his hair, where age had not impressed its own colour, was of the fiery red which characterized the O'Neils. He was meanly clad, and upon his shoulders hung, in the Spanish fashion, a large frize cloak of the grey colour usual in the garments of the Irish peasantry. I marked his visage intently; and methought could read there all that formed the character of the owner: I saw the ferocity about the nose; and in the flexible expressive mouth could trace the eloquence and quick sensibility; in the brow I observed the pride and sternness and determination and in the glowing quick-moving eye all the unquenchable ire and wild profligacy which belonged to. him. We passed forward and my friend explained to me that Donnellan, the person in whose punishment Barney More signified so much satisfaction, had been a contumacious member of his gang ; and had, by treachery, put his leader into considerable jeopardy. I learned also the meaning of the cognomen, More--which means lurge, and had been acquired from his bulk by Barney. Nothing, my companion assured me, could subdue the native wildness of that man's disposition; nothing could reduce him to the condition of a regular and industrious labourer. His delinquencies had been a thousand times overlooked, and had even served to introduce him to the notice of, and to procure him the good offices and counsels of, the objects of his depredations. He had been often in prison, often tried, frequently acquitted from default of prosecution, and at other times dismissed with punishments of peculiar leniency Over all, kindness and forbearance, and the most earnest exertions for his benefit, the indomitable barbarity of his nature had prevailed. In the enterprises which fell within his sphere there was little occasion for the exertion of those qualities of courage and intrepidity which, under all circumstances, have something in them grand and interesting; but if there was no romance in his pilferings and thievings there was much in his habits. He was not, like the mean vagrant of more civilized countries, addicted to frequenting spot-houses, and the company of the vile refuse of society. Barney More did, it must be owned, indulge in an occasional debauch, and he was necessarily often in the places appropriated to the reception of the wretches with whom he concerted his schemes of plunder; but his inclination led him to haunt scenes of a different character. It was his chief delight to loiter along the banks of the softflowing river I have mentioned, and he would pass whole days in a favourite dell, watching the shadows as they fell upon the waters. He' loved to bask in the noontide sun; and at night would often pass many an hour at the end of his sheeling looking upon the moon. But nothing would induce him to work and he was heard to say, with something of pride, that though a poor cotter, his hand had not grasped a spade for forty years. Of his name and descent he was vain to the highest degree and notwithstanding all his crimes and wretchedness, there was that about him which distinguished him from the herd of ignoble malefactorslo in v borb

J

Shortly after my rencontre with this wild Irisbanan, a gentleman from a distant part of the county arrived at the house of my friend one evening at a very late hour His stable had been broken open a few nights previous, and two valuable horses stolen ; information had reached him that Barney More was concerned in the robbery, and his

66

object was to proceed with my friend to the house in the bog, and endeavour to recover his horses. Before breakfast, the following morning, we set out with this purpose. Long ere we reached the house its inmates seemed apprised of our approach; and several persons successively appeared to reconnoitre us from the door. When we reached it, we found Barney More's youngest boy, a fine child of twelve years old, awaiting our arrival. My friend asked for his father; and the boy replied, while he sharply scrutinized the other stranger and myself, that he was not at home." But the tear in his fine blue eye seemed to belie his words. We entered the house; and were received by the wife of the wretched offender we sought, with an eager courtesy and show of welcome which could not be outdone by the most accomplished hypocrite of a court. As soon as my eyes recovered from the first effects of the smoke which filled the apartment, and I could discern the objects within, I was struck by the appearance of a large quantity of dried beef and bacon suspended in goodly show from the ample chimney-balk. While my companions addressed their interrogatories to the woman, who assured them her husband had no participation in the alleged robbery, and was "just gone out," I was occupied in observing a fine comely young woman, who sat at her spinning-wheel apparently regardless of our presence. Her face was turned away; but her shape appeared particularly fine. At some order of her mother's she arose, and as in crossing the floor she afforded me a better view of her countenance and person, I was much affected with the loveliness of both. She was poorly, but not sordidly, clothed; and her attire had the merit, which prouder fashions want, of displaying the form in all its natural grace and beauty. Her costume was made up of a petticoat and a cotton jacket, reaching nearly to the knee, open in front, and confined round the waist by the strings of an apron which hung before. She wore no stays, nor shoes, nor stockings; but her hair was carefully tied up in a tasteful yet simple manner. I suppose she had learned to repress her emotions; for I could scarcely discover in her countenance an indication of concern at our visit. In my friend I'fancy she thought her father would find a merciful enemy, and that she trusted he would not accompany the stranger if personal injury were intended to him; and I remarked, that with intent I suppose to secure his good offices, she dropped a curtsey as she passed his seat, and bestowed on him one merry glance of favour from eyes which were well calculated to do the work of coquetry. I am happy to say we left Barney More's house, and his wife, and boy, and lovely daughter, without being able to discover any thing against him. But his destiny was not to be averted: he was shortly after apprehended on a different charge, and though acquitted on it, convicted upon another, and sentenced to transportation.

