Prince Arthur, King of Britaine," with worthy old William Caxton's preface to the Christian reader. SLINGSBY.-And what say you to Alfred Tennyson's delectable "Mort d'Arthur?" Does it not breathe the very spirit of olden song? POPLAR.-It is beyond all praise. Here is a translation from an Idyl of Moschus by Academicus: I hear the swift oar cleave the foam- SLINGSBY.—I marvel much, dear Anthony, that the minor poets of Greece are not better known and more cultivated in our own country. Nothing can be more sweet, rural, and graceful than the Idyls of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus. Virgil did not disdain to borrow from them freely, and our own Milton and Ben Jonson have transferred many of their beauties to their own pages. Have you seen Mr. Frederick Ringwood's selections from the three poets? POPLAR.-Who has not. It is a masterly production-erudite, critical, and laborious; abounding with evidences of taste and research. The work, so far as it has gone, is alike an honour to the learned editor and to the heads of our University who induced him to undertake it. How comes it that a second part has not appeared? SLINGSBY.-Others must answer that question. Let us hope that the position which Mr. Ringwood now so worthily fills will afford him sufficient leisure to complete what he has so happily commenced. BISHOP.-Come, now, let me try my luck at a dive. POPLAR.-Be it so. "Good luck to your fishing; what catch ye to-night?" BISHOP.-A glorious take, by Neptune-a fish of our own, waters. Listen while I read for you THE WISH; OR, THE FALL OF THE STAR. I. As Dermot was tending his herds on the mountain, But scornfully looked the proud maid on her lover, II. "Her Father once called me, me, Dermot my jewel,' "And now, how she scorns me! I would I were dead." ΙΙΙ. The winter's rain swell'd every stream to a river; One circled her waist with a nervous entwine; IV. A fortnight elapsed, on one bright frosty morning, As she whisper'd, "My Dermot, how happy we are;" SLINGSBY.-Bravo; a very pretty piece of versification; it illustrates one of our native superstitions. The Irish peasantry have a very poetical belief that whoever is fortunate enough, on seeing a shooting star, to express a wish before it vanishes, will be sure to have his desire realised. How inimitably Moore, and of later years Lover, has handled Irish themes. BISHOP.-Ay, Jonathan, and some one else who shall be nameless. POPLAR.-Fie, Jack; you will set Jonathan a blushing, and then you know he will look foolish; but in truth, much remains yet to be done in this field. As we are on Irish subjects, here are a few lines which illustrate a feeling that is deeply implanted in our nature-the love of fatherland : THE ORPHAN GIRL. The ship was getting under weigh, And hundreds crowd her ample deck Loud rose the wail of parting friends But there was one amongst the crowd, She sat apart and seemed to brood O'er sorrows all her own, VOL. XXXVIII.NO. CCXXIV. No plaint her heaving bosom gave, She seemed as one whose very soul Doubly an orphan was the maid, For death had swept the parent hearth, And now from Erin's shores she strays In a far distant clime. Beside her in a 'kerchie" bound, She watched it with insest gaze, I looked it was a sod of earth, With the green sward cover'd o'er; She took, to plant it in that place, Where her steps should cease to roam; A hallow'd spot, a memory dear, Of what had been her home. Perchance for many years to bloom BISHOР. There is not much in the verses, but the sentiment may well redeem them. It was a feeling akin to this that led so many of the crusaders to bring from Palestine portions of its soil to form their campi santi, that their bodies might repose in the holy soil. SLINGSBY. The love of country is a sacred and ennobling passion. It is the spring of all the heroism of patriots of every age, and the true source of the elevation of every country. Woe to that land and the rulers of it where the love of country is trodden down and extinguished, and men are taught to fly from their hearths and homesteads. POPLAR. HOW finely does Homer illustrate this passion in the Odyssey, where he makes Ulysses, after all his travel through the best regions of Greece, thus speak of his barren Ithaca : SLINGSBY.-Yes, dear Anthony. A noble and a holy sentiment, and may not we, Irishmen, echo it! Where is there a land lovelier, richer in the gifts of nature, than our own dear island! Shame befal him who does not feel so. Shame, double shame, to him who, so feeling, will not consecrate himself, heart and soul, to her regeneration; to heal her wounds, to appease her strifes, to ameliorate her condition, to elevate her children, to make her free as the waves and winds that sport around her, fruitful as the verdure that springs spontaneously on her bosom; to bid her fields ring with the song of the ploughinan and the reaper; to make her towns rife with the throng of trade, and her harbours crowded with the argosies of merchants, to make her, in a word, all that God has ever designed her to be, and that man has heretofore forbidden! POPLAR.-Amen! amen! Let us at this solemn hour drink PROSPERITY TO IRELAND! As the shades of night are now passing away before the coming light of morning, so may the glooms that now surround her be speedily dissipated by the light of her regeneration. "Tis always the darkest the hour before dawn." (They all rise and fill their glasses.) BISHOP.