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The wag gonere tickleth the spleen of the jailor, who

daunces ane Fandango.

Rejoicethe in the fragranee of the aire.

Dreadeth Shoan Dhu, the corporal of the guarde.

The wag gonere taketh leave of the tailore,

to whome ane small acci

dente happeneth.

"The jailore came to bring me foode,
Forget it will I never,

How he turned uppe the white o' his eye,
When I stuck him in the liver.

"His threade of life was snapt; once more
I reached the open streete;
The people sung out' Gardyloo'

As I ran down the streete.
Methought the blessed air of heaven
Never smelte so sweete.

"Once more upon the broad highwaye,
I walked with feare and drede;
And every fifteen steppes I tooke
I turned about my heade,
For feare the corporal of the guarde
Might close behind me trede!

"Behold upon the western wave,
Setteth the broad bright sunne;
So I must onward, as I have
Full fifteen miles to runne ;-

"And should the bailliffes hither come
To aske whilke waye I've gone,
Tell them I took the othere road,
Said hee, and trotted onne."

The tailore rushed into the roomie,
O'erturning three or foure;
Fractured his skulle against the walle,
And worde spake never more!!

Whereupon followeth the morale very proper to be had in minde by all members of the Dilettanti Society when they come over the bridge at these houres. Wherefore let them take heed and not lay blame where it lyeth

nott.

Morale.

Such is the fate of foolish men,
The danger all may see,
Of those, who list to waggoneres,
And keepe bade companye.

POEMS BY A HEAVY DRAGOON.

more

THOUGH Our hair be gray through toil than age," yet we have lived long enough in the world, and seen enough of its vicissitudes, to feel but little surprise at what are commonly called wonderful events. The escape of Bonaparte, the suspension of the Habeas Corpus, the battle of Waterloo, nay, even the appearance of the Chaldee Manuscript, were far from raising in our minds the same vulgar astonishment with which these memorable occurrences were generally regarded. Yet some events there are of a complexion so utterly unnatural -so entirely at variance with the most probable calculation, which seem

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to overcome us like a summer cloud," for the mere purpose of shewing the vanity of all human foresight and sagacity, that we cannot possibly contemplate them without "our special wonder." Even the calm, the abstracted, the philosophical Hamlet, to whom all the world appeared a stage, "and all the men and women merely players," was struck dumb with amazement at the appearance of his father's ghost, and we confess, our minds were not sufficiently wonderproof to encounter the present formidable quarto without the most unaffected astonishment. Highly as we are disposed to estimate the sagacity

of our readers, we are quite sure none of them have anticipated the nature of the "psychological curiosity" which we are now about to introduce to them. This magic volume contains neither a treatise on cookery by the archbishop of Canterbury, nor a dissertation on cash payments by an Irish student, nor illustrations of the classics by Deacon Law rie, nor a work on farriery by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, nor a collection of new waltzes by Mr Wilberforce, nor a treatise on common sense by the new member for Boroughbridge; but, in short, it consists, "risum teneatis," of an Heroic Poem, in four cantos, by a Heavy Dragoon! The author of this singular production is Lieutenant Edward Quillinan, who is described by Sir Egerton Bridges, the editor, as a young man of "pure genius." The extracts we shall have occasion to lay before our readers, will enable them to form their own judgment on this subject; and, in the meanwhile, we shall take the liberty of prefacing them with a few observations on military authorship.

It is by no means our intention to enter on any prolix enquiry with regard to the present state of literature in the British army. We believe, on the whole, that the greater part of the officers possess sufficient learning to entitle them, in the ancient legal sense, to benefit of clergy. A considerable portion of them are conversant with the more simple rules of arithmetic, and all of them have read Moore's Poems, Tom Jones, and Dundas on the Eighteen Manœuvres. In every regiment will be found individuals who can write the proceedings of a regimental court-martial, without committing any flagrant errors in grammar or orthography, and a few have even arrived at the literary distinction of being able to write a devilish good letter." Among gentlemen of such accomplishments, it is not surprising that the brilliant success attending the poetical debut of Ensign and Adjutant Odoherty, and the author of " Johnny Newcome," should have excited considerable emulation. A new field appeared suddenly opened for their exertions, and to arrive at the distinguished honour of becoming a C.B. or a R.T.S. was no longer the sole object of their ambition. The poets' corner in the Star and the Morning Post, soon gave VOL. IV.

convincing evidence of the industry of these military dilettanti; and the public were diurnally inundated with doggerel anacreontics and lamentations on the misery of half-pay. The parents and guardians of young ladies speedily began to regard this large addition to the already formidable aggregate of military attractions, with terror and dismay. Sad experience taught them, that in this case, poetry

"Was but the poisoning of a dart
Too apt before to kill."

