late; for he expired within four days after, at the age of fifty-nine, with a calmness and composure which was as remarkable as the heroism of his life, after having served his country fifty years, of which forty-four were passed in active service. There never yet was a man who made greater personal sacrifices for the service of his country than Collingwood. To the fearlessness and contempt of danger of a British sailor, and the sound judgment and prudence of a wise statesman, he added the suffering constancy of a martyr. It was not merely that he continued working at his post long after his failing health warned him that it was time to retire, but that he did so in spite of the most powerful and tender inducements. He was no mere Commodore Trunnion, so wedded to the sea as to be unable to appreciate or enjoy the pleasures of quiet and retirement. His heart was ever a-thirst-panting as the hart after the water-brooks-for the delights and endearments of home. He would have given anything to be able to return and spend his days with his wife and children, but he could not sacrifice his sense of duty even to so cherished an object as that. For this his name will ever be honoured by all who can appreciate the rare union of the loftiest courage, and the most unflinching perseverance in duty, with the tenderest feelings of the heart; and few will be able to refuse a tear of sympathy for the sufferings which bowed down his noble and manly spirit to the grave The following lines, from an anonymous poem lately published, form an appropriate conclusion to this brief sketch:- "Tears stand within the brave man's eyes, "He's pining for his native seas, All but his honour he would give "He does not know his children's face; REASON AND FEELING. Ir cannot fail to be frequently remarked, how little the education of the feelings is attended to in comparison with that of the intellect. In connexion with the latter, we are told that we must be able to perform all manner of feats, and at the same time be capable of giving a great many reasons why we do them, and by what means they are accomplished. Our reasoning faculties are to be racked to the utmost, while those agents which are the cause of all the evil on the earth, as well to their possessors as to others, are left to manage themselves, and to take that direction to which by nature they may be disposed. The passions and sentiments ought surely to have another sort of training than what is now allotted to them, in the system which goes by the name of education-the education, it may be called, of a portion of the man, but one which, in neglecting so essential a part, neglects that which, perhaps, best repays the labour bestowed upon it. From the preponderance given to the cultivation of our reasoning powers, we might be led to conclude that reason was a very infallible guide, that it could by no possibility lead its possessor astray, or immerse him in a sea of doubts, difficulties, or contradictions. Far from us, indeed, be the presumption, that the reason thus bestowed upon us is to be lightly regarded; but seeing that, in common with all things else, this light is imperfect, and shines but dimly, it should not be considered so much superior to the sentient part of our being,-that part which has the prerogative of dispensing pleasure of the highest kind, or pain of the most intense description. We must remark here, that we use the word reason in its ordinary acceptation, as a something in contrast to feeling; though it appears to us, that thus to separate their powers, and give to one the pre-eminence over the other, as is generally done, is false; for our higher sentiments are as much a part of our intelligence, as the faculty which enables us to know that a circle is not a square. We take as if for granted, that no alliance can exist between what is often called the weakness of feeling, and the strength of reason, yet the two in reality compose the human being perhaps in equal portions, and in equal poise are the agents which alike sway the destiny of individuals and nations. We seek in vain to prove ourselves more the recipients of the one than the other; and we commit an error, when we would exalt the one at the other's expense. The object of a true education ought to be, equally to educate the head and heart, that they may help to guide each other, since we have such continual proofs that we possess feelings which, unfortunately, as often lead us wrong as right, and against whose errors, in the former case, reason is by itself unable to contend. But, it may be asked, why should reason not teach us to be just, give us strength to practise what is right, resist and control feeling when that feeling is wrong, and compel implicit obedience to its dictates? Reason," says a recent writer, "is not a power, it is only a light; its office is not to vanquish, but to enlighten." It would seem as if reason could only show our feelings the way in which they could best be exerted, leaving feeling to wage war with feeling, until the strongest proclaim the victory. We have only to review the past history of the human race, in order to consider