In addition to all his other accomplishments, Barney More was an excellent crown lawyer-that peculiar aptitude for law which the Irish peasants universally display; and long and bitter experience, the best of all tutors, had enabled him to understand most of the points which arise on criminal prosecutions, and to calculate the effect of the evidence to be adduced against himself. From the first he foretold his conviction on the particular accusation which terminated in that event. He was tried at the same assizes for various other offences; but the

proofs of all were defective, as he himself had previously asserted they would be found. He was convicted; and a bitter sentence transportation was to Barney More. In vain did he seek to avert or commute it; with incredible address and perseverance he had applications made in every accessible quarter; his wife, his daughter, and numerous other emissaries were incessantly engaged in negotiations set on foot by his fertile ingenuity: all, all were vain; and the last of the O'Neils was conveyed upon a cart to a transport at Cork, which bore him far from the land he loved as his own heart's blood. He is gone, and for ever; and has perhaps left behind him no such example as he presented of the strange union of the highest barbaric qualities, with the lowest meanness of the worst specimens of civilized society.

S. M. T.

THE STATUE OF A FUNERAL GENIUS*.

THOU shouldst be look'd on when the starlight falls
Through the blue stillness of the summer-air;
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls,
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare;

And thou!-thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreains.

Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the Dead +

Were crown'd of old, with pale spring-flowers like these:
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed,

As from the wing of some faint southern breeze :

And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom,
Which from the grove seems gather'd, not the tomb.

They fear'd not Death, whose calm and gracious thought
Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee!

They, who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head against the forest-tree,
As that of one, by music's dreamy close,
On the wood-violets lull'd to deep repose.

They fear'd not Death!-yet who shall say his touch
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair?
Doth he bestow, or can he leave so much
Of shaded beauty as thy features wear?

Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes
So soft a night, a night of summer, lies!

Had they seen aught like thee?-did some fair boy
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest?
His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy,
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress'd?
And his eye veil'd so softly by its fringe,

And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?

"The figure which particularly affected Combabus, was a funeral genius, under the form of a beautiful boy, standing erect, his eyes closed with an air of languor between death and sleep, his legs gracefully crossed at the ancles, his hands meeting above the head, and his back resting against a pine-tree, the branches of which were spread above him, as if to cast their funereal shade over the tranquillity of his eternal repose."-See Vol. V. p. 115, of this Magazine.

The Funeral Genius of the Louvre was crowned with flowers.-Sce Visconti's Description des Antiques du Musée Royale.

uda woll Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour
Had given its lessons from a brow like thine!
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power
Came by a look, thus tranquilly divine!

Let him, who thus hath seen young life depart, 996 Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart!

euoibnes But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe, -1 genge LoOr love, or terror, in the days of old,

That men pour'd out their gladdening spirit's flow,
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold?
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king,
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?

८

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid Far more than we-for loftier hopes are ours: Their gems were lost in ashes; yet they made The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, og With purple wreaths and fragrant boughs array'd, n). And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade. Is it for us a deeper gloom to shed

O'er its dim precincts?-Do we not intrust
But for a time, its chambers with our Dead,
And strew immortal seed upon the dust?

Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath,
When living light hath touch'd the brow of Death?

