Графични страници
PDF файл

such as this. Little do these fellows know the extent of our means of information: they had better keep an eye to themselves. Like the Baron of Bradwardine, we are cautious ; but, nevertheless, “beware the bear” is an old motto and a good. As for the towns about the county, we do as much as could be expected. Mr Fogarty has spread us in Blarney; but he has paid us there a compliment which we do not approve. He has tied one of our volumes on the famous Blarney stone, and pilgrims now kiss that volume instead of their ancient Ca-aba. We do not like this, we say; for it is notorious, that the Blarney stone is sacred to humbugging—a practice which we detest; and we beg our worthy correspondent to remove it quam primum. The Scots Greys, a superb regiment, as Buonaparte justly called them, introduce us wherever they are quartered—a circumstance to which we owe many thanks, in particular to the gallant and friendly Lieutenant, who has cheered the darkness of Bandon, by bringing us in among the worthy devourers of bacon who inhabit that ancient borough. And, to conclude our long, }. very imperfect tour through Ireand, by stopping at its Ultima Thule, we shall only observe, that one copy finds its way to the island of Cape Clear, where it is read every Sunday after mass, at the chapel door, by the priest who rules the islanders. He is the only man in his wave-beaten dominion who can read, and he translates any difficult passage into most admirable Irish. Such a man is an invaluable acquisition to the capers. After all, however, it may be doubted, whether justice has as yet been done to us in the kingdom of Ireland. The only comfort we have is, that if full justice is denied to us—it is granted to every body else. We are not read so much as we deserve to be —but no other periodical work is read at all. The Irish people do not approve of Mr Southey's long elaborate articles, about conquering generals and parish churches; and they are of opinion, that whatever Ugo Foscolo's merits . be as an Italian poet, he is one of the clumsiest reviewers that ever tried the trade—more particularly when he sets about overlaying with learning a work of airy grace and classical wit, such as Mr Frere's inimitable Giants, and Mr Rose's as

due allowance, (indeed, it could scarcely be expected of them), for the disadvantages attending the process of translation, and in short, vote the whole concern a bore. Notwithstanding the immense merit of innumerable articles, therefore, it may be said, almost without a figure, that the Quarterly has never made good its quarters in that country. Miss Edgeworth indeed asserts, in her life of the Old Gentleman, that “ the Edinburgh and Quarterly Review, and Blackwood's Magazine, may now be seen on the tables of the superior farmhouses”—but we suspect this is a flattering picture, and that here, as in many other passages in that work, it may be enough to believe one third of the statement. The invention however, if such it be, leans to virtue's side, and is besides, more indicative of genius, than any to which claim has been laid by the defunct Pentegamist. There are many circumstances which forbid us to hope, that we can at any period become the favourite work of all men of all parties in our own Island; particularly, the physical bulk of the Whig party, which is a sore stumbling block and obstacle to us in ...} quarters—and we have never denied it to be so. But, in Ireland, there are positively no Whigs— so few at least, that they are in no way worth mentioning. There the great division of mankind is into Protestants and Catholics, for both of which parties we have the utmost respect, and whom we hope in good time to see reconciled to each other, and living (sALva TAMEN Ecclesia ANGLicANA), in all things, without heart-burning and bad blood. only effectual means of serving Ireland, is the promotion of knowledge—the spreading of education—the diffusion of light; for we are well aware, that the animosities which have been kept alive among the people of Ireland, have been nursed and cherished only for the filthy purposes of a few interested demagogues; and that nothing but a little more education is necessary, to enable the whole of that generous people to see through their tricks. And, as it is, what a refreshing contrast does the state of Ireland at this moment present, to that of so many turbulent infatuated districts in England—London itself included ! England has been disgraced by a Matthew

The ,

[ocr errors][merged small]
[ocr errors]

Hume ; but Ireland has sent forth
no designing cit nor meddling sur-
geon, to create or inflame the wounds
of popular discontent. London and
Montrose are in the paws of the Radi-
cals, but the cities of Ireland are all
in the hands of staunch and true men.
It is sufficient praise of itself, to say,
that at this moment, the favourite
public men with the people of Ireland
are, Mr Charles Grant, Mr Peele, and
Mr Plunkett–
** Good men she hath in honour –better
none !”
There needs no wizard's eye to see
what a share of the power of Britain
must long continue to be in the hands
of Irishmen, and men intimately ac-
quainted with the spirit of Ireland;
and we think as little, to foresee, that
ere long, the exertions of such men as
Grant and Peele, for her good, must
be crowned with that success which is
always deserved, and almost always
achieved, when virtue and genius are
combined in strenuous co-operation.
But to return to ourselves—we may
safely say, that we are THE only
IRISH MAGAZINE. In Ireland itself,

no periodical of the smallest pluck has ever been published. The Dublin is a contemptible abortion; the Belfast is dead: a few were tried in other towns, Cork for instance, but they were all miserable things, and never did one of them take firm root in the soil of the potato. As for the English periodical works—not one of them, on any side, knows any thing at all about Ireland. Their praise and their blame are equally decisive of their ignorance: whereas, we, we flatter ourselves, have shewn in this very paper such an intimate acquaintance with the affairs of that island, as may justly astonish any born Irishman, from Donaghadee to Balleydonoghan ; or, if he would rather have it so, from Carnsore Point, to Bloodyfarland. And yet, this is a part of our career, on which we can as yet scarcely be said to have even entered. Let those that wish to know what's what, keep a good eye to our Irish articles the next twelvemonths. We promise them they shall not look in Waln.

sk ETCHES OF WILLAGE CHARACTER.
No II.

