"The devil take both!' thought I. From the extent of their preparations, it was quite evident that it would not be any fault of theirs, if the sulky gentleman or myself was not, as they say in Connaught, left quivering on a daisy.'" But we have already exceeded our limits. Our reputation, as thoroughbred critics, might, however, suffer if we were not to add a word or two of reproof. We must, therefore, hunt for a fault; and we will accordingly remark, that with great general fidelity to nature, our able novelist does occasionally forget the situation of his characters. For instance, he exalts a soubrette wholly above her vocabulary, when he makes her talk of badinage; and in verity our friend Phoebe is altogether too lofty for her calling. Sophia Moreland's first interview with her hero's cousin is something too forward for female delicacy; and we must protest against the uniform process of osculation with which the whole generation of Blakes close every scene in which they are concerned with the other sex. It is strange even for the amatory audacity of a Galway are un cavalier. The humour of the newspaper citations is perhaps too often repeated in the course of these most humorous volumes. But these minor matters, and little impair that general effect which has led us hesitatingly to pronounce this novel the pleasantest of the year. No author, within our experience, has sketched with such truth, that fastfading complexion of society once so universal in Ireland, and still retaining a decaying tenure in its western province. The boundless hospitality, the more than feudal loyalty that characterised the domestic economy of the old Irish gentleman, mingled with darker traits-extravagance, intemperance, and the prompt vengeance of the pistol-all these things are depicted in the language, it would appear, of real experience. That state of society had its bright side. And in sooth we hardly know whether to grieve or to rejoice, that such traits seem likely, before long, to live only in the pages of our author and his fellow-labourers in the domain of the Irish novel. THE AVENged bride.* EVERY body acknowledges that poetry has gone to the dogs, and verses are at a discount. Helicon, like Harrowgate, is haunted by stale blues and discarded bachelors. Parnassus has become a hill of "no reputation;" and, like a blessed well, the Pierian spring is resorted to by none but fools and drivellers. Twenty years since, and things were different. Where are those whose sweet numbers youth loved to repeat, and age to listen to? Alas! we must give a sorry answer, Scott and Byron, Crabbe and Coleridge, gone to their last account. Of Southey and the "Lakers" we seldom hear. Moore is a pedler in politics, and Campbell a wanderer in Algiers, after becoming the twaddling chronicler of a defunct actress. It is melancholy to dwell upon the decline and fall of the "gentle art." Verses come still-born from the press, and a canto, now-a-days, is avoided like a country cousin. It is true, that, to the honored dead, a host of titled and untitled pretenders have succeeded; annuals infest the drawing-room; albums are plentier than almanacs; and "The Traveller" and "Rape of the Lock" have yielded up their honors to I've been roaming" and "Oh no, we never mention her." All this is heart-sinking; but amid the Baotian gloom, occasional sparks still coruscate. Wordsworth has done something lately, and he has A Tale of the Glens. By Alexander Markham, Esq. Belfast, Hodgson; and Dublin, Milliken and Son. done it well. Our merry partner (en quadrille) Letty Landon continues in full song. Indeed the "mantle of the muse" appears to have been latterly seized on by the softer sex; and like certain masculine habiliments, which fashion has decreed to be unmentionable, the ladies cling to it with a desperate tenacity, which augurs but little inclination on their part to render back the garment they have won. Is it not then refreshing-as Leigh Hunt would say amid this lyric desolation, to catch a gleam of better hope and while poets have disappeared by the dozen, to find at last a claimant for the bays? Such is the case-and those whom the "romaunts" of Scott and Byron once charmed, will turn with delight to the exciting numbers of the "Bard of the Glens." To analyze this Irish epic, is not our present intention; and it would be a task of no small delicacy on our part, to select beauties where all is beautiful, and cull "sweets from the sweet." Ours, then, for many reasons, must be a brief and hurried notice-but the essay shall be made-and as Mr. Markham playfully sings, "Here goes— We'll fight it out, no matter what befals." Now, if any body imagines, for a moment, that we are going to accommodate him with the story "cut and dry," he will find himself grievously disappointed. Yet to extract from the poem is the difficulty; for it is so equal as a whole, that with a safe conscience, we could not pass over a single stanza. This, to Mr. Markham, would be injustice; and on our parts, a piratical proceeding deserving of a place upon the treadmill. We shall, therefore, only favor the reader with a short synopsis of the tale, as a showman lifts the corner of the blanket to stimulate the curiosity of the doubting boy, who hesitates whether to sport his "browns" for a peep at Punch, or a pennyworth of gingerbread. Rapid as our notice must be, we feel nevertheless convinced, that all and every who reads our review, and who can