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Let us, in corroboration of what we have advanced, present the reader with an extract or two from one of the most admirable and conclusive essays that ever was composed of whose author, as well as of the poet alluded to above, we may assert, "melius esse silere quam parum dicere:"

"The most striking illustration of this (his preceding argument), that can be produced, is the complicated assemblage of charms, physical and moral, which enter into the composition of female beauty. What philosopher can presume to analyse the different ingredients, or to assign to matter and to mind their respective shares in exciting the emotion which he feels? I believe, for my own part, that the effect depends chiefly on the mind; and that the loveliest features, if divested of that expression, would be beheld with indifference; but no one thus philosophises when the object is before him, or dreams of any source of his pleasure but that which fixes his gaze."

With what admirable precision and delicacy are its undefinable elements touched on in the following verses!“Rien ne manque a Venus, ni les lys, ni les

roses,

Ni le melange erquis des plus aimables choses; Ni ce charme secret dont l'œil est enchantè. Ni la grace plus belle encore que la beautè." In Homer's description of Juno, when attiring herself to deceive Jupiter, by trying "the old, yet still successful, cheat of love," it is remarkable that the poet leaves to her own fancy the whole task of adorning and heightening her personal attractions; but when she requests Venus to grant her

"Those conqu'ring charms, That power which mortals and Immortals warms;"

The gifts which she receives are, all of them, significant of mental qualities alone :

"The gentle vow, the gay desire, The kind deceit, the still reviving fire; Persuasive speech, and more persuasive sighs, Silence that spoke, and eloquence of eyes.' And again

"Her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheek, and so distinctly wrought, That one might almost say, her body thought." We trust that the passages we have thus selected, shall promote, considerably, if not altogether, the validity of our original proposition. Beauty is, undoubtedly, the "jus proprium," the characteristic of womankind; and if it consist, as we devoutly believe, in expression, that is, the visible reflection of

the intellectual qualities, it is almost needless to put in words the conclusion that the faculties of woman are eminently mental; and, therefore, capable of being cultivated to the highest degree at which human perfection can aspire to arrive.

But, to show the necessity of such improvement, now that its possibility has, we trust, been sufficiently demonstrated, it may not be amiss to deliberate, for a little, upon what has been accomplished in the poetical departments, of late years, by the "genus fœmineum ;" and we do not think that we shall go very far astray in asserting, that very little has been done well, and for this simple reason, that a superficial has almost invariably been substituted for a solid education; that, if we may so speak, the qualities which, from early training, might have been invigorated, and matured in the open airs of heaven, have been fostered, like short-lived exotics, in the sultry atmosphere of a hot-bed. What other cause can be assigned for the style of composition adopted by the " 'poetriæ pica" of modern times, distinguished as they are for luxuriancy of language indeed; which, however, is not inconsistent with barenness of thought. The field of literature is swamped at least, if not fertilized, by the outpourings of the rich ooze of petticoat poetics, through the mouths of the annuals and periodical press; and, to be more metaphorous' still, there is actually no attempting to count the small clustered lights whose united splendour now forms the milky, or, rather, the milk-and-watery, way in the poetical hemisphere. There is no curbing the ladies' Pegasus. One would think that the celestial Nine had opened a nunnery on Parnassus, and that all the race of women were fulfilling therein the exercises of their noviciate still, for the instances of those who have become of the sisterhood we do believe are very rare as yet; rare as they are, however, Mrs. Hemans is one of them, who stands at present, in our judgment, and we are, by no means, indifferent judges, having ourselves, ere now, "chewed the laurel," in the same relation to all her compeers, and to all poetesses who have gone before, and we should not be surprised if we might add, to all who shall come after, that Shakespeare bears to Mr. Shiel, Milton to Mr. Robert Montgomery, or Lord

Lord Byron to Miss Hannah Maria Bourke.

“And who, pray, is Miss H. M. Bourke ?" saith the reader.

