ham's minor compositions, and that, in the poem of "The Music Master," the principal piece in this his first published volume, he has detached himself most happily from affectation of every kind, and told, in a strain of almost blameless simplicity and sweetness, one of the most pathetic lovetales in the language. The versification is not unworthy of the ear of a Goldsmith; the diction and method such as Leigh Hunt, to whom the poem is dedicated, might have been well satisfied with in his happiest hours. We cannot pass the name of Leigh Hunt without pausing to waft him an affectionate remembrance. The school of literature which has sprung up from the germs he planted has its weaknesses, its fopperies, perhaps its dangers; but the Dickenses, Tennysons, Brownings, and the rest of the fine flock whom he may call his children, are good and genial souls, from whose fame the old man may derive a just and hoNow nourable addition to his own. to proceed with this poem of Mr. Allingham, the last of the distinguished band who have owed their first appreciation to the kindly and discerning instincts of Leigh Hunt. The MusicMaster, Claude, son of an Italian mother, loves Milly, the daughter of a widower in humble life, in an Irish village. Milly returns his passion, but neither has ventured to disclose the secret: "How shy a strength is Love's, that so much Its darling secret to itself to own! To each of them to be enjoyed alone: "Yet in each heart a prophecy there breathes, Arrayed in fairer hues than sunlight weaves For Nature's richest robe, may rise to haunt them. The landscape wavers from the sight of each; And full their bosoms swell, too full for speech. "Is it a dream? The countless happy stars Stand silently into the deepening blue; In slow procession all the molten bars Of cloud move down; the air is dim Eve scatters roses on the shroud of Day, away. "With good-night kiss the zeyhyr, wârm with sleep, Gains its soft cradle in a bed of trees, Where river-chimes aye tolling sweet and deep Make lullaby; and all field-scents that The Summer float into its veil of gloom, "Clothed with an earnest paleness, not a blush, And with the angel gravity of love, In voiceless gratitude for heavenly boon; We are reminded, but by no imitation, of one of the sweetest strains of Keats. An accident reveals Claude's passion, but unhappily he is not aware that Milly is conscious of what has occurred. Milly, her heart assured and exalted, weeps herself asleep with plea sure: "Oh, dream, poor child, beneath the midnight stars! Lie slumbering far into the yellow dawn The shadow creeps apace; the storm that mars The lily even now is stealing on. All has been long fulfilled: yet could I weep At thought of thee so quietly asleep! "Most cruel Nature, so untouched, so hard, The while thy children shake with joy or pain, Thou wilt not forward Love, nor Death retard One finger-push for mortals' dearest gain! Claude, through the summer night, serenely spread, Strays calmly home, and finds his fatherdead." Claude is now left to the guidance of an uncle: the uncle urges him to emigrate. Claude-unhappy timidity, and fatal reserve!-carries his unavowed passion to America, and Milly breaks her heart. Claude returns, and receives from Milly's nurse her bequest of her picture and a letter :— "The note ran thus, 'Dear Claude, so near my death, I feel that like a Spirit's words are these, In which I say, that I have perfect faith In your true love for me,--as God, who sees The secrets of all hearts, can see in mine That fondest truth which sends this feeble sign. "I do not think that He will take away, Even in Heaven, this precious earthly love; Surely he sends its pure and happy ray Down as a message from the world above. Perhaps it is the full light drawing near Which makes the doubting Past at length so clear. "We might have been so happy!-But His will Said no, who orders all things for the best. Oh, may His power into your soul instil A peace like this of which I am possessed! And may He bless you, love, for evermore, And guide you safely to His heavenly shore!'" Claude returns to America and solaces his grief with labour. Some returned emigrants relate an interview with him :: "We gave him all our news, and in return He told us how he lived.—a lonely life! Miles from a neighbour sowed and reaped his corn, And hardy grew. One spoke about a wife To cheer him in that solitary wild; At which he only shook his head and smiled. แ "Next dawn, when each one of our little band Had on a mighty Walnut carved his name, Henceforth a sacred tree, he said, to stand 'Mid his enlarging bounds,-the moment came For farewell words. But long, behind our backs, We heard the echoes of hiss winging axe." So ends the poem. A calm, exalted delight lingers on the mind. The scene, it will be observed, is laid in Ireland, and the actors move in humble Irish life; but Mr. Allingham has avoided all the vulgar peculiarities of diction which, in Irish song and story, have so long been erroneously supposed to give the stamp of nationality. So far as the verbal indications of Irishism are concerned, there is nothing beyond the address," Ballyshannon," at the end of Mr. Allingham's preface, to tell that he is a writer of this part of the United Kingdom. Indeed the only political allusions in the volume savour more of contempt for, than any sympathy in, Irish matters-an ill "The long grey sky," has somewhat too much of the Tennysonian obscurity. Long-which way? Along or across? And then, which is the longitudinal section of the sky? The long sky, the long sphere, the long circle-"it is affectations." But there are few minds in which the words will not realise a very characteristic picture, and few breasts in which the association between the burst of cold light on the distant mountains, and of sad and tender emotion in the bosoms of Milly and her companion, will not be felt with a keen perception of the truth and tenderness of the passage. A string of pretty conceits