head of the democratic party, and made the leader of a revolutionary club, and spouted speeches full of fire and flame; the mob cried hurrah! held up their hands for him he became drunk with triumph-was chosen town-councillor-a great man, as he thought, and leader of the people. He was near being elected Deputy to the Diet, and sent as representative to the Parliament at Berlin. Master Baptist swam in pleasures-Frau Margaret swam in tears. Her husband triumphed-she sat at home and wept. husband walked proudly about, and looked radiant with joy-she was full of mournfulness, and the feeling of happiness seemed to have disappeared from her heart for ever.

Her

Master Heinzelmann appeared to be totally changed. He troubled himself no longer about his business, but left everything to his workmen. Every morning early, he left home to fulfil his new vocation as leader of the people, and to labour for their happiness. He saw not that his own happiness was going to ruin in the mean time. He used to return home late, worn-out, weary, and hoarse with much speechifying and shouting, and ill-tempered into the bargain. Scarcely had he exchanged a few sulky words with his poor wife, than he betook himself to bed. He rarely saw his children: the pleasant evenings in the front-room had all vanished as a dream, and could not be recalled. Instead of merry laughter, and joyful cries, and glad shoutings, there was nothing to be heard but the low, sad sobs of Frau Margaret. Peace and contentment seemed to have fled from the house, as well as from the hearts of all its inmates. Yes-all! for to confess the truth, Master Baptist Heinzelmann found, little by little, that although his new life in the busy current of politics brought plenty of excitement, it

by no means brought contentment; and instead of making him happy, it laid upon him rather a burden of cares, vexations, hardships, and losses of many kinds. At first it went well enough-but how went it afterwards? His party, which in truth was not a small one, listened to him right willingly when he held forth and displayed his political knowledge, but they also had no objection to a cool drink now and then between the fiery speeches. So Master Baptist, from time to time, in order to keep up his popularity, was obliged to let a cask of ale go the rounds, and that was not quite so pleasant to him as to be listened to with attention, and to hear the hurrahs when he said something a little more violent than usual. Besides, there were other leaders of the people as well as he, who stood in high favour with the mob, but who had very little money, while Master Heinzelmann was well-to-do, and could afford to offer a sacrifice on the altar of his country, and he offered it. Only, somehow or other, the sacrifice was wanted so often, and that was not much to the liking of the tischlermeister. In the end-and that worried him the most -his journeymen became refractory all of a sudden. They wished also to have property of their own, and demanded higher wages. Baptist Heinzelmann liked revolutions very well, but not against himself, and so he told all his hands to go to Jericho, and for a time his business went to sleep. From this it happened that orders did not come in quite so numerously as before, which puzzled Baptist not a little. He began to turn it over in his mind, and all at once he bethought himself of what his good-hearted wife had said to him one day-" Remember! the skin is nearer than the fleece." Never had the truth of this proverb come before him so strikingly and forcibly, as now that his delusions were losing their strength. singular and irresistible longing to return once more to his former tranquil and retired, and yet happy life overcame him. What was the selfish love of the mob, against the pure and true love of wife and children?-a painted bubble in comparison with a bright and costly jewel. Baptist Heinzelmann plucked up a heart; towards evening he left the council-house and went home. No one was in the garden; it lay there in deep stillness. He stole down a by-path to his workshop, where now but three hands were employed out of the dozen that formerly worked therein, and threw off his Sunday clothes, put on his dear old comfortable jacket, his cap on his head, reached down the clay pipe which had had such a long rest, lit it, and then went softly through the inner to the outer room. Wife and children sat, as often before, on the threshhold, not lively as they used to be, but particularly quiet and downcast-even merry Fritz had scarcely a word to say for himself. The sun was dropping down to his setting, and cast golden streams of light through the thick foliage of the vine which enwreathed the door and window, down upon the clean boards of the floor. Sweet odours were borne in on the air from the garden, the birds chirped and twittered their last evening notes, and peace and tranquillity reigned around, except in the hearts which once knew nothing else than joy and con

tentment.

Α

Heinzelmann leant over the door, and for a time looked at his family in silence. The past came before his mind as pleasant pictures. "What a fool was I !" he said inwardly to himself; "what more blessed happiness can there be, than the happiness in the circle of one's own family! What a fool was I, not to see this long ago: that I could be so long blinded by stupid vanity and foolish pride! But there is yet time, and I will not let it escape."

"Margaret," he said aloud, and with friendly voice. "Baptist-is that you? and so early!" she cried,

and sprang up; "and what do I see?-in the old cap and jacket! Are you not going out again?"

"Not to-day, nor to morrow, nor afterwards," answered he, smiling. "With the old dress, I have found again my old heart. The skin is nearer than the fleece, my Margaret, my good, dear, wife!"

"Oh, goodness!" she exclaimed, "what do you say? what do I hear? am I not in a dream?"

"If you are dreaming that the old contentment has come back again," replied Baptist, "then is your dream a true one. I have grown wise at last, Margaret."

"Thank God," stammered the Frau, "and instead of handling the pen, you will now work with the plane-Will you?"

