pride; and he ranged the warriors in a wide circle, and Drucoll approached him with his spear, which drew after it a stream of light.

"Welcome, thou noble champion, full of glory and power," said Dearg, "and welcome all thy host. Though my men are fallen on this hill, yet will my arms meet all the force you can bring; it is not in Erin's chiefs, though all their strength is joined in one, to conquer me: my veins may bleed, but in your land I cannot fall. My arms were wrought in the hall of Woden, and my sword was steeped in Hela. The murky sisters have spread out the web of my life, and the woof of it is mighty deeds; and to get tribute here is one. Then let your men come on, until my sword blood."

drinks their

"Great is thy strength, O foreign prince, we know," said Fion," and many have fallen beneath thy hand; Rosgglan, my son, was one. Doin son of Sgail; the beauteous Con also, son of the valiant Conan; Conan himself; and the undaunted Sgail too reeled beneath thy stroke; with Faolan of the beauteous floating veil, and numbers more. But do not think we dread thy sword; nor shall two spears rise against thee at once, for generous are the sons of Erin; nor know we how to boast, but our swords can tell bloody tales."

Now a loud blast gave the signal, and a space opens for the approach of Gol, whose chariot rolled rapid in, like the bloody star of night, that fires the heavens with its train, and makes the people tremble: the son of Moina descended like a beam of light, and his countenance was dressed in flame.

The Dearg viewed him with wonder, and his heart began to know fear; but he called up his soul, and they met, like two adverse blasts, in the caverns of Ninna, when the storm sweeps the mountains. Soon were their spears shivered against their heavy shields; and now the Dearg drew a sword of poison, which hung round him; but it could not wound the strong shield of Gol. Not so his beaming blade: it fell like a tempest; and soon the shield of Drucoll was cut in twain, and his arm hung useless. Then rose the soul of Moina high, and another blow cut the helmet of Dearg; and the sword glancing sideways, the right temple and cheek lay upon his shoulder, and his huge bulk fell lifeless to the earth; and thunder shook the field with the voice of joy. So falls the unwieldy ox beneath the ponderous stroke; so falls the lofty oak beneath the red bolt of heaven; so sinks the tall ship beneath the frightful waves, when the spirits of the air shake the world in their wrath. The pile rose high that night, and the East

man's

man's ashes were given to the wind, for pride had filled his heart. A hundred bards sung the praises of Moina's son, and the presents of the king graced him for ever.

MRS. PILKINGTON.

MRS. Pilkington, whose poetical talents and frailties were, at one time of day, the alternate theme of praise and commiseration, tells us, in her Memoirs, that " from her ealiest infancy she had a strong disposition to letters;" but, her eyes being weak, her mother would not permit her to look at a book, lest it should affect them. As she did not place so high a value, however, on those lucid orbs as her mother, and as restraint only served to quicken her natural thirst for knowledge, she availed herself of every opportunity that could gratify it; so that, at five years old, she could read and even taste the beauties of some of the best English poets. She continued in this manner to improve her mind by stealth, till she had accomplished her twelfth year, when her brother, a little playful boy, brought her a slip of paper one day, and desired her to write something on it, that would

please him, on which she wrote the following

lines:

Oh, spotless paper, fair, and white!
On thee by force constrain'd to write,
Is it not hard I should destroy
Thy purity to please a boy?
Ungrateful I thus to abuse

The fairest servant of the Muse.
Dear friend, to whom I oft impart
The choicest secrets of my heart,
Ah! what atonement can be made
For spotless innocence betray'd?
How fair, how lovely, didst thou shew,
Like lilied banks, or falling snow:
But now, alas! become my prey,
Not tears can wash thy stains away:
Yet, this small comfort I can give,

That what destroy'd shall make thee live.

The Rev. Mr. Pilkington, the spouse and poetical rival of this lady, having incurred the displeasure of Dr. Swift, Mrs. Pilkington was resolved to exert the last feeble ray of her influence in favour of Mr. Pilkington, and, though far advanced in pregnancy, she waited on the Dean, who received her with coolness, but listened with patience to the long catalogue of virtues, which she ascribed to her repentant husband; and, to sum up all his good qualities in one, she assured his Reverence, that Mr. P. was the best-natured man in the world. " If so,"

said the Dean, looking steadfastly in her face, go home, and let him father the bastard you now carry."

WILLIAM SALDEN.

WILLIAM Salden of Utrecht composed an excellent work, which was printed at Amsterdam in 1688, entitled, Guilelmi Saldeni de Libris variorumque eorum Usu et Abusu, Libri duo, cum Indicibus, in 8vo. This work is divided into two parts: the first consists of nine chapters; turns on the lovers of books, with the names of some persons who have written a great deal, or who have rendered their names immortal by their writings. The author then proceeds to treat of the manner in which the ancients composed books, the matter and form of the books themselves: he then shews that every age has produced some learned women, and that literary pursuits, under proper regulations, have contributed to the improvement and embellishment of the female mind.

The second chapter is devoted to a very interesting subject; the multitude of books, with a list of the most. celebrated libraries, observations on the art of printing, &c. The author discusses the question, how far the immense

number