The elopements from boarding-schools became daily more numerous, and many cruel and well-fledged widows fell melancholy victims to the insidious captivations of a warm love song, and a Waterloo medal.

While the majority of the songsters restrained their inspiration within these profitable limits, there were others who ventured on a bolder flight. "Arma Virumque Cano" was their cry-not a battle took place but the brazen throats of an hundred Homers were opened to celebrate its glories; and "not a General reared his head unsung” in the tuneful lays of some inspired Aid-decamp, or musical Brigade-Major. It must be confessed, however, that these compositions in general, afforded more satisfactory evidence of the zeal, than the good taste of their authors. It was rather with repugnant feelings that we have occasionally listened to the glories of Waterloo, mellifluously chaunted to the tune of "Roly, poly, gammon and spinnage ;" and ill-judged attempts to immortalize the name of the Great Wellington, in a new edition of the "Black Joke." Their efforts too were occasionally directed towards the stage, and it is but justice to state, that the public are indebted for the favourite farce of the Bee-hive, to the pen of a soldier. We were lately favoured with the perusal of a MS. tragedy, by an officer of "the gallant forty-second," which we understand is now under the consideration of the Drury-Lane committee; it is entitled " Alexander M'Pherson, or the Black Revenge," and certainly displays considerable originality. The character of Alexander M'Pherson is intended for Mr Kean, and written with the express view of bringing the extraordinary powers of that actor into full play. We venture to augur well of its success, and consider it 4 D

calculated to afford an important ad-dition to the dramatic literature of the age. Still, however, we confess we were quite unprepared for the appearance of an heroic poem, in four cantos, and received it with much the same feelings as the authentic intelligence of the dissolution of the polar ice might be supposed to produce in the mind of Professor Leslie. It was, indeed, as astonishing to us to find lieutenant Quillinan attempting the character of an epic poet, as it would be to encounter Mr Wordsworth or Mr Coleridge tricked out in the helmet, the jack-boots, and other elegant appurtenances of the third Dragoon Guards.

On the whole, we fear we cannot congratulate our gallant defenders on their success in the field of literature. They may, indeed, be poets among soldiers, we apprehend they must still continue mere soldiers among poets. It is not every corps in the service who, like

"The brave Colonel Corbett and his rifle

men,

Can lay down the sword and take up the pen,"

and wield both with equal dexterity and success. Yet we think they have failed chiefly from attempting too much. Let them content themselves at present with the composition of a few drinking songs, or occasional stanzas on the death of a white mouse or a canary bird. When their wings become a little better fledged they may attempt a higher flight, and it will give us much pleasure to congratulate them on their success. But we must stick a little closer to Mr Quillinan.

As a poet, we think he has been rather unfortunate in the department of the service of which he has made choice. The abstract idea which we form of a Heavy Dragoon is by no means a poetical one. We are led involuntarily to connect with him something of weight, clumsiness, and slowness of motion, utterly destructive, in our minds, of all grace and dignity of association. In depicting him, we figure to ourselves a decent jolly looking person, mounted upon something about the size of a coach horse, with a chubby good-natured countenance, and an enormous superfluity of breech. In short, there is too much of the Puddingfield and Beefington about him to allow him to find any grace or favour in the eyes of

persons of a refined and delicate taste. It is somewhat unaccountable too, that, notwithstanding the very honourable manner in which that portion of his majesty's troops have always distinguished themselves against the enemies of their country, we are less apt mentally to represent them as charging in the bloody plain, and dealing deathblows from their dripping swords, than getting pelted with mud and rotten eggs in a meal mob, or scuffling with scavengers and butchers' boys at the Spafields meeting. About

