If Dibdin had not written so many sea-songs, his reputation would have been enhanced in critical estimation. We admire his genius as much, and relish his themes and their treatment as keenly as anybody; but we think at least three-fourths of his sea-songs might be annihilated without any material loss to literature, and with a certainty of placing Dibdin on a yet higher pedestal of fame in the opinion of posterity. We have carefully considered all his acknowledged lyrics of the class in question, and our impression is, that at most not more than a score are deserving of permanent preservation, or worthy of the name and fame of their author.

A score, then, let us say, of Dibdin's sea-songs are excellent, and of this number some half-dozen are truly first-rate. Whatever depreciatory remarks we have previously thought it right to make, apply only to the great mass of the songs- not to the noblyexceptional few; for the latter, although not faultless, are really of the very highest merit. Who can read "Poor Tom Bowling" without acknowledging its heart-subduing pathos? The language is beautiful, the melody is exquisite, the simple words are felicitously chosen, the sentiment is appropriate all is in perfect keeping; and the result is, an unique, matchless composition, a gem that will be treasured as long as the literature of our country exists. "Poor Jack is another piece which will assuredly enjoy an enduring popularity. Let us quote one grand verse which strikingly exemplifies what we said about Dibdin's earnest, manly way of advocating an ever-cheerful performance of duty, and reliance on Providence, and resignation to the will of God :—

"D'ye mind me, a sailor should be, every inch, All as one as a piece of the ship;

And with her brave the world, without off'ring to flinch,

From the moment the anchor's a-trip.

As to me, in all weathers, all times, tides and ends,
Nought's a trouble from duty that springs;
For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my
friend's,

And as for my life, 'tis the King's.

Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft,
As with grief to be taken aback;
For that same little cherub that sits up aloft
Will look out a good berth for poor Jack !"

"Jack at the Windlass" is a masterly picture of the mood in which sailors often go to sea; and amid its satire, the author is careful to let us understand that Jack's natural vein of

good-humour and cheerful obedience underlies all his satire, grumbling, and fault-finding. "The Voyage of Life ” is a capital specimen of a moralising strain, in which Dibdin frequently indulged, when he would compare the ocean and ships to human life and to man, the individual :

"A voyage at sea, and all its strife,
Its pleasure and its pain,
At every point resembles life-
Hard work for little gain.

The anchor's weighed, smooth is the flood,
Serene seems every form,

But soon, alas! comes on the scud

That speaks the threatening storm.

.

The voyage through life is various found, The wind is seldom fair;

Though to the Straits of Pleasure bound, Too oft we touch at Care."

"Tom Tackle," "Honesty in Tatters," "True Courage," "Sailor's Consolation," and several other songs, have each particular excellencies; but we can merely allude to them here. Our space will only permit us to speak of two other of Dibdin's pieces - one of which," The Shipwreck," is the finest of all his serious efforts. It is a splendid composition, of a higher order of poetry, and more elevated in tone, and perfect in execution, than any other lyric he ever produced. In conception it is very dramatic; the incidents are natural, and correctly detailed; the imagery is remarkably vivid and appropriate. Had Dibdin never written anything else, it is of itself sufficient to stamp him a true poet; and as it is, we forget all his faults when we read it. We believe this noble piece is much less known than it deserves to be for there is not a finer production of the kind in the whole compass of English literature; and, therefore, we hesitate not to present it entire :

"Avert yon omen, gracious Heaven! The ugly scud,

By rising winds resistless driven,
Kisses the flood.

How hard the lot for sailors cast,
That they should roam
For years, to perish thus at last
In sight of home!

For if the coming gale we mourn
A tempest grows,

Our vessel's shatter'd so and torn,
That down she goes!

"The tempest comes, while meteors red Portentous fly;

And now we touch old. Ocean's bed,!
Now reach the sky!

On sable wings, in gloomy flight,
Fiends seem to wait

To snatch us in this dreadful night,
Dark as our fate:

Deceitful sorrow, cheerless lightDreadful to think,

The morn is risen, in endless night

Our hopes to sink!

She splits! she parts !-through sluices driven
The water flows!

Adieu, ye friends! have mercy Heaven!
For down she goes!"

The best song (strictly speaking) that even the king of the sea-poets produced, remains to be noticed. We allude, of course, to the "True English Sailor," which he must have written in his happiest moment of inspiration. There cannot be two opinions about this song. It is the truest portrait of the English-or British?-sailor ever given to the world in verse. Everybody must recognise its graphic fidelity; and we can vouch for it, that there are at this moment thousands of gallant fellows serving their country in the Baltic and Black Sea fleets, to whom Dibdin's lines are thoroughly applicable. He must indeed be hypercritical who will venture to impeach the general truthfulness of this masterly description of the

"TRUE ENGLISH SAILOR. "Jack dances and sings, and is always content; In his vows to his lass he'll ne'er fail her; His anchor's a-trip when his money's all spentAnd this is the life of a sailor.