beg, borrow, or steal the book, will. not "let fall the windows of their eyes" until they have perused the And here it is necessary to remark, that he, Kirke, is not related in any way to the worthy author of the "Age of Reason." The first canto opens with an affectionate address to Ireland. Of course she is ill used and neglected; "her bards grown old;" her lyre covered with dust; nobody left to rattle the wires, "and o'er its chords the soul of music fling." This is hard enough; but the thing becomes intolerable, when it has been occasioned by the indolence of Mr. Thomas Moore, who, as it appears, does nothing but sleep at Sloperton. He is feelingly requested to resume his harp, sing his own melodies again, and "Send slaves and tyrants to the Stygian lake." But Mr. Markham has doubts that even his invocation may remove the apathy of Master Tom : "And shouldst thou, Moore, once more to sing refuse, And leave the glory to some other bard; Oh drop on me the mantle of thy muse! The thing I ask I know is something hard." We think so too,-and confess the prayer of the petition appears to us unreasonable. That one bard should unrobe merely to oblige another is unfair; and even if little Anacreon did consent to accommodate Mr. Markham with the mantle aforesaid, it would hardly make a shooting jacket for the "bard of the glens." Nor is our gifted countryman insensible to the perils that assail "the young aspirant after fame." "I have," quoth he, "to cope with mighty foes; Mad, heartless critics, (a dread host) with all Their sharp artillery, may me oppose And hunt me down as sharks would hunt a grawl; Yet tho' e'en thus oppos'd, I'll write-here goes!" Only stipulating that the "gentle muse" shall effect some repairs upon his person and wardrobe, "Oh help me both my hand and seat to mend!" The scene of this interesting poem lies in the county of Antrim, and the immediate vicinity of the castle of Dunluce, the most extensive golgotha on record. Not Thrasimene's once ensanguined plain, has a hard drink with the old one and his "hopeful props ;" tumbles into bed, "buoyant with delight;" and his eyes and the Canto close together. Canto the Second has some love, loud alarms, and a desperate “set to" and Macquillen. between Messrs. Macdonald, Macauley, Canto Three is particularly bustling and pathetic. The heroine, Adelia, is in deep distress; Macquillen arrives to comfort her; but before she is composed, Macdonald drives up, riding on the car of Fortune, to besiege Dunluce. An assualt is made "The castle's gain'd,'and one wild mingling ery Of dying groans and women's shrieks arise." Ned Macquillen, "in his agony," endeavours to blow up the building and the bride, but Macdonald cuts him down. Adelia losing her husband and her temper, "Now no longer mild, Through blood-stain'd ranks impetuously rush'd," It would appear that a general peace had sent the Highland chiefs "in anguish home," like disbanded militia requests the loan of thunder and men. There was no chance of kicking lightning-curses Macdonald awfully up a row; "they saw, in fact, 'twas and concludes with this unchristian useless," and all submitted "to be of supplicationthe peace," but one youth of uncommon pluck and small property. His mother observed his anxiety— "I've marked, my son, the anguish of thy mind, Thy wonted spirits' buoyancy decline; A longer silence now would be unkind, So, cheer up, brave youth, you must no longer pine." The old lady then relates her marriage and misfortunes, and assures him that he has an estate in Ireland, and nobody to keep him out of it but the right owner. Mr. Macdonald determines to claim the fodeein, and accordingly embarks that very night. A quick passage brought him "Before Aurora's vanguard's varied light," within sight of the Causeway, "Which, when once seen, you must for ever see, Our nation's bulwark, founded on the main, The prop of Albion and the scourge of Spain." And after a smart run through "a hell of waters" and a "foaming Phlegethon," he anchored safely in "the bay of Cushendun." There he lands--is received hospitably by Sir Hugh, and "Two valiant youths of Herculean mould;" "Oh! let me but avenge this bloody deed On him and his, before from earth I'm borne! Grant me but this-that I may see them bleed! And clothe me with all sorts of shame and scorn; Let mis'ry, pain, affliction, be my meedOutcast of earth-shunn'd, hated, and forlornAll, all I'll bear, tho' countless years roll o'er" She said then vanish'd, and was heard no more!" Canto the Fourth opens with a description of Glengariff, and a denunciation against Atheism. Man, it apalone;" for "having broken his heart's pears, passim, is not "form'd to live ice," "He feels, though living, he was deadFor without her, what is the May of life? 'Tis then he feels the lonely life he's led, And his objections to return grow rife; 'Tis then he thinks 'twere better he should wed, And ere he's 'fallen into the sear,' take wife; 'Tis then he feels her power, and in a trice Resolves, like Benedict, to have Beatrice." This latter couplet we object to"in a trice" rhymes badly to" Beatrice;" and in the next edition, which we opine will be required within a fortnight, we would suggest the substitution of the following: Of married sweets he fain would have a slice, Then we have moonlight, and its seductive effect upon the soul, with an awful exception; for "One troubled bosom could not find repose." This turns out to be our old acquaintance, Mr. Macdonald. He can't sleep, gets up, puts on his dressing gown, and sets off nant at being found en deshabillé, and inquires, "Who dares t' intrude at such an hour, To tempt my vengeance, and defy my power ?