"I am not exactly prepared to tell," replies the writer.

"I should like to know something of her," says the reader.

"You shall enjoy the same degree of acquaintance which we have been honoured with ourselves," rejoins the writer.

"How soon, pray, Mr. Writer?” "Very shortly, gentle reader." We should have been most happy, really, so sincere is our admiration of Mrs. Heman's poetry, if circumstances had put it in our power, for we lacked not the inclination, to pay her what we shall call a virgin compliment; that ours might have been the first beam of popular sunshine to light upon the opening blossom of her hopes, or, to speak in plain parlance, that we might have been enabled to say the first fine thing that was said upon the subject of her first fine poem; but we must only be content to walk in this, as in all else, in the luminous track of our dearly be loved Christopher North; and when his enthusiasm is excited, his gallantry awakened, his feelings taken captive by the melody of a woman's lute, and the eloqunece of his praise allowed to flow freely from the fountain of his manly and honest heart, we Antony Poplar, shall not be ashamed to catch the "cadentia verba" of such a master, and murmur a heart-felt "ditto" to his noble and well-won eulogies. Of the birth, parentage, or education of Miss Hannah Maria Bourke-to whom we are bound to give precedence in the following random observations upon the "Western Lights," for many reasons besides common politeness; principally because we have been treating, through the greater part of this article, upon the necessary qualifications of a female writer-we are left in the dark, and consequently can only proceed upon surmise. Of her country she makes no more mention than "the blind old man of Scio's rocky isle" has made of his in the course of two tolerably long poems; however, Miss Bourke's "Romaunt" supplies us with internal evidence sufficient to identify her as a votary of the Irish muse, and a native of that enchanting region, Killarney, whose memory shall survive in the

seven cantos of " O'Donoughue," long after its mountains shall have been thrown into the lakes to make a good level for a rail-road. Miss B. is, undoubtedly to be comprehended in that numerous class of authors of which we made honourable mention at the commencement of this article. The situation in which she was discovered, and the various devices she had adopted to avoid detection, plainly showed that she never intended to let the "Prince of Killarney" loose upon the nineteenth century; other circumstances lead us to believe that she would have preferred to appear when the greater number of the poets who, unfortunately, are still fresh in our recollections, had been utterly forgotten, and particularly Sir W. Scott, for reasons which may appear heareafter. Under these circumstances it may be considered ungenerous in us to have brought forward, so palpably against her inclination, this fair, no doubt, and modest minstrel, blooming, like a night-blowing Cereus, in the dark; but really we are both jealous and envious, and should be much more inclined to treat ourselves to a delicacy now, than attempt to feast, like the guest of the Barmecide, upon the mere idea of what was to be enjoyed by the third generation to come. Besides, what we have already stated cannot but prevent all cavil and captiousness on the part of the hyper-critical and fastidious, convinced, as they must be, that "O'Donoughue" is a bonne bouche of which these literary cannibals never dreamed; therefore they must be thankful wherein they are pleased, and upon what they cannot comprehend, for "the mystery of obscurity by no means infers the severity of obloquy," they are bound to make no comment.

How true is it that there is nothing new under the sun. And if this may be affirmed with certainty of every thing, of course poetry is included, which we have been led to believe from our past experience, may be fairly considered as something. Miss Bourke, for instance, bears a marvellous resemblance to Sir Walter Scott; but it also appears that the latter was indebted in some degree to the author of Christabel, which said author was doubtless under some slight compliment to some person or persons unknown. Byron was not altogether original, even in his hypochondriaes :

Milton, also, has made pretty considerable use of some of his predecessors. Now, under such circumstances, when the Lady of the Lake opens with

"Harp of the North that mouldering long hath hung

On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring."

And O'Donoughue, the Prince of Killarney, bursts into full leaf with

"Harp of the West that long hast silent lain

In the dark ruins of Tara's once gay hall."

