circles of Carrickfergus. It is gratifying to me to be able to notice this genuine son of Hibernia, because the Boxiana of modern criticism dwelling with delight upon the minor glories of a Corcoran, a Randall,or a Donnelly, have by some strange neglect omitted all mention of the surpassing brilliancy of the merits of Phelim Mac Twolter. This is the more remarkable as the abovementioned fight was made the subject of a stanzaic heroic Poem, remarkable for the animation and geniality which is preserved throughout. Mac Nevis, who it seems was little better than a Braggadocio, gave the challenge. This is described with great force and simplicity. The landlord's daughter of the Shamrock public-house, who is said to have had a penchant for little Phelim, had been boasting of her lover's pugilistic fame.

MacNevis leaped up from his seat, And made his bow, and told her, “Kathleen, I'll fight for your dear sake

Along with fierce Mac Twolter."

Surgebat Mac Nevisius,

Et mox jactabat ultro, "Pugnabo tui gratiâ

Cum fero Mac Tuoltro."

Does not this remind us strongly of Homer's Paris?

Αυτας ἐμ ̓ ἐν μεσσῳ και αρηίφιλον Μενέλαον

Συμβαλετ', ἀμφ' Ελενη και κτήμασι πασι μαχεσθαι.

The address of Mac Nevis to his antagonist upon meeting him in the ring is conceived in the same style of ferocious grandeur. He sees him applying himself to the bottle, and exclaims :—

While you can see blue ruin, joy!
Pull deeper yet, and deeper;
By George! you shall return from
hence,

Without an open peeper.

Frater, dum tibi manet lux,

Bibe ruinæ poculum: Redibis hinc, per Georgium! Utrumque cassus oculum.

Observe that the expression "blue ruin" is very poetical, but my version of it is also prophetical; a charm unknown to the original. Phelim's reply is beautiful :

Don't tip me now, my lad of wax,

Your blarney and locution,

Och! sure you an't a giant yet,
Nor I a Lilliputian.

Ne sis, O cerâ mollior,
Grandiloquus et vanus;
Heus bone! non es gigas tu,
Et non sum ego nanus.

Here again the author, of course, had Homer in his eye,
Μητε μεν, ήντε παιδος αφαυρο, πειρητιζε.

And again,

Πηλείδη, μηδη με έπεσσι γε, νηπυτιον ὡς,
Ἐλπεο δειδίξεσθαι.

The contest, which, it is possible, I may by and bye transmit to you at length, is described with a minuteness which far exceeds Virgil's Dares and Entellus, or even the," Pugilism" of the Sporting Magazine. The modest Mac Twolter is, as he deserves to be, the victor. The Poem concludes in a high strain of triumph :

So Victory to Phelim gave

A wife of fair renown;

And with that wife she gave besides

To him a silver crown.

Victoria dedit Phelimo

Uxorem valde bonam; Et dedit cum uxore hâc Argenteam coronam.

I must now cease to comment upon this fascinating character, and proceed, without further delay, to the celebration of the amour of his descendant. Looney Mac Twolter is well known to you, as you have frequently heard the identical ballad from the lips of Frederick Golightly. I shall therefore give you my promised Translation of it, without note or preface. Give it a classical name,-"an Eclogue," or " an Idyll," or " an Elegy," or what you will.

I.

Ob, whack! Cupid's a mannikin,

Smack on my heart he hit me a polter;
Good lack, Judy O'Flannikin!

Dearly she loves nate Looney Mac Twolter.
Judy's my darling, my kisses she suffers;
She's an heiress, that's clear,

For her father sells beer;

He keeps the sign of the cow and the snuffers.
She's so smart,

From my heart

I cannot bolt her.

Oh, whack, Judy O’Flannikin!

She is the girl for Looney Mac Twolter.

II.

Oh hone! good news I need a bit!

We'd correspond, but larning would choak her,
Mavrone!-I cannot read a bit;

Judy can't tell a pen from a poker.

Judy's so constant, I'll never forsake her;

She's true as the moon ;

Only one afternoon,

I caught her asleep with a humpbacked shoemaker.

She's so smart, &c.

Port St. Dermid, near Ballinocrasy, Dec. 28, 1820.

LE BLANC'S SOBER ESSAY ON LOVE.

« And Love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest ;

On earth unknown, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest."-GOLDSMITH.