whether reason or feeling has governed the world; we have only to look around us, and see which now prevails; we have daily examples of the force of feeling opposed to the light of reason, even where we least expect to find it, when the philosopher is carried out of sight by a whirlwind of passion, leaving in his place the man of strong feelings. The reasoning faculties, by themselves, have done but little for the happiness of mankind, whose fate, in one sense, seems to depend more upon the expression or form taken by the sentiments and feelings. We have many giants in reason, while yet slaves to sense; and few of those greater beings, whose reason and feelings being equally cared for, and happily in unison, are equally obeyed and reverenced. By a retrospect of the past, we may judge of what might occur in the future: placing before us the actions of men, during those ages which were distinguished as ages of reason, we are compelled to own (judging by the reason now in our possession) that reason, instead of being enthroned in man as a supreme power, had altogether deserted its followers, and abandoned them to madness. We are astounded, as we well may be, at the reason which could not only tolerate, but applaud the enormities, the nameless crimes perpetrated during the reign of the Roman emperors, in the times when a Virgil wrote, and a Seneca taught-and taught morals, too!-during periods perhaps the most resplendent in the intellectual history of Rome. In like comparison, we may advert to modern times, and in a Christian kingdom, where, amidst the horrors of the French Revolution, and its reign of terror, reason fled, as if affrighted at the monstrous audacity of man, and left in its stead the demons of insanity and fury, though man blindly could compliment his fellow man, at the (Concluded.) Up from his knees he sprang moment, upon the pitch of wisdom to which they had| THE SHEPHERD OF THE GIANT MOUNTAINS. aspired, and, as they conceived, attained. Yet it was the feeling of oppression and disgust at tyranny which occasioned this revolution, and it was feeling, become madly impassioned and blind, which deluged the country with the blood of its own children. It was afterwards the feeling of ambition which led the same people to trample upon other powers; it was not reason, but feeling, which beset their leader with the idea of absolute dominion; and it is feeling which makes the nation he so despotically ruled (though with a rod so dazzling, that in appearance it ceased to be a rod) still deify their ambition-mad hero. Finally, when we see insanity, in the majority of its cases, produced by over-excited and ill-governed feeling; when we are so fully aware that love and hatred, pride, envy, ambition, divide with reason the possession of the human heart, and divide the empire of the world, it surely cannot be less than folly, in those who profess to teach the human mind, to turn their almost exclusive attention to the development of its thinking part alone, leaving the other to its own uninstructed and unguided inherent tendencies. It is difficult to believe that emotions were given us merely to be crushed, or that affections were bestowed upon us merely that they might be frozen. It is true that some feelings ought to be indulged but sparingly, or they promote any thing but the happiness of the possessor, and there are others which in excess the human frame could not long endure: the former are those which centre chiefly in ourselves rather than radiate towards others, and are properly called selfish; while the latter, threatening to rend asunder body and soul, are the rarely felt profound emotions, such as agony of mind, or its joy in excess. While such cases are infrequent, yet hundreds die slowly from wounded sensibility or disappointed hopes, even while reason tells them it is unwise to be thus sorely grieved. It has never yet been found that the men of the most genial feelings have been wanting in intellect; and it seems to us that the reason which is most cultivated must show the greatest respect for that which is generous and noble-hearted. Feeling is assuredly oftener the prompter of reason than the latter is willing to confess; it silently receives energy from the former, yet never acknowledges the obligation, but, on the contrary, loudly asserts that opinions are impartial or worthy of trust, exactly as they are uninfluenced by personal or other feeling. We are often startled by hearing men loud in the assertion of their possession of unadulterated reason, while all the time they scarcely make use of a single argument which has not personal feeling as a large ingredient in its composition-nor can it be otherwise, however much the contrary may be asserted. There seemed a sudden dawn of deathless light- And through the tumult of the rising flames And measuring a league with every stroke The griffin strikes and strives to quench the flame With her huge wings; strikes with such cager fury, That Gottschalk marvelled how so fierce a monster Should yet preserve her children by the risk Of her own life. In vain ! The grisly brood Lie scorched and stifled in the