Allowing for Pegasus changing the trot in the last line of Miss B's. invocation, while he continues in the same quiet jog through Sir W. S.'s; we must acknowledge, that there exists a pardonable species of similarity, and only what might be expected from the enthusiasm of admiration which might induce any artist to identify, as much as possible, the copy with the model. We further have a very distinct remembrance of a most judicious and remarkable note occurring somewhere in the course of an unsuccessful poem, which was intended to obtain a ViceChancellor's prize, an object, however, in which the writer did not privail, and, "fired that the house rejected him, he swore s'death he'd print it, and shame the fools;" accordingly to press it went, and from thence to the shelf, where, with the exception of the unprofitable hundred or two, which are sent out upon the world, branded with the author's compliments, the grand body of the first edition awaits, with the most angelic placidity the award of posterity.

But to return to the note, to which we alluded: the poet makes a tolerably fair inroad upon Campbell's Lochiel; however, he acknowledges the fact, and though he does not actually permit Campbell to make reprisals, according to the system of the "lex talionis," yet he has the obsequiousness to hope, that the plagiarism will be pardoned, the stolen strangers having seemed so peculiarly apt for the occasion. We confess, we cheerfully forgive the spoliators of the spawn of all such * minnows' as Campbell, Moore, &c.; but what if this principle were to embrace a wider range? Suppose, gentle reader, that we, Antony Poplar and Co., were to take lodgings for the sea

son in the Acropolis, or loll for an hour or so on the Bridge of sighs, ought Mr. Murray, or ought he not, to take umbrage at our publishing • Childe Poplar, a Romaunt, if we inserted a note to the effect, that we hoped his indulgence for reprinting Childe Harold as an original of our own, having found Lord B.'s sentiments 'so peculiarly apt for the occasion? At all events, we have said enough to vindicate Miss B. even though she divided her cantos into The Chase, The Prophecy, The Combat, The Feast, &c., which Sir W. S. had done before her. We shall present the reader with a few random specimens of O'Donohue the style and imaginative powers of the fair writer being evidently many degrees above the mediocrity of our modern bards, while her somewhat novel, though certainly not altogether, so far as the rhyme goes, inefficient adaptation of unusual senses to the tritest of terms, deserves credit for the boldness of the enterprize however marked by deficiency in prudence. For example, a Mangerton morning

"While joyous over hill and dale,
Rung loud the merry matin peal
Of every feather'd warbler blight,
Fluttering in the golden light
**

*

Like to that gentle lullaby

*

Of Sylphids in their moon-lit bowers. Which comes like heaven's melody,

At even tide thro' summer bowers."

There is enough in the four lines last quoted to constitute Miss H. M. B. the L, E, L. of Killarney-we have the lulaby, the sylphids, moonlight, bowers, heaven's melody, even-tide and summer flowers, which are appointed the "sweet organ pipes" for the melody above. Now what would any carver and gilder of common places ask further than the foregoing, to stock the baby house of his brain with?

Heroes and heroines, ghosts, devils, battle, and murder, with an episode, consisting of the usual ingredients, love, despair, madness, and suicide in a dungeon, are not more suitable in their subject and detail for the composition of a male epic, than are nature and her loveliness, the almost peculiar topics of female metrical discussion-and this is but as it should be. Woman with the taste and delicacy of the bee, probes and extracts the rarest sweets from the lowliest blossoms be

fore which that donkey biped, man, would prefer to cranch a thistletop. Pray reader, if you are awake, read Miss B. upon the site of Dunlo Castle.

"Round it flowers of every bloom

Wasted on the air their sweet perfume;
And cyprus trees their amber wept,
O'er beds of rose and violet,
And there the hop and eglantine
Crept round the iler, ash and pine,
While honeysuckle peeped between
The branches of each hazel screen!
The Fawn and lambkin sported there-
The stately swan sail'd on the mere,
And goldfinch, linnet, lark, and dove,
Sang and coo'd in every grove!

