have, without doing any violence to the pronun- | We might, however, mark a few violations of ciation, the mixed trissyllable and dissyllable this essential condition; for instance, in this flow, which is the character of this kind of verse. line,

Whenever neighbours complain'd that any injustice was done them.

Whenever is a bad dactyl; for the ordinary | must do) is certainly whěněvěr. pronunciation (taking the accented syllable for In this line:the long syllable, which, of course, is what we

Loud, and sudden, and near, the note of a whip-poorwill sounded.

Whip-poorwill sounds somewhat strange to our ears as a dactyl, but this may be from our want of familiarity with the mode of pronouncing the word practised in its native country.

We might notice a few more such negligences, for so they appear to us; but we wish rather to

take our leave of Mr. Longfellow, with the expression of the pleasure we have received from the story of Evangeline, and of our hope that we may have from his country- and why not from him?-other strains of the same music. -Fraser's Magazine,

BOYD'S BOOK OF GERMAN BALLADS.

A Book of Ballads from the German.
By PERCY BOYD, Esq. Dublin: James
McGlashan, D'Olier street. 1848.

We suppose there is no other way of accounting for the phenomena which our recent poetical literature presents, namely, the preponderance of excellent translations over original compositions, except by attributing these results to the universal and all-embracing hospitality of our countrymen, who, though nearly destitute of the common necessaries of literary existence for themselves, still contrive to welcome the wandering children of foreign literatures with entertainments, to which the banquets of Apicius, or even the "noble feast" of O'Ruark himself, were but as the "rations" of a poor-house. Generous and hospitable fellows that we are! while we shudder at the sweet, mournful echoes of our own traditions, as at the wail of the banshee, or, in the philosophical scepticism of the age, disbelieve in the existence of both, we listen with open ears and palpitating hearts to the first breathing of some foreign melody, to which distance lends its ever-potent enchantment. We lapse into credulity out of respect to the Brocken, and warm into momentary rapture to compliment the Rhine; and some of us who would send the poor old "fairy woman" (the banshee) to the station-house-the "good people" to the public works and the phookah, or even O'Donoghue's white horses, to a carstand! - introduce the Walpurgis witches to our drawing-rooms, and consider the Wild Huntsman as the most delightful of table companions.

Well, it is better, perhaps, that it should be as it is. It is better, perhaps, that our legends,

our traditions, our memories, our national idiosyncracies, should utterly die out, and be replaced by a hardier race, than that they should preserve their vitality at the expense of that respect to which LIFE is entitled, and wanting which annihilation is a boon. Better that their destiny should resemble the fate of the American Red Men, disappearing surely but slowly, and with touching dignity, from their ancestral forests, than that they should increase and multiply but as the objects of scorn, of laughter, or of gain, like the poor despised children of Afri

ca.

We have complained of the manner in which our own legends-the materials of a true, vigorous, national literature - have been neglected. We have still greater reason to complain of the manner in which they have been partially used. With but few exceptions, our novelists, our dramatists, our literary tourists, our essayists, our poets, our historians (a few well-known and highly-valued antiquarian wri ters excepted) - all have treated our most gray and venerable traditions, and most sacred names, in such a spirit of levity, of heartless mockery, and wretched banter, as to render them almost unfit for the serious purposes of a lofty and ambitious native literature. They use them but for the exhibition of that ghastly "fun,” which is now so much the rage, or the play of their own bounding humor — much after the manner of the boys at Glendalough, who have converted St. Kevin's Cathedral into a ballcourt! This being the prevailing tendency of most of our writers, it is, perhaps, fortunate, that while few among them attempted to raise any permanent memorial of their own genius, or added much to the literary riches of thei

