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editor; but he must excuse us if he was not able to satisfy our fastidious taste about his talents. Article No. I., is a fulsome memoir of the young Geraldine, who was then

"Regarded as a youth of promise."

The second original paper is a copy of Magna Charta, occupying five pages, to be continued. So much for the novelties of the Monthly Museum. The political department was a sinecure-belonging to no party, it never mentioned any; indeed, the very decent editor was too well-conducted to join one; and unfitted for any party but a tea party, where he could astonish old tabbies, and edify "pouting Misses" with his " splendid talents."

The poets of the Museum, like the pipers in the Irish wedding song, Played first in the rear, Sir;"

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a set of incurable verse-makers, who supplied curiosities in the shape of blunt epigrams, laboured impromptus, and specimens of petrified amatory poetry.

In natural philosophy, Museums are said to be "the tombs of nature;" and the Dublin Museum may be equally entitled to the same distinction, as the grave of literature. The work, we believe, never exceeded the Sibyls' number-three; which was within a quarter of a dozen of more than it ever deserved to reach.

"Requiescat in pace."

The Dublin Examiner, or Monthly Journal, 1816. 2 vols.—A stupid collection of reviews and poetry. One dissertation on the Catholic claims was the solitary effort it made in politics. The following is an extract from its dying speech :

"The proprietors found that, compared with the extent of their speculation, their loss had been of considerable amount. On making this discovery, they at first resolved on no longer labouring for a public from whom they had received so little encouragement! But on second reflection it appeared advisable to bring out another number, which would give them an opportunity of formally demanding of the people of Ireland whether they considered this work deserving of support, or doomed it to the fate of every preceding literary journal which has appeared in this devoted country."

The ungrateful public took the Examiners at their word, and gave silent assent to the second interrogatory! The ninth number, containing the foregoing "speech," was its last.

Such is the result of our first "monthly inspection" of the "mob of Magazines." They have passed in review before us," as in a wizard's glass," with all their lost hopes and departed glory around them. Some have not obeyed our spell, and refused to present themselves at our bidding. We suppose they have sunk so deep into oblivion, that even all our power could not raise them again for a transitory appearance on the land of the living. As we had no hand in their deaths, we feel no qualms of conscience in sometimes speaking disrespectfully of their memory; and as to "the benefit of their dying," we care not who are their heirs-at-law or personal representatives, for we envied not their possessions; and even if they had the power to bequeath them to us, we are now convinced that we would be more encumbered than served by such a legacy.

In our next number we will parade those periodicals that have lived nearer to our own times.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

ADDRESS TO MAY.

I.

Farewell to thee, April! Thy smiles and thy showers,
So playfully fickle-now weeping-now gay-
Thou art dearer to me than the sunniest hours
That illumine the lapse of a mid-summer day.

II.

Hail, birth-day of summer! Soft season of Love!
Thy dawn hath awakened each young village queen,
Who blushes to see the fresh crown thou hast wove,
As she joins the gay dancers that throng on the green.

III.

How lovely and bright smiles each mountain and valley,
Where Fancy's rapt vision enchanted hath gazed-
The lark in the heavens is singing; and shall we

Be mute, when then the chorus of nature is raised?
IV.

Ah, no!—perhaps vainly-yet fondly around us,
For once will we scatter some wild flowers of song:
And Erin shall find, as she EVER hath found us,

Still true to the themes we have dwelt on so long!

V.

It is her's, in her own native gardens to cherish
Each blossom of genius that droops to decay,
Nor turn from them coldly, and leave them to perish-
Thus, ev'n in their SPRING-TIME to wither away!

VI.

Oh! while there's a vision of fancy to flatter

Those hopes which the breasts of thy patriots thrill,

In thy emerald vales there's a hand that shall scatter

Those seeds, which, though trodden, will shoot from them still!

VII.

Yes! soon shall the tree of thy Liberty spring-
In the womb of thy soil is it's embryo laid;

Thy hills with the echoes of triumph shall ring,

And thy tyrants shall crouch in the gloom of its shade!

VIII.

With them may each scourge of mankind wither slowly-
For them shall no soft tear of sympathy mourn ;
The voice of the wretched-the scoff of the lowly-

Then burst from their fetters-shall laugh them to scorn!