There is a tableau that would make Pan blush for his Arcadia! Dunlo is a complete Irish paradise, with, as the Exeter showmen say "all kinds of hanimals, including hanimal birds and hanimal fish," the prodigal flowers wasting their superabundant perfume! the cyprus, like the "sorrowing sea-bird" in Lalla Rookh, weeping amber! the hop, not jumping vulgarly, but creeping round the ilex! and the sly honeysuckle taking a peep through the filberts, just to show what fine clover the lambkins were in: lastly, the aviary in every grove, for, doubtless, there were a dozen! Really Miss B. we are neither more nor less than Tytirised already; we recline beneath the shade of the spreading beech, and impovisatrise in honour of the woodland muse, with the rude minstrelsy of our oaten pipe; all your fair sketch of rural scenery required was a brindled cow, or a fat ox, and we should have been bucolic for ever. If you can, put a bull in your second edition, they go admirably in a line with four feet, perhaps because they are quadrupeds themselves. But gently, Miss B., what is this?

"Short did the beauteous vision last-
For sudden blew an headlong blast,
And swept beneath the dark blue mere
The little boat and maiden fair,
He heard the plash! and piercing cry
Of one in death's last agony;
It died away as closed the wave,
And all was silent as the grave;
The lake, the sky, was bright, serene,
Nor vestige of the wreck was seen,
Save that a little white pannier
Fill'd with flowers, floated near;
Soon plung'd the Ostman in the tide,
Dashing with sinewy arms aside
The waters false-quick did exhume !
The lovely Rhinda from the tomb.

We remember, in the earlier stage of our academic discipline, having met with a captious examiner in the Æneid, who certainly censured most unwarrantably an exertion on our part of the VOL. I.

jus proprium patria-the privilege of bull-making upon our translating "viros mediis exponit in undis," "lands the heroes in the midst of the waters." Now, Miss B. we should think a pretty fair authority for such a figure of speech, if, as no doubt she did, she meant that the Ostman really exhumed Rhinda from the "closed wave," and we conclude that Miss B. owes us as good a bull in her next "Pastoral," which, however, we do not hope to be paid either by a draft upon J. K. L. or the Pope.

A little learning is a dangerous thing, and, in truth, among the many exemplifications of this maxim, which the Prince of Killarney" affords, we cannot select a more appropriate than the subjoined.

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"The monarch blew a blast to guide
The frail skiff to the island side;
And saw with pleasure, flutter light,
The pendant of the Dunlo knight,
Waving like Sappho's plumage fair,
O'er the clear surface of the mere.'

We have consulted our memories, which, however, are certainly none of the best, and for this reason we have had recourse to a few authorities which are very far from the worst, and yet have not been able to discover any grounds for furnishing Sappho with a pair of wings. No doubt Miss B. was acquainted with the classical legend about "dying swans," and we will not assert that she was not familiar with Horace's egotistical metamorphosis, "mutor in alitem," probably, therefore, she may imagine she could not do better than "feather" the Lesbian maid also. We are left to our own conjectures, however, what genus the "Tenth Muse" belonged to, whether a halcyon or a cormorant, or whether, as she assuredly has been ranked by Miss B. in the class of "aquatics" she might not at once, from the nature of her last exploit at Leucate, be concluded a fair specimen of a "Jenny Diver."

There is a further curious piece of information in the following lines, if they are correct in what they state.

"And now upon the dark blue tide,
A small black speck was seen to glide,
Like as upon the Ganges' stream,
At sunset flits the solar beam."

Really it is a pity that the knowledge of Geography and Astronomy in the foregoing extract should be so sadly obscured by the-we think-untenable simile in the comparison of a

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beam" performing a farewell pirouette on the Ganges, to the sober gliding of a "black speck" on the "Mucruss mere."