pangs of death; And, lo, the flame hath caught the griffin's wings, As if in thirst for vengeance! The reeling monster falls upon the grass. Now, shepherd, now ! Where is thy ready staff? Now! Lose no moment! For the wrathful beast, Frantic with rage and pain, hath reared itself On its broad feet, and stands, half-tottering, To judge from the outward characteristics of the present But dreadful still, and eager for the fight: time, there appears to be arising a craving for the ideal or Then had the hapless youth been crushed to nothing, the spiritual. Even in the midst of this age of practice and But that he lifted up his heart to God, utility, it would seem that man cannot, for any length of And that a vision of inspiring beauty time, be tied down to the visible only. This spirit evermore Rose on his soul, and bade him not despair! claims consideration, and asserts its claims even when Stroke upon stroke he hurls against the foe: its slumber seems to be longest and deepest; the voice He stabs it in the fiery eye-the beast of the past unites with that of the unseen future; and Rears in wild rage, then, quick as thought, the staff man thus proclaims his relationship with the spiritual, Pierces its undefended breast, and sinks, as well as with the material, world. The visible seeks a Sure, deep, and deadly, in the ruthless heart! something unseen, beyond itself; and though somewhat It roars as with the congregated voices paradoxical, the invisible seeks to be clothed with the Of thousand oxen; reels, and strikes its wings visible at every progressive stage a portion of the de-Once more, with impotent fury, on the earthsired unseen becomes a tangible reality, and the realization of one paramount desire becomes the parent of another, which, in like manner, awaits a future embodiment. Our wishes are illimitable, stretching across the boundless ocean of the infinite, and alike infinite must be their fulfilment; for, as Fénélon says, "It is, indeed, true. I do not deceive myself in saying, I carry, though finite, an idea within me, which represents to me a thing infinite." And all is over! The terror of the land lies stiff in death! All breathless Gottschalk leans VI. The shepherd stood before the ducal castle, To summon thence the Lady Adiltrude. Then stepped a baron forth, and whispered low "Can this be earnest? Give you to a peasant "He slew the griffin; "Ay, if he were a knight !" My words were spoken to all Christian men.' "Great duke, how could so wild and strange a dream Enter the thought of man?" Nay, it hath entered "Most noble prince, Thou knowest I hoped myself" 66 Fair sir, your pardon; And even the duke's proud heart grew sorrowful; The maiden stepped into the wondering circle, Bent low before her noble sire, and spake : 66 By this brave arm our hapless land was freed; Mine honoured father, bless the shepherd's bride !" VII. Lo, with the earliest beams of breaking morn Or has the prince recalled his plighted word? Forbid it God! Those true and lofty hearts The honourable duke hath mildly said: 66 My son, thou needest castles, lands, and lordships, As fitting portion for my gentle child. So, when the first faint gleam Of rising daylight smiles upon the mountain, Whose joyous notes beguiled the busy way, This gladsome strain the conquering shepherd sang: "Land and lordship who winneth to-day, That the bride of his love may have meet array? Look down, thou glittering sun! Give car, Look at the lambs, as in sport they glide Sun, forest, fount, and well!" And, lo, when sank the dewy eventide, "Proud lord, to-day I must not answer thee, VIII. Now through the painted windows of the chapel The priest awaits that wondrous bridal pair; The stately train begins, Then kneeled the shepherd youth before the duke Lowly upon his knee, and spake these words: My prince, thy generous bounty hath endow'd me A glad assent the gracious monarch gave, He to the ladies pays his fair devoir; Before his lovely bride Full reverently he bows, His helmed forehead crowned with waving plumes. In joyful doubt the wondering duke must gaze, He took the gift of knighthood from this hand; Sir Baldwin to the combat, For that he scorned him when he drove his flocks Proud in his gleaming mail stands stern Sir Baldwin: The clarion sounds. With what a stirring clash Wildly and fast Sir Baldwin showers his blows; As though in sport, and dallying with his sword Urges the fight with such unguarded fury, But soon his nobler nature conquered him; "Come to my heart, my true and gallant son!" X. Now raised the duke the kneeling knight, and spake, I met a grey-haired shepherd, who, of old, That lowly name, and those mine innocent sheep, Let these my rich possessions bear this name, The duke beheld, and thus, consenting, spake: My son, thy words are right. By God's good will, On the firm base of this humility Thy house shall stand for many a century." THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. In most civilized countries there exist a number of architectural remains, possessing more or less interest, as their origin can be traced to a period more or less remote, or as they may be illustrative of