"The whiskered lancer and the fierce hussar,"

on the other hand, there is something of lightness of grace, and of celerity of motion, which redeem him from the same vulgar associations. The dark moustache gives a pleasing fierté to his countenance, and notwithstanding his red breeches and yellow Morocco boots, he is altogether a much more poetical personage. We are quite aware it may be urged against us, that the knights errant of old were all heavy horsemen, and that therefore a portion of the dignity of their character may be supposed to attach to their representatives in the present day. And if the analogy were a little closer, and the dragoon guards were still apparelled in the chivalrous accoutrements of their ancestors, we will admit that the cuirass, the hauberk, the greaves, and cuisses, might go far to ennoble them in our iimagination. But alas, it is not so. With a fatuity somewhat ludicrous, the head of our dragoon (certainly the least vulnerable part of his body) is encased in brass, while his portly belly, and the magnificent expansion of his rear, are left wholly without defence. The most poetical looking corps which we ever chanced to encounter was certainly that of the black hussars of Brunswick. Their sable uniform, the death's head which they carried on their caps, the profusion of black horse hair which hung down overshadowing their hard featured countenances, altogether rendered them more impressively terrible than can well be conceived by a Cockney, accustomed only to gaze at the smooth-shaven chins of the life-guards. Those who know the importance of preventing, if possible, the very idea of death from occurring to a soldier in the moment of danger, will be able to appreciate the probable effects of the associations which the appearance of

this corps was calculated to excite in the minds of their enemies. It may surely be allowed to the bravest man to prefer fighting with decent and respectable looking men like himself, to encountering a set of beings of such a ghostly and unearthly aspect. Most men, we believe, had much rather submit to the regular cut and thrust of our common dragoon, than have any thing to say to a battalion of mounted saulies, who appear to have come, rather for the purpose of attending their funeral, than of affording them a fair chance for their lives in manly and equal combat.

Nor are the duties attached to the rank held by Lieutenant Quillinan in the army, likely to be at all favourable to the production of poetical inspiration. To ride in rear of a troopto visit stables-peep into camp-kettles -and to take care that a certain number of men periodically parade in clean shirts and pipe-clayed breeches, are not the occupations precisely most favourable to the nurture of the "mens divinior," or the "os magna sonaturum." They are humble but necessary duties, and are the more intolerable to the man of talent that they require the unremitting vigilance of his senses, without affording any exercise to the faculties of his mind. We confess we do not regret that such formidable obstacles should exist to the success of the military poet. For though we have no objection to a small ode on a victory, or a few laudatory stanzas on a favourite commander, yet we protest most strongly against all and every other soldier, whether horse, foot, or dragoon, who shall presume, like Mr Quillinan, to write, print, and disseminate an heroic poem, in four cantos. If there is any principle in political economy set completely at rest, it is that of the advantages arising from the division of labour, of which such a proceeding would be a total violation. It is the duty of some men to fight battles, and the pleasure of others to sing them. It is quite sufficient that Achilles should kill Hector without afterwards turning his own trumpeter, and celebrating his achievements in tuneful verse. Had this really been the case, Troy had long since been forgot; and we should object quite as strongly to any attempt on the part of Mr Scott or Mr Wordsworth to head forlorn-hopes, or volunteer out-piquets,

as we now do to the unauthorized assumption of the bays, by their military rivals. Having thus eased our consciences, we shall proceed to a more particular examination of the merits of the work before us.

The first canto of Dunluce Castle * opens with the introduction of a person wholly unconnected with the story, who treats us to a description of the Giant's Causeway, and other natural curiosities, and then entirely disappears. The name of this gentleman is M'Quillin, and as he is obviously of kith and kin to the author, we may suppose he was naturally anxious that he should cut a respectable figure in the eyes of his readers. It is rather astonishing, therefore, to find him introduced in the character of a Johnny Raw, who is not content with walking quietly on the road, or picking pebbles on the shore, but must stop and stare like a stuck pig, or, as Mr Quillinan calls it, "feed his raptured glance" on every hill, cape, and promontory of the country. The following is the opening of the poem :

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Perplex'd in wild amazement's trance, The stranger roam'd on Antrim's shore, And now had fed his raptur'd glance, From Fairhead point to Cape Bangore, Enthusiast! &c."

Such affectation is contemptible enough, and perhaps can only be parallelled by the innocent enthusiasm of Leigh Hunt, about his flower-pots and his cabbage-garden, and his silly ravings about social enjoyments, when he drinks tea on a Sunday evening with his family and his brother Jack, in the balcony of the Black Dog.

