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such as this. Little do these fellows due allowance, indeed, it could know the extent of our means of in- scarcely be expected of them), for the formation: they had better keep an disadvantages attending the proeye to themselves. Like the Baron of cess of translation, and in short, vote Bradwardine, we are cautious; but, the whole concern a bore. Notwithnevertheless, “ beware the bear” is an standing the immense merit of innuold motto and a good.

merable articles, therefore, it may be As for the towns about the county, said, almost without a figure, that we do as much as could be expected. the Quarterly has never made good Mr Fogarty has spread us in Blarney; its quarters in that country.. Miss but he has paid us there a compliment Edgeworth indeed asserts, in her life which we do not approve. He has of the Old Gentleman, that “ the tied one of our volumes on the famous Edinburgh and Quarterly Review, and Blarney stone, and pilgrims now kiss Blackwood's Magazine, may now be that volume instead of their ancient seen on the tables of the superior farmCa-aba. We do not like this, we say; houses”—but we suspect this is a for it is notorious, that the Blarney flattering picture, and that here, as in stone is sacred to humbugging—a prac- many other passages in that work, it tice which we detest; and we beg our may be enough to believe one third of worthy correspondent to remove it the statement. The invention howquam primum. The Scots Greys, a ever, if such it be, leans to virtue's superb regiment, as Buonaparte justly side, and is besides, more indicative called them, introduce us wherever of genius, than any to which claim they are quartered—a circumstance to has been laid by the defunct Pentegawhich we owe many thanks, in parti- mist. cular to the gallant and friendly There

many circumstances Lieutenant, who has cheered the which forbid us to hope, that we can darkness of Bandon, by bringing us at any period become the favourite in among the worthy devourers of work of all men of all parties in our bacon who inhabit that ancient own Island ; particularly, the physical borough. And, to conclude our long, bulk of the Whig party, which is a yet very imperfect tour through Ire

sore stumbling block and obstacle to land, by stopping at its Ultima Thule, us in many quarters—and we have we shall only observe, that one copy never denied it to be so. But, in Irefinds its way to the island of Cape land, there are positively no WhigsClear, where it is read every Sunday so few at least, that they are in no after mass, at the chapel door, by the way worth mentioning. There the priest who rules the islanders. He is great division of mankind is into Prothe only man in his wave-beaten do- testants and Catholics, for both of minion who can read, and he translates which parties we have the utmost reany difficult passage into most admir. spect, and whom we hope in good able Irish. Such a man is an invalu- time to see reconciled to each other, able acquisition to the capers. and living (SALVA TAMEN ECCLESIA

After all, however, it may be doubt- ANGLICANA), in all things, without ed, whether justice has as yet been heart-burning and bad blood. The done to us in the kingdom of Ireland. only effectual means of serving Ireland, The only comfort we have is, that if is the promotion of knowledge-the full justice is denied to us—it is spreading of education--the diffusion of granted to every body else. We are light; for we are well aware, that the not read so much as we deserve to be animosities which have been kept --but no other periodical work is read alive among the people of Ireland, at all. The Irish people do not ap- have been nursed and cherished only prove of Mr Southey's long elaborate for the filthy purposes of a few intearticles, about conquering generals rested demagogues; and that nothing and parish churches ; and they are of but a little more education is necesopinion, that whatever Ugo Foscolo's sary, to enable the whole of that

genemerits may be as an Italian poet, he rous people to see through their tricks. is one of the clumsiest reviewers that And, as it is, what a refreshing conever tried the trade--more particularly trasť does the state of Ireland at this when he sets about overlaying with moment present, to that of so many learning a work of airy grace and turbulent infatuated districts in Engclassical wit, such as Mr Frere's in- land-London itself included ! Engimitable Giants, and Mr Rose's as land has been disgraced by a Matthew

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Hume; but Ireland has sent forth no periodical of the smallest pluck no designing cit nor meddling sur has ever been published. The Duba geon, to create or inflame the wounds lin is a contemptible abortion ; the of popular discontent. London and Belfast is dead: a few were tried in Montrose are in the paws of the Radi- other towns, Cork for instance, but cals, but the cities of Ireland are all they were all miserable things, and in the hands of staunch and true men. never did one of them take firm root It is sufficient praise of itself, to say, in the soil of the potato. As for the that at this moment, the favourite English periodical works-not one of public men with the people of Ireland them, on any side, knows any thing are, Mr Charles Grant, Mr Peele, and at all about Ireland. Their praise and Mr Plunkett

their blame are equally decisive of ~ Good men she hath in honour mbetter their ignorance: whereas, we, we

flatter ourselves, have shewn in this There needs no wizard's eye to see very paper such an intimate acquaintwhat a share of the power of Britain ance with the affairs of that island, as must long continue to be in the hands may justly astonish any born Irish of Irishmen, and men intimately ac man, from Donaghadee to Balleydoquainted with the spirit of Ireland; noghan ; or, if he would rather have and we think as little, to foresee, that it so, from Carnsore Point, to Bloodyere long, the exertions of such men as

farland. And yet, this is a part of Grant and Peele, for her good, must our career, on which we can as yet be crowned with that success which is scarcely be said to have even entered. always deserved, and almost always Let those that wish to know what's achieved, when virtue and genius are what, keep a good eye to our Irish combined in strenuous co-operation.

articles the next twelvemonths. We But to return to ourselves--we may promise them they shall not look in safely say, that we are THE vain. IRISH MAGAZINE. In Ireland itself,

none !

3

ONLY

SKETCHES OF VILLAGE CHARACTER.

No II.

The Village Schoolmaster.
A STRIPLING tyrant of unyielding look
Unskill'd in manners-learned by the book,
Just 'scaped the chastisement he now bestows,
Armed in the terrors of unceasing 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-

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Till dire suspense, to certainty 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 ha ste
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 ?
And why these marks of some unusual feat,
That hum, and bustle, through the village street?
Why walks the Dame in nicely-platted Toy,
And why, in Sunday doublet, struts the boy ?
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?
A“ Village Wedding,” by the setting sun,
Already is the merriment begun;
Blind Davie Daw has plucked the sounding string,
Attuned his fiddle, and away 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

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 fwry fies.

every reel

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 fummery 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,

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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 mossHis hair-breadth accidents-adventures crossHis stories frightful, meaningless, and oddOf ghostly visions on his mighty roadOf voices bursting from the darksome glenOf tumbling amries,” and of headless menOf sheeted ghosts, and death-foreboding specks Of spreading lights on horse's ears and necks Of nightly rap-eluding sick man's earBut shaking every limb of nurse to hear ++ Of coffins hammered at the noon of nightWarning of morning job the quaking wrightOf 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 astrayAnd 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 morn to night 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 pailTied up the littered cattle, tail to tailThen 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 didThe 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, Thó' deepening o'er my cheek the safron spread

* Writte during the trial of the Queen.
of Written note for Montrose.

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