the history of such countries, ecclesiastical or civil. Where the date of these structures remains altoge ther dubious, and the uses to which they were applied little more than a matter of conjecture, the subject becomes a fruitful source of inquiry and of controversy among learned men. Witness the discussions on the supposed druidical remains of England, on the vitrified forts of Scotland, and on the round towers of Ireland. The history of the last-named edifices has latterly received a full and able investigation, the results of which are presented to the public, in Mr. Petrie's elaborate "Inquiry into the Origin and Uses of the Round Towers of Ireland." From the less abstruse portions of this valuable work, we may glean something that will be (1) The ecclesiastical architecture of Ireland, anterior to the Anglo-Norman invasion, comprising an "Essay on the Origin and Uses of the Round Towers of Ireland," which obtained the gold medal and prize of the Royal Irish Academy. By GEORGE PETRIE, T.H.A., V.P.R.I.A. Second Edition. Dublin: Hodges and Smith, Grafton Street. 1845. interesting to our readers, when taken in connexion with commonly known facts. The round towers of Ireland formerly existed in considerable numbers throughout that island. At present, they are only about eighty-three in number, and of these little more than twenty remain entire. These edifices are all of the same peculiar and striking form, and, with the exception of two similar towers in Scotland, there are no buildings like them in any part of Christian Europe. They are round cylindrical edifices, usually tapering upwards, and varying in height from fifty to, perhaps, one hundred and fifty feet. Their external circumference at the base, is from forty to sixty feet, or upwards. The masonry of these towers is of that description called "spawled rubble," in which small stones, shaped by the hammer, are placed in every interstice of the larger stones, so that very little mortar appears to be intermixed in the body of the wall; and the outside, therefore, presents an almost uninterrupted surface of stone. In some instances, however, the towers present a surface of ashlar masonry, both on the outside and inside, though more usually on the exterior only. The wall towards the base is never less than three feet in thickness, but is usually more, and occasionally five feet, being always in accordance with the general proportions of the building. The interior of the edifice is divided into stories, varying from four to eight, as the height of the tower permits, and usually twelve feet high. These stories are marked, either by projecting belts of stone, set-offs, or ledges, or holes in the wall to receive joists, on which rested the floors, which were almost always of wood. In the uppermost story, the wall is pierced by two, four, five, six, or eight openings, but most usually four, which sometimes face the cardinal points, and sometimes not. The lowest story, or rather its place, is sometimes composed of solid masonry; and even when not so, it has never any opening, the entrance doorway being in the second floor, at a height of from eight to thirty feet from the ground. The middle stories are each lighted by a single opening, placed variously, and usually of very small size, though, in several instances, that immediately over the doorway is nearly as large as the doorway itself, and would almost appear to have been a second entrance. The building is finished at the top with a conical roof of stone. In the architectural features of these towers, considerable diversity is observable. When the tower is of rubble masonry, the doorways seldom present any decorations, and are either quadrangular, and covered with a lintel, of a single stone of great size, or semicircular headed, either by the construction of a regular arch, or the cutting of a single stone. But, in the towers of Kildare and Trinahoe, we have instances of very richly decorated doorways, although the buildings are of rubble masonry. In the more regularly constructed towers, the doorways are always arched semicircularly, and are usually ornamented with architraves, or bands, on their external faces. The upper apertures are generally of a quadrangular form, and without ornament. They are, however, sometimes semicircular headed, and still oftener present the triangular or straight-sided arch. Such are the celebrated round towers of Ireland, which for ages have formed a subject of doubt and difficulty with antiquarians, and which have been thus well characterised by a writer in the Quarterly Review :- " Tall, slender, cylindrical, cone-topped piles, too small for habitations, too simple for ornament, too vast for mere appendages to the little buildings with which they seem to have been connected, too uniform in structure to be accidental caprices of taste, and yet too varied to be all reduced under one age, rising up, as they often do, among the bleakest mountains, by a gloomy lake, or on some desolate island, or even from a group of ruins clustered round them by ages later than their own, as on the rock of Cashel, they produce a singular effect of |