The Village Schoolmaster.

A still PLING tyrant of unyielding look—
Unskill'd in manners—learned by the book,
Just 'scaped the chastisement he now bestows,
Armed in the terrors of wnçeasing blows—
Here stalks the Village “Master”—in his school,
Holding o'er murmuring Wights his rigid rule.
A silken handkerchief around his neck—
Arrests attention, and commands respect—
Adown his breast in flowing grace, it spreads,
And vast importance o'er his presence sheds;
A ruffled shirt—his luxury and pride
Demands the unbuttoned waistcoat, opened wide—
With broad-round brim, like spreading wing of hat,
Extends his vast circumference of hat.
With air important, solemn, and devout,
The “Chair of Majesty” is wheeled about ;
Its nicely balanced back a prop supplies
To folded arms, and Heaven-directed eyes—
“The Prayer,” in whispers, quickly circles round,
And silence strives to lord it over sound;
With half-averted look, and manner sly,
With scarcely moving lip, and watchful eye,
Each knowing Urchin, through the crowded school,
Commits his question—cons his grammar rule,
Or, wisely provident of future need,
“Explaining lessons”—now essays to read:
This prelude o'er, a solemn pause ensues,
As each, with darkened face, his fellow views-

Till dire suspense, to o gives way, And up the Urchins march, their tasks to say, Around the chair, the “Armed chair” of state, With open books, they tremblingly await, The circle widened by the master's wand, On one unhappy wight, he lays his hand, Who destined to begin—with beating heart, And tear—confounded eye, essays his part. “Well—well—and well, sir! make a little haste, Look, blockhead—read; the noun is there misplaced ; But where's the verb, and where the adverb—next, Was ever loggerhead so much perplexed Now into order put the words at once— The vocative stands foremost still, you dunce; Nay, this is past endurance, bare your breech, And I’ll instruct you in the parts of speech.” And now the “ Taws,” sad prelude of mishap, Rudely alight in reckless “Mary's" lap; A while she eyes the messenger of fate, Then, with unfeigned reluctance, leaves her seat; Around her neck, the hated badge she bears, And takes her woeful pilgrimage with tears. Poor luckless Mary thou didst only look, One little thoughtless moment off thy book, Thy Brother's breech might warmly plead thy cause, That breech which smarted sore beneath the Taws, Thy brother's tears, and anguish-speaking moan, That momentary “glance” might well atone, But thou art doomed a Tyrant's rage to crave; Thy youth, thy sex, thy beauty, cannot save; Then Nature be thy friend, and let him know, How many “fountains spring” at every blow.

The Village Wedding.

FRom house to house, with nicely papered hair,
Why roams each busy and ecstatic pair P
And why these marks of some unusual feat,
That hum, and bustle, through the village street 2
Why walks the Dame in nicely-platted Toy,
And why, in Sunday doublet, struts the boy P
Why dresses Tibby, in her best attire,
Whilst gaping gigglement surrounds the fire?
His dusty visage why does labour clear,
And sports the evening in his newest gear 2
A “Village Wedding,” by the setting sun,
Already is the merriment begun;
Blind Davie Daw has plucked the sounding string,
Attuned his fiddle, and o they spring.
For “ Dainty Davy,” here the cummers cry,
With “Jenny Nettles,” there the lads reply;
They set, they flap, they loudly beat the ground,
With closing arms, they wheel each other round,
The maddening music gains upon their feet,
So with their hands, a symphony they beat.
More rapture still in every reel appears,
They almost seem suspended by the ears,
So high they leap—so knowingly they spring,
With so much suppleness and breadth of fling,
That skinless heels and trodden toes ensue,
And Jamie swears, his shins are black and blue, ,
While haverel Jean her hanging stocking ties,
And to the dance with maddening fury flies.