** Macdonald modestly disclaims any intention of the sort-acquaints her that he has had "a horrid dream"requests her "counsel's aid"—and threatens her if she refuses. To this the lady replies "with wild demoniac joy," "And though life's taper seem'd about t'expire, She spoke with fierceness, frenzy, rage and fire." The tete-a-tete is interrupted by 'guilt's chosen minister and instrument," Mr. Kirke, who has made an onslaught on the glen, and finished the Macdonalds, young and old. Of course a combat ensues; Mac breaks Kirke's head and his own sword; and "O'er dark'ning rocks, and hill, and dale, and in return Kirke shoots Macdonald, stream," who in the real Marmion style, Of Wizard Mona, at the dead night;" gets mortally alarmed; and while listening" in the climax of his terror," "In wild, unmeasured strains the sibyl sung'I've leagued with a tyrantWell worthy is he, To be an aspirant For vengeance with me; To act in my cause, His chargers are bitted, Not a moment he'll pause; Unsated with blood, his fell minions won't dare To shrink from his orders-a victim to spare!' "A kind of stupor o'er Macdonald fell, As these wild accents struck upon his ear." And no wonder; but, "spurning fear," be gets what they call in racing, “second wind," kicks in the door, and confronts the old card-cutter. She being attired in a scanty robe," which, a la Nora Crina, "in tatters floated round her withered form," is naturally indig "Death o'er Macdonald his dark mantle spreads," the old card-cutter vanishes, "And nought of her has since been heard or seen," Such is the outline of the story; and as to the poetry, we hinted ab initio, that the admirers of the good old school would declare the Avenged Bride" delectable. To many of "the better brothers" of Parnassus, there is an identity of thought and a similarity of expression, that will strike even a careless reader as remarkable; and it is marvellous that, to persons who sought "the phantom fame" by the most opposite roads, this observation of ours will apply-to Scott, Byron, Moore, and Sheridan, the great unknowns who indited Robin Hood and the Groves of Blarney-a striking analogy of sentiment exists: ay, and even that honest and independent statesman, Mr. Daniel O'Connell, has not escaped a literary collision with him of "the glens." In Mr. Markham's "The crimson flag that floated on the wall The horse was peut within his quiet stall, Of the deep dark donjon; no sound could you hear, Save where the warder's tread struck dully on the ear." brought every mother soul of them to the halberts, although Roebuck and Joe Hume, with every twaddling radical, who dreads a raw back and the pillory, should make a "star-chamber matter of it," and bring the bride and bard "before the house." In stanza 43--we must uplift our voice, and remonstrate with Mr. Markham-for thrice, and in a single couplet, has he invaded the real or adopted property of a brace of patriots; to wit, Tom Moore and Dan O'Connell. "Like the expiring bird of Araby, A nation yet might rise, great, glorious, and free!" As to Tommy's bird, we should hardly arraign him of "the glens" if he abstracted the whole aviary. Mr. Markham is a desperate admirer of Mr. If we quote correctly from memory, Moore; and surely the latter might thus Sir Walter wrote "Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, "Saint George's banner, broad and gay, The evening gale had scarce the power oblige him with a "Bulbul” or “butterfly of Cashmere" from his extensive collection, as it's "nae lost what a friend gets;" but to invade the property of honest Dan-to despoil him of a moiety of his poetic possessions-to leave him with but one solitary flower to garnish the "crambe repetita" delivered to the "Tail" and "the unwashed :" this is indeed too bad-we feel for the Liberator from our souls, and are horrified at the bare possibility of "some rhyming poetess or maudlin peer" usurping "hereditary bondsmen" next, and leaving him no oratorical resources but hard names and stout assertion. "In great emergencies there is nothing like a prayer," says Mr. Puff; and so thinks Mr. Markham; and here, too, we trace an analogy between the dead dramatist and living poet. "Hear, gentle goddess! this my humble prayer, And take thy votary to thy special care," Leicester Now, gentle reader, mark the similarity of these passages. We have "Norham's castled steep," versus "Redbay's castellated" ditto; both flags are heavy and lazy; both buildings provided with a donjon, where groaning and weeping is the order of the day; and both, of course, have a warder duly perched upon the battlements. Scott has his scouts upon the alert, while the "look-out man" keeps quoth Mr. Macdonald. Now hear Lord himself awake with the butt-end of a "border-gathering song." This is all as it should be: but what do Mr. Markham's castle-guard ?-like the sentries in the "Critic," go as leisurely to sleep as if sitting in a conventicle! We were tempted with Sneer to inquire, Isn't that odd at such an alarming crisis?” and, indeed, it struck us as such a flagrant breach of military discipline, that we opine, even in poetical justice, Mr. Markham should have "O mighty Mars! if, in thy homage bred, But the strongest similarity lies be- |