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WILLIAM MAGINN.

WILLIAM MAGINN, an Irish poet and general writer, born at Cork, July 10, 1794; died at Walton-on-Thames, Aug. 21, 1842. He was graduated at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1811, and in 1819 his Alma Mater conferred upon him the degree of LL.D., he being then only twenty-five-the youngest man who had ever received that dignity. About this time he began to contribute to Blackwood's Magazine over several noms de plume. In 1823 he went to London, and engaged in journalism. In 1830 he, with Mr. Hugh Fraser, set up Fraser's Magazine, of which, as "Oliver Yorke," he acted for a while as ostensible editor. His irregular way of life lost him position, notwithstanding his brilliant genius and varied attainments. He was in 1842 imprisoned for debt, passed through the Insolvency Court and fell into great poverty.

A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring
Irishman.

His face was noways beautiful,

For with small-pox 'twas scarred across;

And the shoulders of the ugly dog

Were almost double a yard across.

Oh, the lump of an Irishman

The whisky-devouring Irishman

The great he-rogue, with his wonderful brogue-the fighting, rioting Irishman!

One of his eyes was bottle-green,

And the other was out, my dear;

And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear!

Oh, the great big Irishman

The rattling, battling Irishman—

The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman!

He took so much of Lundy-foot

That he used to snort and snuffle, Oh;
And in shape and size the fellow's neck
Was as broad as the neck of a buffalo.

Oh, the horrible Irishman

The thundering, blundering Irishman—

The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman!

His name was a terrible name indeed,

Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;

And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch,
He'd not rest till he filled it again.

The boozing, bruising Irishman

The 'toxicated Irishman

The whisky, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy
Irishman!

This was the lad the lady loved,

Like all the girls of quality.

And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,

Just by the way of jollity.

Oh, the leathering Irishman

The barbarous, savage Irishman

The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bothered, I'm sure, by this Irishman.

THE MAN IN THE BELL.

(From "Miscellaneous Prose and Verse.")

In my younger days bell-ringing was much more in fashion among the young men of than it is now. Nobody, I believe, practices it there at present except the servants of the church, and the melody has been much injured in consequence. Some fifty years ago, about twenty of us who dwelt in the vicinity of the cathedral formed a club, which used to ring every peal that was called for; and, from continual practice and a rivalry which arose between us and a club attached to another steeple, and which tended considerably to sharpen our zeal, we became very Mozarts on our favorite instruments. But my bell-ring

ing practice was shortened by a singular accident, which not only stopped my performance, but made even the sound of a bell terrible to my ears.

One Sunday I went with another into the belfry to ring for noon prayers, but the second stroke we had pulled showed us that the clapper of the bell we were at was muffled. Some one had been buried that morning, and it had been prepared, of course, to ring a mournful note. We did not know of this, but the remedy was easy. "Jack," said my companion, "step up to the loft, and cut off the hat;" for the way we had of muffling was by tying a piece of an old hat or of cloth (the former was preferred) to one side of the clapper, which deadened every second toll. I complied and, mounting into the belfry, crept as usual into the bell, where I began to cut away. The hat had been tied on in some more complicated manner than usual, and I was perhaps three or four minutes in getting it off; during which time my companion below was hastily called away, by a message from his sweetheart, I believe; but that is not material to my story. The person who called him was a brother of the club, who, knowing that the time had come for ringing for service, and not thinking that any one was above, began to pull. At this moment I was just getting out, when I felt the bell moving; I guessed the reason at onceit was a moment of terror; but by a hasty, and almost convulsive, effort I succeeded in jumping down, and throwing myself on the flat of my back under the bell.

The room in which it was, was little more than sufficient to contain it, the bottom of the bell coming within a couple of feet of the floor of lath. At that time I certainly was not so bulky as I am now, but as I lay it was within an inch of my face. I had not laid myself down a second when the ringing began. It was a dreadful situation. Over me swung an immense mass of metal, one touch of which would have crushed me to pieces; the floor under me was principally composed of crazy laths; and if they gave way, I was precipitated to the distance of about fifty feet upon a loft, which would, in all probability, have sunk under the impulse of my fall, and sent me to be dashed to atoms upon the marble floor of the chancel, an hundred feet below. I remembered, for fear is quick in recollection, how a common clock-wright, about a month before, had fallen and, bursting through the floors of the steeple, driven in the ceilings of the porch, and even broken into the marble tomb

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