-Now, then, take the fire from me: Hip! hip! hurrah! PROSPERITY TO IRELAND! Hist! did I not hear a fourth voice echoing our hurrah? (Bishop seizes the poker, and makes a lunge through a screen that stands near the door) — "How now, a rat? Dead for a ducat, dead!" (A cadaverous-looking individual, "in marvellous foul linen," rushes from behind the screen, holding numerous " slips" of paper and a pencil in his hands.) Save me, Mr. Poplar, save me! Mercy, good gentlemen-kind gentlemen! Won't you respect the fourth estate? SLINGSBY.-Ha ha! ha! A reporter, by all that's quizzical. "I took thee for thy better; take thy fortune; Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger." Out with him, Anthony-seize him, Jonathan! Steep him with brandy and set fire to him like a minced pie-pitch him into the ocean like a blind puppy— demolish him, annihilate him! (BISHOP Springs forward to seize the reporter, POPLAR steps before him, and exclaims, in "King Cambyses" vein—) "Ruffian, let go that rude, uncivil touch!" Come, Jack, hands off, I say. The man is under my roof-tree, and the laws of hospitality shall be respected. He shall have safe conduct hence. BISHOP.-Quick, then, thou man of manuscript, thou eaves-dropping stenographer. Disappear-evanish-evaporate-exhale! (The reporter rushes out of the room.) Here's a pretty kettle o' fish, my masters. That fellow will have us all in print before a week's over, as sure as my name is Jack. SLINGSBY.-Well, let him; what care we if all the world learn what we have said and done to-night. We'll stand to it; won't we? Scene closes. THE BRITISH OFFICER. A VOLUME has been lately published, bearing this comprehensive title, which embraces so many subjects of discussion, that it is impossible to do more than allude briefly to a few among the most prominent, within the limits of a reasonable article. The compilation is a valuable one, containing a digest of all the different rules and regulations, which are laid down by authority, to instruct the officer in his duty, to teach him his exact position in the State, as well as in private society, with the vast importance inherently belonging to the distinguished body of which he forms an individual component. In contemplating the present military establishment of the British empire, numerically small when compared with that of Russia, Austria, Prussia, or France, but formidable beyond its numbers from courage and discipline, we look with satisfaction on a glorious record of past achievements, and trust with well-grounded confidence in a renewal of former success when the services of the army are again required. In this survey, the mind naturally reverts to earlier ages, and glancing down the stream of time, from Crecy to Waterloo, we find a long succession of brilliant victories, checquered by a very small proportion of defeats. During the period included, of forty-four great battles, fought between us and our formidable continental neighbour, seven only have been lost by the arms of England-Patay,†Castillon, Steinkirk, Landen, Almanza, Fontenoy, and Laffeldt. Of this small number more than one were nearly as glorious as if they had been gained, from the obstinacy with which a small force contended against overwhelming numbers, in spite of the cowardice or defection of their allies. It is also remarkable, that while we have, in repeated instances, carried by assault strong fortresses, defended by numerous garrisons, our opponents can produce no similar cases of triumph over us, to adorn their own annals. The capture of Calais by the Duke of Guise (Le Balafré), in 1558, after a siege of only eight days, approaches nearly to a solitary exception. Though the place was not actually taken by storm, it was a close imitation, as the garrison capitulated on very severe terms, having lost all their outposts, and when, had the assault been given, they must have fallen under it. Their scanty numbers were utterly inadequate to defence, and they were almost entirely unprovided with ammunition and supplies. These are not empty boastings, but historical facts, profitable to ponder over, and worthy of being remembered. The native courage of the British soldier (so admirably blended in the characteristic features of the three nations), has ever been the same; but the results of his hardihood must always depend much on the skill of the officers in command, and the discipline enforced by the subordinates who, under them, direct the energies of the mass. It is indispensable for the strict maintenance of that discipline, that the soldier should look up to his officer, not only as belonging to a superior grade in society, but as a much better informed, and more highly endowed being than himself. In the British service, this distinction is more clearly defined, and the distance wider than in any other. For these reasons, the reins of discipline are drawn more tightly, "The British Officer; his Position, Duties, Emoluments, and Privileges," &c., &c., &c. By J. H. Stocqueler, author of the "Hand-book of India," &c. London, 1851, 8vo. Smith, Elder, and Co., 65, Corn hill. The first battle of any consequence, won by the French over the English, since Hastings, memorable for the defeat and capture of the renowned Lord Talbot by the Maid of Orleans. This misfortune arose chiefly from the refusal of Sir John Fastolfe to fight, who drew off his forces, saying the contest was hopeless, and yet he proved himself a gallant soldier on many other occasions. The list of battles is not given as comprising all, but the comparative scale of victory and defeat is not affected by the few omissions. |