LOVE is a theme which has received its due share of importance in literature in every age and clime; but, like the ocean from whence its own presiding goddess is fabled to have sprung, is as inexhaustible in its nature as universal in its prevalence. Conjointly with the praises of heroism and warlike achievements, it has inspired as well the earliest rhapsodies of the wandering

minstrels of Greece and Araby, as the noblest works of the most accomplished authors of the present day. Though frequently prostituted and debased to its lowest dregs by certain panders to lust, ycleped novel-writers, it is a subject which has all along had, and still has, the most decided claims on the pens of the metaphysician and the poet; nay, I will venture to add, without fear of controversy-the divine.

The metaphysician loses himself in abstruse disquisitions on the doctrine of assimilation, or what other theory he may please to adopt, as explanative of the mysterious influence by which the mind is propelled to that congeniality of sentiment, which exists between the sexes, and what is worthy of observation, in the case of individuals of opposite tempers and habits; as if it was necessary for the composition of the most perfect unanimity, which can exist on earth, that the ingredients should be of contrary qualities. In developing that sensation, or source of sensations, which we term "Love," some argue that it is a compound of feelings, an union of various propensities, or, to speak more technically a co-operation of different organs; while others cut the gordian knot at a blow, and assert that it is a self-sufficient, distinct principle. This they might as well denominate at once the principle of amativeness. They have but acted in imitation of the old Stoics, who, when they had found themselves at a loss to account for the nature of the soul, by referring its composition to either fire, air, earth, or water, determined upon having an additional element, or primary cause, to which they could exclusively ascribe its existence. For myself, I cannot help thinking that, on this point in particular, there is a striking analogy between physics and metaphysics. The investigation of natural philosophy was a complete chaos of doubt, and learned ignorance, till the superintending providence of a Deity-a Being like the omnipotent and omniscient Jehovah -was established from revelation in the creed of the philosopher; this it was which proved the only true clue to conduct him safely through the intricacies of the labyrinth. And such is the case with our philosophy of the mind: clouds and thick darkness are round about us, and it requiries no spirit of prophecy to pronounce that the veil will never be removed, till the nature of the soul's action is understood by us as a primal invisible cause, from whence all the visible effects, with which we are well acquainted, may be educed; and this cannot take place till the time when that particle of the divine breath, which is at present like an elastic spring coiled and confined, hath been emancipated from its earthly trammels, and restored to the full grasp of intellect which it is capable of; an attainment, towards which even a Newton and a Locke made but slight advances.

The Divine has a much easier task-his views of the subject

are clear and express, as far as scriptural authority warrants his investigation, and it may well excite in us a doubt and hesitation whether that is not the point.

"Thus far shalt thou go and no further."

The last and best gift with which the "Lord of the Creation" was presented by his Divine Benefactor was female society, as an antidote for that solitude of heart which must otherwise have proved intolerable to a being formed with such capacities for enjoyment as are found in man. The "aching void" was soon discovered, or, as it is expressed, in the beautiful simplicity of holy writ," for Adam, there was found no help meet for him,' but no sooner discovered than provided against; as if it had been the intention of the "Giver of all Good," that the value of the blessing might be the more appreciated from its not having been bestowed till a deficiency had been felt. And is it not this same aching void" that exists in the breast of youth, when it pants after an object on which to lavish its affections? In the days of Paradise, it is true, the impulse was pure and chaste in all its bearings-it is now, alas! debased and adulterated from its pristine perfection.

"Poor race of men

Dearly ye pay for your primal fall,

Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit,

But the trail of the serpent is over them all."

The rose, however, still looks lovely in the midst of a garden of weeds, whose contiguity is contaminating.

Love is the very essence of poetry in general, and the key-stone of interest, on which the chef d'œuvres of Melpomene and Thalia are chiefly constructed. Yet the office of the poet is quite distinct from those of the two former I have mentioned. His business is not to attempt the developement of original principles, but to portray their.consequences in all the vivid colours of the imagination. I am aware that some men of gigantic intellect, like Wordsworth, have succeeded in uniting " for better or worse" metaphysics and poetry. But I am now speaking of Love Poetry, in a simple sense, as describing the effects of the passion, or principle, or impulse, or whatever it may be, and contenting itself with leaving that passion, or principle, or impulse, without a defition, or even pronouncing it undefinable. When the subject has undergone the process which an inspired imagination performs upon it, it issues forth in a shape intelligible to the humblest, and yet by no means on that account rendered contemptible to the highest capacity;-for human nature is the same throughout all its empire, from the palace to the cottage. It is true that the productions of an ardent fancy, are apt to trangress the limits of