"Yes, Margaret, stick to that which I know, and leave it to others to bungle at politics. In short, I have given up my post-I am no longer town-councillor. I am now only what I was before-Tischlermeister Baptist Heinzelmann! Am I welcome to you as such?"

With a shriek of delight, Frau Margaret fell into her husband's open arms. Long and close was their embrace, and the sense of newly-quickened joy brought sweet tears from the wife's heart. The children understood not what was going on; but they saw that their father was glad and contented, and they were glad and contented too. Until late at night, they sat together in the garden, rejoicing in their new-found happiness.

Baptist became truly the tischlermeister of former days, and suffered himself to be no more drawn into temptation. A burnt child shuns the fire; and he knew now the difference between family joys and worldly joys. His late friends and companions came entreating him to take part once more in their proceedings, but Baptist put them off with a laugh, and answered, "Not so, dear friends-the skin is nearer than the fleece! Indoors there, at the work-bench, is my post. Other people understand politics and government better than I-I leave the task to them."

The friends and companions tried again two or three times-Heinzelmann, however, remained firm; they gave up and came no more. But the old customers returned, and the old journeymen also, who had thought better of their strike-and above all, the old joy of tranquil, domestic life.

Baptist would not change with any one. And Frau Margaret?-only go by the house some day towards evening, when she is playing with the children, or sitting with them and her husband in the garden; then, when you hear her clear, silvery laugh, then, I can believe, you will no more ask if she is happy. Such a laugh can come only from a truly happy heart.

OUR AUTUMN TRIP THROUGH MUNSTER. THE CITY OF CORK.-THE BAY.-BLACKROCK.-PASSAGE. THE "PRINCESS."-LOST IN A FOG.-LAND AT BLACKROCK.-CORK AT MIDNIGHT.

THE situation of Cork is remarkably fine; and the neighbourhood, for picturesque beauty, is almost unrivalled. The principal part of the city lies in the bottom of the valley of the Lee, which flows through it, affording a large extent of quay for shipping purposes; and from the river banks, streets of houses straggle in all directions up the steeps which surround the place. The streets in the centre of the city, evidently the newest part of it,-are spacious and well-built. Indeed, Irish towns are generally superior to English in this respect, that in their better quarters, they give far more space, and have thus a grander and more stately appearance. This is pre-eminently the case with the principal streets

of Dublin, Cork, and Limerick. But pass from them into the older parts of these towns, and you will find squalor, filth, and wretchedness, infinitely worse than anything of the kind that is to be met with in any other country. And Cork forms no exception, although it is a place of some trade, and the population are, on the whole, better employed than in most other Irish towns. But even trade, the people told us, like everything else, was here on the decline; nearly all manufactures had died out, and the only trade carried on was in the export of butter, corn, and emigrants!! Everywhere emigrants! The people fleeing their country by hundreds and by thousands!

Few of the merchant classes reside in the city: they nearly all live out of town,-along the banks of their beautiful bay; and for miles on either side,- -as you pass down to Cove by the steamer, you see their snug houses perched along the heights, indicating comfort, success, and wealth, so far as they are concerned. Of course, the great attraction of Cork is its bay, and we took an opportunity of sailing down to Passage the first evening of our stay there. Steamers to Cove, or Queenstown, as it is now called, are constantly plying from Merchant's Quay, near St. Patrick's Bridge, at a very low fare; and the number of passengers is often inconveniently large, showing a disposition as well an ability to excursionize on the part of a considerable portion of the population of Cork.

The sun was setting as we sailed down the river, and the succession of views which presented themselves at every winding of the stream, here and there enlivened by shipping craft, were of the most charming description. It was lamentable, however, to see the deserted state of the few ship-building yards along the noble river. One would expect some indications of business in that department, admirably situated as Cork is for purposes of trade. But no. The dry docks, and yards, and slips, are there ; but no ships building, no repairs even going forward; only a rotten boat here and there, and the worn-out boiler of an old marine-engine,-only one little sloop did we see in course of erection along those spacious quays.

"What house is that?" I asked of a fellowpassenger, pointing to a fine mansion on the banks, near where the river expands into the bay. "That is Mr. Fagan's house,-the late member for Cork. He is a great butter-merchant." Another fine mansion which he pointed out, was the house of a provision-merchant. These seem to be the staple trades, and they produce most of the rich men of Cork and the neighbourhood. These houses of theirs, nestling amidst trees, with their verandahs and greenhouses, trimly-kept grounds and snug little gardens, give one a favourable idea of the life of the middle and upper classes of Cork, indicating, as they do, a love of snug homes and picturesque scenery.

The river has now expanded into an arm of the sea, though it has the appearance of a lake, being shut in on all sides by winding banks and studded islands, which open out as you advance, and disclose new and varied views of the most delicious and ravishing beauty. This continues for about six miles, until the bay expands, and the green shelving banks seem to become less bold, and retire away in the distance. The most stately mansion along the bay, is that of Smith Barry, one of the largest landed proprietors of the neighbourhood,-embarrassed, like most others, and with large portions of his estate lying idle, the tenants having emigrated by wholesale, and no others having yet been found to occupy their place. This fine property, we were told, would shortly be in the market.

Blackrock Castle is a picturesque object in descending the river, standing upon a jutting promontory,