IX.

Then welcome sweet May! while we twine thee a garland,
To Erin and beauty we'll waken the strain ;
And the Exiles who weep o'er their wrongs in some far land,
May hear the wild notes in her valleys again!

CAROLAN.

SCENES AND SKETCHES-NO. I.

THERE are two quotations-one prose, the other poetical, especially hackneyed, and yet especial favourites, which seem to possess at once the everlasting endurance and the undiminishable attraction of the adamant, which are either hung out at the head of a production, as you see a gaudy sign over a miserable shop, or inserted in the midst of an article, like Horace's purple patch in the centre of a blanket ; and yet the purposes to which they are applied are only exceeded in their extreme discrepancy, by the difference of the bent of genius of their original parents. The one is Milton's "light fantastic toe," with which every describer of a ball in the columns of the Morning Post invariably regales his readers-the other, Addison's famous declaration, "that no one reads the lucubrations of a living author with much satisfaction, until he has become acquainted with the personal appearance and mental dispositions of the writer." In compliance with this often-quoted, and almost invariably-followed rule, I commence my first paper, in the first number of the Irish Monthly Magazine, with such an account of my mentals and personals, as, though it may not win for me from my fair readers the flattering appellation of a "beautiful man," will at least entitle me to the humble praise of " a candid one."

And, first, of the most important, I am, fair spinsters, a bachelor at your service; but that prepossessing character may become less interesting to at least the younger portion of the sisterhood, “who toil not, neither do they spin," when I inform you that I have long since passed the meridian of FORTY! About six-and-twenty years ago, I being then in my eighteenth year, spending a few months with my family, in the interval between the paying off the " Merry-goNimble" sloop of war and the commissioning the "Hard-a-Weather" frigate, by my countryman, Captain O'Cutlass, of the ancient house of" Laskeena gurpa moroghofinau," in the kingdom of Kerry, I was considered by the belles of Dublin as a fine handsome young sailor, a little too free-and-easy, and rather giving to romping, though that the dear creatures are easily led to excuse, but quite interesting, when, with my fore-and-aft scraper in my hand, my cheese-toaster girded on, and the "curse of God" duly displayed on my collar, I boarded them in the ball-room, or returned the broadside of a full stare, for the well-aimed single facer of a glance at the Theatre.— But, out upon time," he is even a greater murderer of beauty than Murtagh Delany himself-the sun of the West Indies is rather apt to bronze the fairest complexion, the " deadly dew of Darien" does not impart much of elasticity to the limbs, already somewhat stiffened by severe rheumatism, contracted off the coast of Holland during the memorable Walcheren blunder; engaging and silencing forts and batteries, entitles a man to a small proportion of fame, and a smaller of prize-money, but it is apt to procure him an occasional knock; single ship actions are animating, but French bullets are not much given to discriminate-though, perhaps, I should not say so, for that which conveyed to my left cheek the kind respects of a strong re

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flexion from "Old Kentucka," searing a well-grown whisker as if with a hot iron, and, finally, breaking my sinister jaw, was especially destined for my use, and sought me as the only officer in the first knot of gallant boarders, who rushed upon the poop of the " Jean que Pleure," when, after two hours action, we fell on board her quarter, and driving her defenders below, hauled down the tri-colour, and sent the meteor flag of England aloft in its place. I had, to be sure, the high honour of being "immortal in the bulletin" of the Captain; my jaw was patched, as best might be, and though my beauty suffered in the event, I could afford to forgive poor " Squire Hickory," for, as with the best intentions in the world, he prepared to follow his fire by the application of the butt of his rifle to my head, the third part of an ounce of Irish lead from one of my " "Rigby's particulars," balanced all accounts between us. "Cutting out" is glorious work; but if a man escapes its frequent concomitant of cutting down, he must invariably make up his mind for a visit from its twin brother-cutting up; and, for my own part, I can scarcely say whether the slash across the forehead which I received in capturing and bringing off the fourteen-gun lugger from under that little battery in the south of France, or the summary amputation of two fingers of my left hand, by the "Gentlemen of Fortune" in the lagoon on the Mosquito coast, has tended most to alienate from me those "side-long looks of love" (another quotation) with which I used formerly to be greeted. Since leaving the service, and while cruizing in a letter of marque among the sandy kegs of the West Indies, or seeking my present chief amusement, by spending all my vacant-to wit-three-quarters of my whole time-yacht sailing around my native shores-though I have met with no beauty marks, except the loss of my fingers above mentioned; yet have not those with which I am blessed been in the least effaced, but on the contrary, seemed to become more visible with every succeeding year; and thus you have me, Ladies, with a scar down the cheek, which rivals the celebrated one of "Leslie Le Balafre," except that I have no where read that the said Leslie's jaw was graced with the mark of a bullet-hole, or his utterance affected by his wound-with a slash across my forehead, resembling a red coral bandeau on your own lovely brows-two fingers of my left hand having fed the sharks in the West Indies-my person maimed, and my constitution shaken. You have me, I say, before you, as accurately as my vanity will suffer me to draw the picture.