- -

Thy scraping slack, thy bow in mercy draw, Have pity on the “Lassies,”—Davie Daw. How swell these sides beneath the tightened dress, How pants the Miller's blooming daughter Bess, Fat Tibby's cheeks are blown into a flame— If ought befall the Lassies, thou’rt to blame. And now on Lover's knees, the Cummers sit, Scorning their partners—with provoking wit Backwards their heads in jeering mood they throw— And what the fools are after, beg to know, They flounce, they giggle, and their necks they twist, And spite of all their flummery are kissed.— The cheering punch goes round in caps and jugs, And freely in the drink they lay their lugs. 'Tis tongue, and tug, and mimic flight, and squall, And love, and heat, and palpitation all ! Apart upon a broader board 'tis fit The wiser few in conversation sitHere gaucy Wives with aprons new are seen, Commixed with “would-be Women,” of thirteen And aged cronies bent upon their tale, Fill up each pause with lengthened draughts of ale. Again the youngsters fill the floor at once, Arranged and partnered for a “ Country Dance ;” Some “Fat Gudewife” of more than forty years, Dragged to the top, to lead the dance appears— In vain she struggles, scolds, protests, and tries, To gain the leave, her Partner still denies The “Soldiers Joy,” one clamouronsly demands,They wheel, they caper, and they cross their hands, All tongues are busy, every limb employed, All time, all order, and all rule destroyed, This way and that, like troubled ocean tossed, All figure, plan, consistency, are lost— Thus fared it once, ere order kept a school, Whilst Nature lumbered in chaotic pool; And struggling atoms through the dark expanse, From dateless ages kept their “Country Dance.”— Now kissing seems no more of stealth but law, And squeaking lassies nestle in the “straw.” Along the dale and up the mountain side, Of noise and merriment, there drifts a tide, And name to name returns, and shout to shout, As onward swells the glee, and revel rout, More distant still the circling echoes come, As each his several way diverges “home.” Poor hapless Tibby much the Muse bewails, The glee that softens and the night that veils, The lying, coaxing, treacherous jeers that win, Thy all of future life to woe—and sin . Unhallowed Boyhood, raw, blood driven and blind To all of rational that marks thy kind, Oh, pause, and shiver through each boiling vein The risk contemplate—estimate the gain,Thy bark, once stranded on that fatal shore, Thou ne'er mayst spread the swelling canvass more. In vain we preach, in vain the truth apply, With manner warm, and vice-confounding eye— In vain we pour the sacramental wine, And proffer to the soul the draught divine. In vain the sigh, the humbled soul that speaks, The drops fast coursing o'er the sinner's cheeks, The fervours that exalt, the thoughts that pant,

The all that speaks the “ young Communicant.”
One “Wedding Night,” with all its tipsy fun,
And each truth-hallowed sentiment is gone.
Effaced and banished every pious thought,
And every good resolve reduced to nought.
We need no “ Trials”" to corrupt the land—
No Surgeon candidate t for place to stand—
Our “penny weddings” do the thing as well,
And book full many a candidate for hell.

Archy Tait—the Village Chronicle.

"Twere endless task, in numbers to relate
The ceaseless wanderings of old “Archy Tait"—
His lonesome travels thro' the trackless moss—
His hair-breadth accidents-adventures cross—
His stories frightful, meaningless, and odd-
Of ghostly visions on his mighty road—
Of voices bursting from the darksome glen–
“Of tumbling amries,” and of headless men—
Of sheeted ghosts, and death-foreboding specks
Of spreading lights on horse's ears and necks—
Of nightly rap—eluding sick man's ear—
But shaking every limb of nurse to hear—
tt Of coffins hammered at the noon of night—
. morning job the quaking wright—
Of wraiths that take our form, to let us know
What hours of future life the fates bestow—
Of fires that cross the doubtful travellers' way,
And blaze, to lead his homeward steps astray–
And he would speak of elves, all clad in green,
On fairy knowe, or green-sward valley seen,
Their airy march has passed him on the lea-
The gingling steed, the peal of jollity.
Of changling Imp-he spoke, no care could rear,
Which backward seemed to orp, from year to year.
From morntonight some hellish trick that planned,
And from a nine years cradle cursed and banned—
Which trail'd its toad-like form around the fire,
Or crawled on knees and elbows through the mire,
At even-tide upset the milk-maid's pail—
Tied up the littered cattle, tail to tail—
Then held its sides, and yelled, to hear the roar,
And see the rushing milk-maid tumble o'er.
And he has heard the wizzard Curlers ply
Their gleesome game beneath a wintry'sky,
As up the nightly Rink, the viewless stone,
With sweep, and shout, and booming speed, has gone.
Of “Brownie,” he could tell, his hairy strength
Across the midnight hearth-stone laid at length—
The corn he threshed—the various work he did—
The peats he hurled at lazy varlet's head—
His hatred of deceit—the means he chose
To punish her who tasted “ Brownie's broze.”
Oh, I have sat from eve to early morn,
On Archy's endless stream of “stories” borne—
Eyed every movement-listened every sound—
Called into forms of meaning shapes around—
Yet, still intent to learn each tale of dread,
Tho' deepening o'er my cheek the safron spread–

- Writte during the trial of the Queen.
t Written note for Montrose.

« ПредишнаНапред »