"Alert in his duty, he readily flies

Where the winds the tired vessel are flinging, Though sunk to the sea-gods, or toss'd to the skies, Still Jack is found working and singing.

"'Longside of an enemy, boldly and brave,

He'll with broadside on broadside regale her; Yet he'll sigh to the soul o'er that enemy's grave, So noble's the mind of a sailor.

"Let cannon roar loud, burst their sides let the bombs,

Let the winds a dread hurricane rattle, The rough and the pleasant he takes as it comes, And laughs at the storm and the battle.

"In a fostering Power while Jack puts his trust, As Fortune comes smiling he'll hail her; Resign'd still, and manly, since what must be

must

And this is the mind of a sailor.

"Though careless and headlong, if danger should

press,

And rank'd 'mongst the free list of rovers,
Yet he'll melt into tears at a tale of distress,
And prove the most constant of lovers.

"To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave,
Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer,
He's gentle as mercy, as fortitude brave-
And this is a true English sailor."

Although Dibdin is the king of our sea-poets, yet he is not the author of

the greatest naval (and truly national) lyric in existence. Of course we allude to Campbell's "Mariners of England;" and only second to that glorious effusion of genuis is the same poet's "Battle of the Baltic." It is merely necessary to name them here, for they are so universally known and appreciated that criticism or eulogy would alike be sheer impertinence.

It is worthy of remark that, with the exception of Charles Dibdin, no poet has produced anything like a series of sea-songs. From the latter end of the eighteenth century up to the present time, a considerable number of very popular sea-songs have been published; but in hardly any instance have more than one or two of these pieces been written by the same author. We shall now briefly notice a few of these solitary productions that have attained the greatest celebrity. "The Arethusa" (by Prince Hoare) is one of this class, and it has ever been especially popular in the navy, owing partly to the fame won by the gallant frigate commemorated, and partly to the dashing, breezy, chivalric style in which it is written - a style particularly calculated to please men-of-war's-men. This is the first stanza (one very fine line of which we italicise) :

"Come, all ye jolly sailors bold,

Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould,
While English glory I unfold-

Huzza to the Arethusa!
She is a frigate tight and brave
As ever stemm'd the dashing wave:
Her men are stanch

To their fav'rite launch,
And when the foe shall meet our fire,
Sooner than strike we'll all expire,

On board of the Arethusa."

Incledon frequently sang "The Arethusa," in a style that probably aided not a little to win its popularity.

The "Old Commodore" used to be immensely popular, and it certainly is a very clever and thoroughly sailorlike song; but, unfortunately, it is intolerably coarse in language, and is only fit, on that account, to be sung in a forecastle, even if there, now-a-days. Another anonymous song (at least we have not been able to obtain any copy with the author's name) of greater merit, and of almost equal popularity, is that entitled "Harry Bluff." It may, however, be unknown to many of our readers, and we think so highly of its style and sentiment that we shall insert it without further comment.

Dibdin himself might have been proud to have written-as a worthy compapanion-song to his "True English Sailor"

"HARRY BLUFF.

"Harry Bluff, when a boy, left his friends and his home,

His dear native land, on the ocean to roam ;
Like a sapling he sprung, he was fair to the view,
And was true British oak as the older he grew.
Though his body was weak, and his hands they
were soft,

When the signal was given he was first up aloft;
The veterans all said he'd one day lead the van,
And though rated a boy, he'd the soul of a man,
And the heart of a true British sailor.

"When by manhood promoted, and burning for fame,
In peace or in war Harry Bluff was the same;
So true to his love, and in battle so brave,
May the myrtle and laurel entwine o'er his grave.
In battle he fell, when by victory crown'd-
The flag shot away fell in tatters around;
The foe thought he'd struck, when he cried out,
Avast!'

And the colours of old England he nailed to the mast,

And he died like a true British sailor!

One of the most gifted of modern English song-writers, Barry Cornwall, is author of "The Sea;" and a more popular production of its class has not been written during the present generation. Everybody must have read it, or heard it sung. It may be bold to impugn the verdict of the public, which has been unequivocally mani fested in favour of this remarkable song; but, whilst we appreciate its merits, and admire it as a very fine literary composition, we cannot conscientiously class it with the best songs of Dibdin, or with several sea-songs by various authors much less popular. In our opinion it is far too artificial and forced in sentiment. Whatever enthusiasm the author may have felt regarding the sea, his song has no racy salt-water smack; and were you to ask a blue-jacket his opinion, he would shift his quid, and contemptuously tell you that a Cockney must have written it. And there is a Cockney twang about it. When we carefully con it over, and weigh its words and their legitimate meaning, we feel that, however spirited it may be in a literary sense, it lacks the soul that animates the breast of the genuine sea-poet; and we fancy that the author drew his inspiration from the Thames, or, at most, from a trip in a Margate hoy, or in a steam-boat to Boulogne. The very poorest of Dibdin's songs-however carelessly written and paltry in theme- have a natural touch about them, a salt-water flavour, a sailorlike tone and air, which Barry Cornwall's celebrated song wofully