country, by original compositions of importance, | such trick as is recorded in his own exquisite many of them were the means of introducing little ballad of "The Fairy Child," but with a to the notice of their countrymen, the "interest- difference. We would have them substitute a ing foreigners" we have spoken of above; which, strong, hardy, vigorous, healthy offspring of his if they are often too dreamy and fantastic to own genius, for the strange, supernatural, though serve as models for the rough, simple heartiness beautiful being he has adopted, and on whom he that should characterise our native poetry, indi- | has lavished so much of his care and affection. cate to us, with sufficient clearness, the mental activity and national pride that exist in other countries; and while silently upbraiding us for our inactivity or incapacity, may spur us on to exertion and imitation. Not to speak of the earlier writers at the beginning of this century, such as Lord Strangford and the Rev. Henry Boyd (the latter the namesake, and, we believe, the near relative of our author), whose several translations from Camoens and Dante were then so popular — need we call to mind the versatile and wonderful Maginn, the scholar, the wit, the humorist, the poet, the politician-yet squandering recklessly, and, indeed, uselessly, on ancient themes, and modern trifles, and party politics, and denationalizing squibs, talents and acquirements that might have placed him second only to Swift on the muster-roll of our literary giants? Need we mention the gay, the witty, the accomplished "Prout," happily for PIO NONO and the Daily News (and for Ireland too, we trust), still breathing the inspired air of the "Eternal City," whose genius, as if in scorn of the easy triumph of successful English versification, boldly enters the lists, now with Anacreon or Horace, now with Beranger or Parini, and meeting them with their own weapons, comes off unconquered with wreaths and plaudits from the circus. Let him not, however, forget "the pleasant waters" of his native river. The simple ballad in which he has united for ever his own name with that of the "Allua of Song," will be recollected, when all his clever imitations and successful classicalities will be utterly forgotten.

The next of our eminent writers whose name occurs to us, is Dr. Anster-more celebrated, perhaps, than either of the former, as a translator. He has, as every one knows, the rare merit of having produced the best translation of the most world-famous poem that the human intellect has produced since the "Inferno," namely, the "Faust" of Goethe. His work is one of, perhaps, the only four really good, correct, yet spirited translations of lengthy foreign poems, which English literature possesses; the other three being Coleridge's" Wallenstein," Cary's "Divina Commedia," and Rose's" Orlando Furioso." We confess, however, that some of his own smaller original compositions have for us a far greater charm than his more celebrated translation; and had we any influence with "the good people," we would implore of them to play him some

Of Clarence Mangan it is scarcely necessary for us to say any thing in this place. Our readers have known him long, and we believe estimate him at his proper value-as, indeed, the public generally seem at length inclined to do, if we are to take the following tribute from a friendly but judicious critic, as its slowly-matured decision on the subject: "We fear not to say that, in power of versification, variety of rhythmic arrangement, melodious combinations of phrase, vigor of thought, and force of expression, Mr. Mangan is unequalled by any living writer." This is high praise, in which we cordially concur. We may, however, be permitted to express our admiration and wonder at the spontaneity of his genius, as well as its richness and profusion. Month after month he twirls his poetical kaleidoscope, as if it required no effort but the shifting of his fingers to produce those ever-changing forms of the beautiful and the grotesque in which he delights to indulge. He seems but to breathe on the strange quaint legends and wild melodies of distant lands, frozen up, as it were, by the frosts of a hundred dialects, and lo! as if of their own accord, the foreign harmonies break melodiously on the startled ear, like the tunes in the bugle-horn of Munchausen! If we had not seen him in the flesh, if we had not shook his delicate hand, and been held by "his glittering eye," like the wedding-guest by the Ancient Mariner, so miraculous seems his acquaintance with all tongues known and unknown - so familiar does he appear with all authors, dead, living, and unborn, that we would be strongly inclined to suspect the respectable and prudent publisher of this magazine of having secured, "at an enormous expense," the reversion of the Wandering Jew from M. Sue, now that that famous personage must live by his wits, after being despoiled of all his funded property by those terrible fellows, the Jesuits! However, as we have certified that Clarence Mangan, though unquestionably mysterious, is yet a reality, and not a myth, we can only account for this faculty, by supposing him under the influence of a species of etymological mesmerism, or poetical clairvoyance, before which all languages lie openfortunately for dictionary-compilers and grammarians, no very common state of mind. Mr. Mangan has impressed his name upon

*Dublin Evening Mail, January 17th, 1848.

many a theme, indeed upon so many, that a considerable portion of them must inevitably sink in the river of Lethe, with those medals which Lord Bacon tells us bear the names of the generality of men inscribed upon them. But, fortunately for himself, he has also stamped his name on a few, and those principally his own creation, which we rest satisfied the swans of immortality, also mentioned by the same authority, will rescue from the oblivious flood, and bear to the Temple of Fame, there to be consecrated for ever.