on "Poets and Flowers" exhibits Mr. Allingham's artistic skill and delicacy of taste very gracefully. "Eve's shadow fell: so, quickly as we may, We touch for HERRICK, never sad nor cold, The Meadow-sweet, that borders fields of hay; For CHAPMAN, Marigold. "The flaming Peony with MARLOW mate, The Rhododendron give to DRYDEN large; To BEN the Dahlia, finely elaborate; "Lavender, QUARLES; Sweet-William's honest face Claims MARVELL; FLETCHER must POPE the Camellia, nursed for lamp-light GOLDSMITH the Mignionette. "The dark sward's spirts of early Crocusflame, Purpure, and Or, and Argent, do thou take Boy CHATTERTON; and 'crowned with a golden dream,' This Angel-lily, BLAKE," &c. &c. Eminently graceful and apposite. We will not mar the favourable impression by carping at the fopperies of some of the other minor pieces. We bid Mr. Allingham welcome to the company of poets pure and good. Alas that we could say the same for him whose dark, wicked, product of heavenly faculties perverted, still remains on the table. We will not now take up "Goëthe, a New Pantomime, by Edward Kenealy."* We have preferred to deal with men, of perhaps, less ability-for this is a man of the greatest abilitywhom we can respect for their intentions, while we blame their faults of execution. We would not mix up sorrow and indignation with the temper of mind in which "The Music Master" of Allingham has left us; nor would we diminish the value of such qualified commendations as we have been able to bestow, by casting them into the shade by the expression of unqualified astonishment which we could not restrain at the frequent bursts of power, splendour, and wit, which illumine this brilliant but detestable performance. Another time, and in another frame of mind, we may return to-"Goëthe, a New Pantomime." * London: Reeves. 1850. 2 Q VOL. XXXVI.-NO. CCXV. OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY.-NO. LXI. CATHERINE HAYES. It is a singular fact that Ireland, so essentially the land of song, whose bardic remains have obtained a world-wide reputation, whose national melodies alternate from the touchingly simple to the thrillingly superb, being alike "beautiful exceedingly," whether they breathe the soul of pathos, or glow with the fervour of martial enthusiasm; whose "keens" express the very passion and abandonment of grief; whose war-songs stir up the heart like the sound of a trumpetit is a remarkable fact, we repeat, that our musical Island has given to the lyric stage but a single female vocalist, within our memory, capable of interpreting, with success, the highest order of dramatic music. Although in every other branch or art our country has given proof of that genius and talent which are the inalienable birthright of her children, as a vocalist, Irish by birth, and Irish in heart, who has already achieved triumphs which place in the shade many of the proudest lyric victories of the Italian and German prima-donnas, Catherine Hayes stands alone. A few years have only passed since Miss Hayes may be remembered in this city, a fair and gentle girl, receiving musical instruction from Signor Sapio, singing with him at the Anacreontic and other societies, and exhibiting on every re-appearance increased purity of style, refinement of taste, correctness of ear, and volume of voice. The committee of this society expressed their approbation of this remarkable improvement by a proportionably rapid increase in the amount of her salary-the inexperienced vocalist herself, then unconscious of her powers, receiving with blended bewilderment and delight this proof of her onward progress in the art she loved. Yet, then, though rising so rapidly and so steadily in the estimation of these, the best judges among our musical amateurs -though greeted with public applause, and private eulogium, increasing every day in flattering warmth-though not a little bewildered at the unexpected enthusiasm of the "bravas" and "encores" with which her early public performances were greeted-not one of her admirers could have foreseen the bril liant destiny that awaited her-not one of them could have anticipated her return to her native country, in 1849, after having won in the land of song, both from fame and fortune, a golden and glorious triumph. Catherine Hayes is a native of Limerick, having been born at No. 4, Patrickstreet, in that city, where she resided with her mother and sister up to the period of her departure for Dublin, to be placed under the tuition of Signor Antonio Sapio. The development of her musical talent was early almost without precedent. From her childhood she exhibited a precocity of vocal power that excited astonishment and admiration, and won for her the generous patronage of the late Bishop of Limerick, to whose warm and liberal encouragement she owes the eminence she has gained, and whose congratulations, when she had triumphed over every difficulty attending her arduous upward struggle, and returned from Italy matured in genius and beauty, she ever acknowledges with tearful eyes to have been her best reward. An incident, somewhat romantic in its character, formed the first introduction of Catherine Hayes to the late Hon. and Right Rev. Edmund Knox. Near to the See House, then situated in Henry-street, is the town mansion of the Earl of Limerick, in whose family an aged female relative of Miss Hayes resided. The gardens attached to these houses stretch in parallel lines to the banks of the Shannon, and were remarkable for their picturesque beauty. A woodbinecovered arbour near the river's brink was a favourite resort of Catherine Hayes, then a young and delicate child-timid, gentle, and reserved, shrinking from the sportive companionship of her playmates; her chief apparent source of pleasure being to sit alone, half-hidden among the leaves, and warble Irish ballad after ballad, the airs and words of which she appeared to have caught up and retained with a species of intuitive facility. One evening, while thus |