lacketh. no true sea-poet would have written, and no seaman will care to sing; but it is excellently adapted to gratify the tastes of all fresh-water sailors, amateur river yachtsmen, and fervent admirers of T. P. Cooke. In a word, it is a platform and drawing-room song -an abundantly clever melodramatic effusion, which will extremely delight those who derive their notion of the ocean from a voyage to the buoy at the Nore, and their knowledge and beau-ideal of seamen from the performance of the heroes of nautical dramas on the stage. We are expressing an honest opinion, which we feel competent and qualified to pronounce; and, although we thus broadly protest against the indiscriminate eulogies so often lavished on "The Sea! the Sea the open Sea!" we yet are warm admirers of the generality of Barry Cornwall's noble English songs. Nature, however, never intended him for a sea-poet. He should not venture lower down the Thames than Gravesend; or, at the utmost, he must not quit the soundings of the Channel. When his lead ceases to bring up sand and shells, let him immediately put about, and bear up for the river again; for, although he assures us that

The latter is a song which

"If a storm should come, and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep"(!)—

yet we don't believe him; and, knowing, as we do, that he would be infallibly sea-sick even in crossing the Straits of Dover, we tremble at the mere supposition of seeing our helpless friend (who has spent "full fifty summers a rover's life") tossed about like a shuttlecock on the merciless and remorseless billows of the North Atlantic an ocean that may be said to hold all amateur "rovers" in especial scorn, for it has never yet failed to shake all their amiable, nonsensical enthusiasm out of them in less than twenty-four hours after they ventured to ride its royal waves!

Allan Cunningham's "A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea" is well deserving of its popularity. A nautical critic would, perhaps, object to some expressions; but it is, on the whole, a very fine, spirited song, and its sentiment is healthy and natural, and not overstrained nor melodramatic. We think it far superior to Barry Cornwall's more celebrated production.

The length of our article warns us to conclude; yet, before doing so, we would fain notice a very beautiful and affecting piece, entitled "The SailorBoy's Grave," written by Mr. William Ilott. Whether it can be strictly called a sea-song is a question we shall not discuss; but sure are we that it "breathes the very poetry of ocean (to use Herman Melville's expression), and it is worthy, both on the score of subject, sentiment, and language, to be printed in any future collection of the choicest and finest sea-pieces ever written. Our readers will thank us for here presenting them with

"THE SAILOR-BOY'S GRAVE.

"Bright, bright were the sailor-boy's dreams in life's morning,

When hope with its fairy-forms gilded the way, And a thousand sweet visions of happiness dawning, Were spreading their shadows throughout the long day.

Quick, quick beat his heart at the buoyant bark's motion,

For his childhood's first dream-his first loveWere the foam-crested waves of the wide-spreading

ocean,

With the sun and the sea-bird above.

"Soon, soon were his hopes and his fairy-dreams banish'd;

Not long did they gladden his sight;

For he sickened, and quickly the light of life vanish'd,

Till it wan'd into death's gloomy night.

They buried him then in the shroud they had made him,

'Neath his childhood's first dream-his first loveAnd sea-shells are scattered around where they laid him,

With the sun and the sea-bird above.

"No flowers bloom in beauty; no stone tells his story;

No dirge, save the wind and the wave: No tablet of fame, and no emblem of glory, Are found near the sailor-boy's grave.

Yet his head rests in peace on his coral-rock pillow, 'Neath his childhood's first dream-his first loveAnd the sun, and the sea-bird, and foam-crested billow,

All sparkle in splendour above."

Knowing what we know of the history of certain sailor-boys and their graves, we can hardly read the above exquisite lines without shedding tears. Underneath the desk on which we are now writing there lies at this moment a letter relating the death and burial of a sailor-boy- -a letter written by the captain of the ship to the boy's widowed mother-that even a stranger cannot read without deep emotion.