Before proceeding to the beautiful volume which it is our present duty and pleasure to notice, we shall briefly allude to one other language, perhaps more "foreign" to the most of us than any of those already mentioned, from which valuable translations have been recently made

in the lively and pleasant preface to his volume. And first, as to the volume itself. Its external and internal embellishments, its pictorial illustrations, its floral capitals and rustic borders, are all executed with great elegance and care, and reflect the utmost credit, as well on the liberality of the publisher, in projecting, as on the taste and skill of the artist in carrying out the work. As to the binding, we would be at a loss for some suitable comparison, if Lord Byron had not, very good-naturedly, supplied us with one, in his description of the cohorts of the Assyrian

"gleaming in purple and gold," or, still better, that exquisite picture of the casement of the Lady Madeline, as given to us by John Keats:"A casement high and triple-arched there was, All garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device Innumerable, of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep damasked wings." And such, dear reader, are the covers of the volume before us. From what has been already stated of the number and merit of the translators who have preceded Mr. Boyd - and we have only mentioned a few of those more immediately connected with this country, to the exclusion of Sir Bulwer Lytton, Mr. Merivale, and many others - our readers will perceive that a new candidate for public favor has certain difficulties and prejudices to overcome, before he can obtain a fair and dispassionate judgment upon his efforts. If he breaks new ground, and attempts to introduce a novel or original style, he will be pronounced presumptuous or eccentric. If he follows in the wake of others, no matter how sweet or perfect the harmony of his versification, he will be condemned for feeble

we mean the ancient language of this country. In this important department of our literature, several writers have acquitted themselves with great credit to themselves, and advantage to their country. The late Thomas Furlong, Mr. Dalton, the historian, and others, in Hardiman's valuable work on the ancient minstrelsy of Ireland: Jeremiah Joseph Callanan, also deceased; Mr. Mangan, and Mr. Edward Walsh, in other publications. But there is one writer who has so preeminently succeeded in this particular department, that we cannot refrain from making particular mention of him — we need scarcely say we mean Mr. Samuel Ferguson. Although, to us at least, the principal charm of this gentleman's translations consist in their being conceived, moulded, and expressed in the old spirit of this country, to readers of English literature generally, they possess a merit which will be more generally appreciated—namely, their extreme novelty and originality of sentiment, as well as idiom. Discarding the vile gib-ness or imitation. If, as is the case in a few inberish which, from the days of "Lillibulero" to the present hour, is imposed on our fellow-subjects"in that part of the United Kingdom called" England, as genuine, racy, Hibernian phraseology, in noble disregard of the "cheap and nasty" mock nationality to which we have alluded, and which consists in false spelling, exaggerated mispronunciation, and treasonable grammar, he has given us in correct English, such as Swift or Southey might have used - a style of poetry which, as far as British literature generally is concerned, is perfectly new, and which, in this country, like the blood of the Geraldines, is more Irish than the Irish itself.

Thus having passed in review the several writers who have distinguished themselves in our recent and current literature as translators, we now come to "the Herr Boyd" himself, if we may be permitted to use the language of our author's fair visiter at Heidelberg, as recorded

stances in the present volume, he offers a new version of some poem already fixed in the memory of his readers, and familiarized by an earlier English dress, it will be judged of in most instances, not by its closeness to the original, but by its remoteness from that with which the public ear is familiar. Mr. Boyd, however, both in the ballads translated by other writers, of which he gives a new rendering, and in the still greater number which, for the first time, are introduced to the English reader in his volume, can bear the strongest test, and the most stubborn prejudice to which, as we have stated, a new writer must be exposed. Old favorites, indeed, he will not displace; but many will be delighted to hear the strains to which they have been accustomed to listen with delight, breathing from a newer instrument, which, if less powerful or variable than the old, is uniformly more correct in its utterance, and generally