Proud harp, of wild string, Where thy sweetness did ring O’er the silence of other lands, By the magic of minstrel hands, Too oft did its wail Load with sorrow the gale O’er the land that was made to be free; But, Isle of the West, Raise thy emerald crest, Songs of triumph shall yet ring for thee. * * * * * POVERTY.--Poverty has in large cities very different appearances. It is often concealed in splendour, and often in extravagance. It is the care of a very great part of mankind to conceal their indigence from the rest. They support themselves by temporary expedients, and every day is lost in contriving for to-morrow. * * * * * When you intend to marry, look first at the heart, next at the mind, then at the person. * * * * * Pride is a vice, which pride itself inclines every man to find in others and to overlook in himself.--_Johnson._ HUMBUG. If the reader’s attention is now called to it for the first time, he will be rather surprised, we dare say, to find how much humbug is incorporated with our social system. It will rather surprise him to find, as a little reflection will certainly enable him to do, that humbug forms, in fact, the cement by which society is held together; that it pervades every department of it, fills up all its crevices and crannies, and, in truth, permeates its very substance. We, in short, all humbug one another; that’s beyond all manner of doubt. Don’t we every day write cards and letters beginning with “My dear, or My _very_ dear sir,” and ending with, “Yours sincerely, truly, &c. &c.,” knowing, in our conscience, that in ninety-nine instances out of the hundred--always excepting cases where a man’s _interest_ is concerned--we do not care one straw for these very dear sirs--not one farthing although they were six feet below the ground to-morrow. Suppose an intimation card of the death of one of these very dear sirs, or of some “good friend” or intimate acquaintance, waits us on our arrival home to dinner. “Guess who’s dead?” says some member of our family, running towards us with joyful anticipation of our perplexity. “Can’t say, indeed,” reply we. “Who is it?” “Mr O’Madigan.” “Ah, dear me, poor follow, is he dead? Very sudden, very unexpected.--_Is dinner ready?_” What is the civility of the landlord and his waiters but humbug? What the smirking, smiling, ducking and bowing of the shopkeeper, but humbug? What his sweet and gentle “yes, sirs,” and “no, sirs,” and “proud to serve you, sirs,” but humbug? You are not goose enough to believe for a moment that he is serious, that he has either the least regard or respect for you. Not he; he would not care a twopence although you were hanged, drawn, and quartered before his shop-door to-morrow, except, perhaps, for the inconvenience of the thing.