One parting observation we must not omit. It is, that very few seasongs, or lyrics, or poems, have been

written by practical seamen. We only know two notable exceptions. The first is Falconer, author of "The Shipwreck," and of several sea-odes, &c. ; and the second is Ismael Fitzadam, who is now almost forgotten, and unknown to the existing generation, but who acquired a melancholy celebrity more than thirty years ago. His real name was John Macken; by birth an Irishman; by education a gentleman; by nature a poet. He became a man-o'-war's-man, and fought as such under Lord Exmouth, at the bombardment of Algiers. Subsequently, he wrote and published his "Harp of the Desert," which contains a description of the battle in question It was generously appreciated in some literary quarters; but when Ismael Fitzadam sent a copy of his work and a letter to Lord Exmouth, the latter declined to take any notice of either. Poor Fitzadam, in the bitterness and despair of his heart, then addressed the following very striking and affecting remonstrance to his Admiral :—

"Chief of the Christian host! stern Exmouth, who,
When Britain's thunder, throned upon the sea,
Smote proud Algiers to dust-the slave set free-
Led'st up the fiery hurricane that blew,
And burst in vengeance on the Paynim crew,-
Champion of Faith! rememberest aught of me,
Who that day, 'mid Old England's chivalry,
Did toil beneath thy banners, tough and true?
Then tried, in such mad moment of renown,
To seize the theme-fond Phaton of the wave!
Well, though condemned to brook Oblivion's frown,
Though never poet-wreath my name may save,
Yet of his share, of thine, and victory's crown,
No slight can rob thy minstrel's desert-grave,"

This ill-fated sailor-poet is said to have been a man of keen sensibility and of a very independent spirit. The neglect, the misfortunes, the disappointments, and the hope long deferred (and, alas I never realised) experienced by him, at length broke his manly heart.

"And he! what was his fate-the Bard-
He of the Desert-Harp, whose song
Flowed freely, wildly as the wind
That bore him and his harp along?

"The fate which waits the gifted one

To pine, each finer impulse checked;
At length to sink and die beneath

The shade and silence of neglect."

Thus wrote "L. E. L." when Ismael Fitzadam's death added another name to the long list of victims of neglected genius.

WHERE that singularly beautiful inlet of the sea, known in the west of Ireland as the Killeries, after narrowing to a mere strait, expands into a bay, stands the ruin of the ancient Castle of Glencore. With the bold steep sides of Ben Greggan behind, and the broad blue Atlantic in front, the proud keep would seem to have occupied a spot that might have bid defiance to the boldest assailant. The estuary itself here seems entirely landlocked, and resembles in the wild fantastic outline of the mountains around, a Norwegian fiord, rather than a scene in our own tamer landscape. The small village of Leenane, which stands on the Galway shore, opposite to Glencore, presents the only trace of habitation in this wild and desolate district, for the country around is poor, and its soil offers little to repay the task of the husbandman. Fishing is then the chief, if not the sole resource of those who pass their lives in this solitary region ; and thus, in every little creek or inlet of the shore may be seen the stout craft of some hardy venturer, and nets, and tackle, and such like gear, lie drying on every rocky eminence. We have said that Glencore was a ruin, but still its vast proportions, yet tracable in massive fragments of masonry, displayed specimens of various eras of architecture, from the rudest tower of the twelfth century to the more ornate style of a later period; while artificial embankments and sloped sides of grass showed the remains of what once had been terrace and "parterre," the successors, it might be presumed, of fosse and parapet. Many a tale of cruelty Many a tale of cruelty and oppression, many a story of suffering and sorrow clung to those old walls, for they had formed the home of a haughty and a cruel race, the last descendant of which died in the close of the past century. The Castle of Glencore, with the title, had now descended to a distant relation of the house, who had repaired and so far restored the old residence as to make it habitable that is to say, four bleak

and lofty chambers were rudely furnished, and about as many smaller ones fitted for servant accommodation, but no effort at embellishment, not even the commonest attempt at neatness was bestowed on the grounds or the garden; and in this state it remained for some five-and-twenty or thirty years, when the tidings reached the little village of Leenane that his lordship was about to return to Glencore, and fix his residence there.

Such an event was of no small moment in such a locality, and many were the speculations as to what might be the consequence of his coming. Little, or indeed nothing, was known of Lord Glencore; his only visit to the neighbourhood had occurred many years before, and lasted but for a day. He had arrived suddenly, and, taking a boat at the ferry, as it was called, crossed over to the castle, whence he returned at nightfall, to depart as hurriedly as he came.

Of those who had seen him in this brief visit the accounts were vague and most contradictory. Some called him handsome and well-built; others said he was a dark-looking, downcast man, with a sickly and forbidding aspect. None, however, could record one single word he had spoken, nor could even gossips pretend to say that he gave utterance to any opinion about the place or the people. The mode in which the estate was managed gave as little insight into the character of the proprietor. If no severity was dis played to the few tenants on the property, there was no encouragement given to their efforts at improvement; a kind of cold neglect was the only feature discernible, and many went so far as to say, that if any cared to forget the payment of his rent the chances were it might never be demanded of him; the great security against such a venture, however, lay in the fact, that the land was held at a mere nominal rental, and few would have risked his tenure by such an experiment.

It was little to be wondered at that