For my mentals, I cannot say much in praise-nor is it likely that I should venture much in disparagement. My education, like that of most men who are thrust early into life, has been chiefly of my own procuring. I have always written much, (for my private edification, be it remembered,) and if I intrude some of my lucubrations now upon the public, it is not so much with the idea of their acquiring fame, as to make the experiment of whether they will be tolerated at all. Naturally fond of change of scene, I have traversed most of the remote and wild parts of this country, particularly in Munster; and my little thirty ton cutter has conveyed me along its most iron-bound coasts-has breasted the severest of our western gales, and held the sea when all the fair-weather craft of our several Yacht Clubs have

been driven into harbour. My acquaintance is extensive-my friends select and true-and thus I pass along the stream, not attracting the eye, as with the giant proportions of a first-rate-but not without a share of attention from some, who have learned to find utility, and even elegance, in the humbler dimensions of a pilot-boat. I trust, then, that in these "Irish seas," we may have many a pleasant cruize together; you shall find me a careful, and I hope not entirely an unskilful navigator; and having detained you sufficiently long in the ceremony of personal introduction, let me (as we enter on our most interesting subjects with a new acquaintance) lay before you at once the account I have promised, of my affair with the pirates in the West Indies.

Early in the year 1813, the gallant old "Hard-a-weather" having been upwards of three years on the West India station, returned to England, and was paid off. The scenes which ensued-the orgies of the crew-or the more temperate, though to landsmen no doubt sufficiently outrageous revelries of the officers-I pause not to describe: suffice it to say, that the ship was immediately recommissioned; and having received a new captain, in the person of Zachary Think-itsweet, Esq., a near relative of a then member of the cabinet, sailed for the Irish station, with all the former officers and crew, except our first lieutenant, who was prevented, and myself, who was not; in fact, I looked upon myself at the period, and do still, though with less of bitterness, as a very ill-used person. I had been long the senior of the midshipman's berth-had passed for my lieutenancy previous to the vessel's sailing for the West India station-and had, by virtue of the usual acting warrant, mounted the swab, and done duty as lieutenant for the preceding twelve months. Of course, I looked with almost certainty to receiving my commission on my arrival in England; but I was fated to be disappointed. My gallant countrymen, O'Cutlass, had died on the passage home, with the faint hope trembling on his lips, that the blue wave which was to wash over his bones, should roll unbroken to his native coast, and as it burst upon the sands of the little bay under the ancient dwelling of his ancestors, might tell in thunders to the rocks around, that the blessing of the dying sailor was with them, and those whose little demesne they guarded. On the night before his death he said to me, (his only nurse during the fever which his over exertions under a tropical sun had entailed on him,) feebly grasping my hand, “ Pat, my dear boy, I regret, for your sake, that I cannot live to see the old ship paid off. Hearken to me: when I am gone, your chance of a commission vanishes also; they will give some son of a Scotchman the berth which you have bled for." He gave me, an hour before his death, that sword, which, when he entered the service, constituted his sole fortune, and begging me to exert myself in transmitting the little he left to his family, died with the wild wish I have mentioned, on his lips. I acted for him as a faithful steward, and transmitted to his widowed mother and only brother, the entire of his assets; was left to admire the truth of his prophecy, for Mr. Harry Jack-Ass, the nephew of a certain Scotch Lord of the Admiralty, was, immediately on our being re-commissioned, shoved over the heads of half a dozen,

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