F. H.

THE CLASSICS AND ROMANTICS.

SINCE the celebrated dispute of Perrault no subject has been discussed with more earnestness among the French literati, than that at present pending in respect to the relative merits of the classic and romantic schools, or to be more explicit, respecting the superiority of the style of the age of Louis XIV. which has been denominated the "Classic School" on the one hand; and the followers of a free national style, unshackled by the laws of the ancients, on the other, distinguished by the appellation of "Romantic." In this war of words the combatants have called to their aid every auxiliary power, and it may not be amiss to give the reader an idea of a contest which will, in the end, produce an important change for the better in the literature of the nation. The despotism of the Academy once so perfect, had frequently of late years received severe shocks upon isolated questions, and the Revolution inflicted upon its sovereignty a blow which it was impossible for it to survive. Its use to the Bourbon government, as an instrument of influence on the literature of the country, has now nearly become inert, not by the conversion of the academy to the side of truth and nature, but by the rising of a regenerated school of literature, more in harmony with modern civilization and congenial to national feeling, as is the case in England. The wild and extravagant school of Hardy was sup planted by the genius of Corneille modelled upon the ancients, and Racine eclipsed Corneille in the opinion of his countrymen by the introduction of what may be called the Court style of Louis XIV. Every thing was confined to a servile imitation of the ancients, and far had the style of Racine, backed by the influence of the court, esta

SO

blished itself as the model for French tragic writers to follow, that Corneille himself was thrown into the shade in the opinion of most by the ultra refinements of his successor, or rather contemporary. The French academy adopted the taste of the court. By so doing, it confined tragedy within very narrow limits, both as respected language and subject; for the natural it substituted the artificial, excluded national subjects almost wholly for foreign, and hampered by fastidiousness and caprice the range of genius, which, regulated by good sense, should ever be a " chartered libertine."

But there were other reasons than those connected with literature which made the example of Racine, and what is since called in France the "classic school,"* more agreeable to the Bourbon despotism and its ministers. By confining the labours of literature, particularly those of the theatre, as nearly as possible to an imitation of the ancients, national topics were avoided; and by this compression of subject, national allusions, which might sometimes be disagreeable to an absolute government, were spared to the public ear. Tragedy exhibited Grecian and Roman manners and Roman and Grecian heroes, and the French audiences were diverted by scenes of antiquity from contemplating those that had passed in their own country. The Richelieus and Mazarines were men of powerful minds, wary, arbitrary, and unprincipled, and it is not giving them credit for too much penetration to suppose they saw the advantage of patronizing this school in preference to any newfangled theory that might offer. They knew that the school of monks and colleges had preserved, from time immemorial, the wrecks of ancient learning, but that ancient learning had no way in their hands been an instrument of opposition to the powers that were. In patronizing a school of literature that merely imitated the ancients, they neither endangered power nor tempted the public to the discussion of novel doctrines and a search after truth. It is curious that the "classic school," as it is termed, has every where been the child of arbitrary power; the "romantic" of patriotism and liberty. The French are beginning now to feel this, as the English and Germans have long felt before them. They have discovered that the test of literary merit is public opinion alone, and that a strict adherence to rules cannot command success. The Academy, both at its commencement and long afterwards, by uniting in the interest of the crown the majority of men of talents in the nation, held the lesser fry of writers in vassalage. The influence of the members of the Academy had diminished when the Revolution commenced; yet even then few thought of disputing its former decrees, particularly in poetry-there Aristotle and the ancients still remained absolute, though in other studies innovations had stolen in, after Locke had made a breach in the metaphysical dogmas of the stagyrite.

* For fear it should be supposed that by the epithet "classic school" censure is meant upon the unrivalled legacies of the ancients, it is proper to observe that the term is here applied to their servile imitators only, who follow them in every thing, without regard to the difference of mythology, nationality, civilization, or language. These imitators can appreciate nothing since the downfall of the Roman empire. They would establish one literature for all nations, and depress the manly freedom of the minds of men of genius to one insipid level. The beauties of the ancient writers are as much esteemed by the disciples of the "romantic" as of the selfstyled " classic school"—perhaps better felt.