As might naturally be supposed, Mr M'Quillin, on arriving at the Giant's Causeway, is more than ever

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perplexed in wild amazement's trance," and loses no time in feeding

"his raptured glance" on the beautiful and grand specimens of the Bassaltic column which it displays. Unfortunately, however, he has a strange knack of discovering resemblances existing only in his own diseased imagination. It would be much too unpoetical to view things as they really are; and therefore, this gentleman finds it absolutely necessary to metamorphose these unfortunate pillars into the likeness of every thing

by Edward Quillinan, Esq. of the third draDunluce Castle, a poem, in four cantos, goon guards.

in the heaven above, or the earth beneath. He looks on one side, and behold, strange to say, that

"There bravely shooting from the rock,
A ship seems launching from its stock."

He turns his optics to another, and lo!
"There giant pillars form a range
That seems some Gothic ruin strange,
And draw from him who gazes on
A sigh for ages that are gone !"

He tries it once more, and sees
"Dark dungeon of tyrannic power
Appears a melancholy tower,
From whence, to pitying fancy's ear,
Come sounds of wail and wo and fear !”
and to crown all,

"There robed in venerable gloom,
Seems model of monastic dome,
WHERE SERAPHIM OF HIGHEST CLASS

DESCENDAT MORNING HOUR OF MASS!!" It would be utterly unpardonable in us to weaken the effect of the above beautiful and original descriptions by any observations of our own. We can only afford our readers another short specimen of Mr Quillinan's descriptive powers before we enter more immediately on the story of the poem. Still talking of the Giant's Causeway, he proceeds to inform us

"It well might cheat the keenest eyes
To think that human hand had laid
That sea-invading esplanade;
Its polygons so perfect are,
And vertically regular;

And yet so dark and fierce they seem,
That might imagination deem,
(Each upward set without its wain),
Was even Hell's artillery train,
There placed by demons with intent
To blast the crystal firmament !”

There is something extraordinarily fine in all this, though it smells rather too much of the shop. But we must now have done with the first canto, and proceed to give a short account of the affecting narrative developed with so much skill and talent in the remainder of the poem. We are informed by Mr Quillinan, that Dunluce Castle was (God knows how many centuries ago) the seat of the noble family of the M'Quillins. Indeed it might still have remained so but for the arrival of a deep Scotsman called M'Donnell (Qu. Macdonald) and his pretty daughter. M'Quillin's son, a young gentleman, called Owen, speedily falls a victim to the charms of the young lady, and M'Quillin himself to the acts of her father. There

existed, it seems, a cavern connected with the castle, which

"Possessed an unexpected vent Unknown to public use."

This secret he is spooney enough to disclose to the Scotsman, who introduces thereby into the castle a party of his Highland friends. They are fortunate enough to catch all the family napping, and accordingly proceed, secundum artem, to cut their throats, which is effected without any material accident. A great deal of flirtation has, in the meantime, been carrying on between young M'Quillin and M'Donnell's daughter, Marion. The ferocious Highlander, after disposing of the rest of the family, tosses Mr Owen over a rock, and with a sort of gratuitous barbarity altogether unaccountable, concludes the sad catalogue of slaughter with the murder of his own daughter. This story, it must be admitted, possesses much tragic interest, and our readers will soon see that the advantages which it afforded him have by no means been neglected by Mr Quillinan.

In the following extract, we have a description of the advance of the Highlander and his party through the aforesaid cavern to the attack of the castle. The two last lines we think partake of the fault we before alluded to, and smell a little of the dragoon. However, there is a stillness and solemnity about it altogether extremely impressive

"But on their still and cautious path, M'Donnel and his clan had sped, The clamour-raising winds of wrath, Conspired to lull their tread; The Scot his silent followers drew Thro' every well-known subtle clue, Thro' vaults whose striking damp obscure, No human sense might long endure; Where not a sentry kept his vigil, And secrecy had hid her sigil! The short and emphatic direction given by Sandy to his followers, we think, too, is exceedingly spirited and characteristic:

""Tis well-now closer draw the snare, Around you is their nest,

Despatch, and stillness be your care, Away-you know the rest!" Horrors now begin to thicken on us. All the retainers of the Irish chieftain are knocked on the head as quietly as could be desired, and M'Donnell creeps to M‘Quillin's bed-side; "Resolved the deed of darkest crime Should by his own fell arm be wrought,

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