Mickey never spoke of this until the trick was played off, after which, he published it to the whole parish; and Paddy of course was made a standing jest for being so silly as to think that night or day had any difference to a man who could not see. Thus passed the life of Mickey M’Rorey, and thus pass the lives of most of his class, serenely and happily. As the sailor to his ship, the sportsman to his gun, so is the fiddler attached to his fiddle. His hopes and pleasures, though limited, are full. His heart is necessarily light, for he comes in contact with the best and brightest side of life and nature; and the consequence is, that their mild and mellow lights are reflected on and from himself. I am ignorant whether poor Mickey is dead or not; but I dare say he forgets the boy to whose young spirit he communicated so much delight, and who often danced with a buoyant and careless heart to the pleasant notes of his fiddle. Mickey M’Rorey, farewell! Whether living or dead, peace be with you! There is another character in Ireland essentially different from the mere fiddler--I mean the country dancing-master. In a future number of the Journal I will give a sketch of one who was eminent in his line. Many will remember him when I name BUCKRAM-BACK. THE PASSING BELL. BY J. U. U. With its measured pause, and its long-drawn wail, The minster bell swings on the gale, And saddens the vale with its solemn toll, That passeth away like a passing soul-- Pulse after pulse still diminishing on, Till another rings forth for the dead and gone. The minute-sound of that mourning bell Is the lord’s of the valley--the rich man’s knell: While it swells o’er his lawns and his woodlands bright, He breathes not, hears not, nor sees the light: On the couch of his ease he lies stiff and wan-- In the midst of his pomp he is dead and gone. The pride hath passed from his haughty brow-- Where are his plans and high projects now? Another lord in his state is crowned, To level his castles with the ground; Respect and terror pass reckless on-- His frowns and favours are dead and gone. Had he wisdom, and wealth, and fame, Mortal tongue shall forget his name: Other hands shall disperse his store-- Earthly dream shall he dream no more: His chair is vacant--his way lies yon, To the formless cells of the dead and gone. Passing bell, that dost sadly fling Thy wailing wave on the air of spring. There is no voice in thy long, wild moan, To tell where the parted soul is flown, To what far mansion it travels on-- While thou tollest thus for the dead and gone. Yet, bell of death, on the living air Thy tones come bound from the house of prayer-- They speak of the Valley of Shadow, trod On a path once walked by the Son of God, Whose word of promise inviteth on, Through the gate unclosed for the dead and gone.