Among the various perilous and too often fatal occupations which we have both heard and read of the Alpine hunters being engaged in, we were never apprised of the nature and objects of their lighter pursuits until this moment; but so it is, that Sir Joseph Bankes, of entomological memory, has many a rival of his fame in the neigh bourhood of Mont Blanc who, we trust, may obtain a like immortality in the cantos of "O'Donoughue," to that which was generously conferred on Sir Joseph in the lyrics of Peter Pindar.

"O'Donoghue stood upon the prow,
His dark plumage waving over his brow,
So stands on lofty pinnacle

The A

His fin

Over-hanging chasm, deep, and dell,
hunter holding there
-woven silken snare,
To cate the gaudy butterfly,
Fluttering in the summer sky!

We close our extracts from this very entertaining poem, by a specimen of the fair Miss B.'s descriptive powers, which are graphic in the extreme. A serf of O'Donoughue's is furnishing a likeness of his sovereign for the edification of the Ostman whom we have mentioned already.

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"Thou knowest our prince has no compeer,
As hero bold he stands premier,
The first in war, the last in peace,

Of giant frame and cherub face-
Compared to his, the falcon's eye

Is not more sharp, for bird or fly,
That ever soar'd aloft on wing,
By arrow shot he down will bring,
Nor is his hand inferior to
His gazzle eye of brightest blue."

So much for O'Donoghue's "personel." We cannot, however, give the palm to Miss B. in this department in preference to the minstrel of " Monckton Castle." Let the reader observe the pathos and simplicity of the following:

"Naithlesse to stablish her rights, I ween,
Lived in this castle young Cherubine,
Her cheeks, where dimples made beauteous
breach,

Daintily dawned, and the down on each
Was soft as fur of unfingered peach;
Her glances shot out a dewy flame,

And the sky is blue, and her eyes were the

*

same!"

*

Yet her favored warden could he but sing,
He not unlistened would touch the string,
Tho' he was a man of uuchiselled face,
From eye to eye too petty a space,
Ajester withouten one attic joke-

And the greatest liar that ever spoke!"

carries the day. He sketches the qualities, mental and personal, with the hand of a master, leaving no deficiency for the indolent imagination to form its still more idle conjectures about. But time and space, which, so far from annihilating, we have not the power even to controul, urge us towards a close, yet before we conclude our remarks upon "O'Donoughue," which abounds with peculiarities similar to those already quoted, besides occasional defiances of the ordinary and unpoetical rules of grammar, we would, with all deference, suggest to Miss B., as to all the fair worhippers of the "Vocal Nine," the propriety of such serious study as would embrace a very extended course of polite literature, as also some share of the graver departments of knowledge. The present age is too refined not to turn with disgust from conceptions, no matter how original, or the traits of natural genius, it matters not how bright, if clothed in the grovelling and unsuitable language which only ignorance can supply, and which the self-conceit of too many vain-glorious authors will never permit them to make the effort to amend. What becomes of the hero with the " gazzle eye," and the heroines of the poem whose names we need not enumerate, of the ghosts, fairies, and banshees, of which there is a plentiful sprinkling? and what will become of the seven cantos which bear a slight resemblance to those of the Lady of the Lake in their names, and none whatever in their contents, once that we have consigned them to the shelf from whence they cameupon all these issues we shall allow the reader's fancy the most unlimited scope of divination, from the lowest degree of probability to the very apex of the most unqualified assurance. The next on our list is rather a strange composition, and cannot be passed without a brief notice, for two reasons-the first, that we enjoyed a very exquisite description of the author's indignation at his publishers, because they presumed to bring out The Mountain Spirit" on a wet day! to which he attributed the dampening of the public ardour and the necessary consequence of the first edition remaining, to a copy, "in statu quo." He must be an original, if this were the sole proof he could adduce of his utter singularity, and therefore de

In our humble opinion the "Minstrel" serves a remark en passant, as upon the

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