undisturbed, the delight which he felt in their perusal. To this period of his existence he has often adverted in afterlife, as one of the purest pleasure.

He was now placed at school with Mr. Samuel White, of Dublin, whose academy was remarkable for having sent forth some of the most distinguished men in Ireland. It was there his countrymen, Thomas Moore and the late Richard Brinsley Sheridan, received their education; and many others there are that can attest the industry of this excellent man, who rejoiced exceedingly in his vocation, and delighted to enumerate the various individuals-ornaments of their respective professions-who were all indebted to him. for their early culture.

From this, in due time, he entered the Dublin University. The Rev. Dr. Wall was the tutor under whom he was placed, and by whom his studies were directed. In these he made a commendable proficiency. Although the bent of his mind was towards classical literature, yet was he not wanting in a due devotion to the severer sciences, in which his attainments were abundantly sufficient to secure for him the respect of his fellow-students, and the approbation of his academic superiors. His diligence was unremitting; and he was soon enabled, by taking pupils, to relieve his brother from the burthen which he had so long and so cheerfully borne, and to feel that he might henceforth rely upon his own resources; not merely for his individual maintenance and advancement in the world, but that he might see the old age of his honoured parents comfortably provided for-a hope that was not disappointed.

It is, perhaps, a defect in our Irish University system, that a sufficient provision has not been made for the cultivation of classical literature. The great prizes of academic ambition are all, or almost all, confined to the laborious and skilful culti

vator of the severer sciences; and the classical student, be he never so successful or enterprising, can scarcely be said to come in even for a younger brother's portion. It must not, however, be denied, that the foundation of scholarships does contribute, in some measure, to remedy this crying grievance, by affording to seventy young men a moderate academic provision, which continues for five years, and has often been materially serviceable to the young aspirant for professional distinction. The place of scholar is to be obtained only after an examination by all the senior fellows in all the classical authors prescribed for the college course up to the junior sophister year. The candidates always outnumber the vacancies; and in the year of Mr. Taylor's examination for that honour, the candidates were forty, while the places were only twelve. It was, therefore, not a little creditable to him to have obtained the second place, and that, too, upon eight best marks, or a best mark from all his examiners. He thus became entitled to one of the best exhibitions at the disposal of the board, and was thenceforth enabled to look forward with more assured confidence to his settlement in life.

Although the honours which he obtained in his academic course were highly creditable to him, they were not those by which he was most distinguished. In truth, his peculiar temperament, and the bent of his mind, inclined rather to the walks of poesy, than to those graver labours to which the academic curriculum would have almost confined his attention. The chancellor's prizes, which are given for composition, afforded him on two occasions, a favourable opportunity for the exercise of his peculiar powers; and his efforts were not unrewarded the board, who are the judges in such cases, having in both instances adjudged him a premium.

Sydney Taylor had now a considerable university reputation. His attainments and abilities were generally much respected,

and for his worth and his merit, in the little circle who enjoyed his intimacy, he was greatly beloved. That it was not larger, arose from a fastidiousness of moral taste, which gave an appearance of reserve to his manners towards general acquaintances, and caused a quick rejection of the approaches of those in whose characters his acute discernment could detect any taint of depravity, or germ of baseness-of such characters he had an instinctive abhorrence. In those hours of relaxation which were spent in the society of his chosen companions, he was as delightful an associate as could be found. With wit at will, and stores of anecdote, and a fancy impregnated with all that was richest or rarest in literature, both ancient and modern, his mind was a salient jet d'eau of pregnant apothegms, lively conceits, or sparkling allusions, always conveyed in a spirit of the kindliest humanity, and never verging into buffoonery, or poisoned by ill-nature.

There are some few who still survive, to whom the hours thus spent in innocent, exhilarating, and ennobling converse, are amongst their most treasured recollections. After-life seldom presents any thing so sweetly pure, as the joyous intercourse of young and ingenuous minds, of rich endowments and unsullied by the world, when they meet to unbend after the well-performed labours of a studious day: and where the moral qualities are on a level with the intellectual, and nothing will be tolerated that savours of the base or mean, the enjoyment is, perhaps, as unmixed and perfect as is compatible with the frailness of mortality. One there was, who is already known to fame by the accident of a stray leaf from his journal finding its way into the public papers;—we mean the author of the "Ode upon the burial of Sir John Moore." To that beautiful poem we shall have occasion presently to return. Between its author, the late Charles Wolfe, and the lamented subject of this memoir, an intimacy was then formed

which ripened gradually into mutual esteem, and ended in a lasting friendship. And often has the writer of this brief sketch listened to the unprompted eulogies with which either spoke of the other when absent, and witnessed the glow of pleasure that never failed to irradiate the countenance of the one at any little achievement in science, or distinction in literature, which served to enhance the reputation of the other. Wolfe's poetical powers are now acknowledged to have been of no ordinary kind, and we cannot but have our human regrets, that he was snatched so early from a world which he would have adorned. And he, were he living, would be the readiest to proclaim, that his friend's poetical genius was of no mean order, -such as would have achieved for him no common niche in the temple of fame, had he not, under a constraining sense of duty, discountenanced its cultivation. The following impromptu words, to the tune of Robin Adair,' are one of the many little effusions with which Sydney Taylor used at that period to

amuse himself and gratify his friends :-

"Talk not of spring's soft power,

Genial and mild;

Decking with many a flower

Meadow and wild;

Where, by each glen and lea,

Eve's tranquil gaiety,

Shone not in vain for me,

When Ellen smiled.

But wake, and wake again,

Danger's loud tone;

Or give some dirge-like strain,

Plaintive to moan;

Where autumn's leaves are shed

O'er some youth's grassy bed,

Whose heart like mine has bled

Ellen's smile flown."

Many a time have we listened tearfully, to the pleasing and

powerful voices of Wolfe and his able and amiable biographer, Archdeacon Russell, giving tuneful utterance to the above, to the no small satisfaction of the quiet composer,-who seldom, however, heard any commendation of his poetic capabilities, without feeling it in the light of a reproach for the neglect of those severer duties, by a stern devotion to which he could alone hope to secure his advancement in the world.

One other little incident must be given, as it will serve to show a promptitude and facility of composition, which might well be called surprising. The discourse one evening turned on the poetry of Southey. One of the party spoke in terms of perhaps high-flown admiration of the genius of that gifted man, and rated his works so very high, that Sydney Taylor became jealous for the literary supremacy of his old favourites, Spenser and Milton; and not only demurred to what he deemed the extravagant praises bestowed upon the living bard, but, in a vein of playful banter, and with a sly gravity—which no one could more happily assume-sought to reduce his pretensions as much below their proper level, as his enthusiastic friend had raised them above it. The reply to this was, the recitation of a passage from Thalaba, full of the peculiar wild and melancholy beauty which distinguishes that singular poem, and which, it was supposed by the reciter, must silence opposition, and extort universal admiration. But, although no one heard it with more intense feeling than Sydney, he was not to be thus diverted from his railing mood. "Call you that," he said, " 'poetry? Surely any one could write poetry like that." "Oh! say you so!" said his excited opponent; "come, then, you are not a bad hand yourself, and let us see what you can do." He instantly took pen and paper, and, almost as fast as he could write, improvised the following description of a man left to perish in a wilderness, adopting the