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the appointed time, and she thought to herself, "As I am Miss Susan Winstanley, and a young lady-a reputed beauty, and known to be a fortune-I can have my choice of the finest speeches from the mouth of this very fine gentleman who is courting me-but if I had been poor Mary Such-a-one (naming the milliner,) -and had failed of bringing home the cravats to the appointed hour-though perhaps I had sat up half the night to forward them- what sort of compliments should I have received then?-And my woman's pride came to my assistance; and I thought, that if it were only to do me honour, a female, like myself, might have received handsomer usage: and I was determined not to accept any fine speeches, to the compromise of that sex, the belonging to which was, after all, my strongest claim and title to them."
I think the lady discovered both generosity, and a just way of thinking, in this rebuke which she gave her lover; and I have sometimes imagined, that the uncommon strain of courtesy, which through life regulated the actions and behaviour of my friend towards all of womankind indiscriminately, owed its happy origin to this seasonable lesson from the lips of his lamented mistress.
I wish the whole female world would entertain the same notion of these things that Miss Winstanley showed. Then we should see something of the spirit of consistent gallantry; and no longer witness the anomaly of the same man—a pattern of true politeness to a wife -of cold contempt, or rudeness, to a sister-the idolater of his female mistress-the disparager and despiser of his no less female aunt, or unfortunate-still femalemaiden cousin. Just so much respect as a woman derogates from her own sex, in whatever condition placed her handmaid or dependent-she deserves to have diminished from herself on that score; and probably will feel the diminution, when youth, and beauty, and advantages, not inseparable from sex, shall lose of their attraction. What a woman should demand of a
man in courtship, or after it, is first-respect for her as she is a woman;—and next to that to be respected by him above all other women. But let her stand upon her female character as upon a foundation; and let the attentions incident to individual preference, be so many pretty additaments and ornaments-as many, and as fanciful, as you please-to that main structure. Let her first lesson be-with sweet Susan Winstanley-to reverence her sex.
THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.*
[Thomas Davis was one of that band of advanced Irish patriots who thought that they could supersede, in Ireland, "Moore's Irish Melodies," because they did not go far enough for them; forgetting that Moore, in the language of Samuel Lever (as true an Irishman as ever lived), "did more for Ireland than all her other bards put together;" that "his winning lay insinuated a sympathy for Ireland into bosoms impervious to open assault-that the cold circle of prejudice that had hitherto guarded many a heart in high places, was opened by the magic of his song, and for the first time the harp of Ireland became more than an emblem of her fame-it was turned into an instrument for her good." Fortunately for Davis's chance of future fame, he did not confine his lyrics to political ones. We are told that he wrote the greater portion of them (they are published by Duffy, Dublin, in one volume) in a single year, 1844; and this, too, in addition to a great quantity of other writing for the journal with which he was connected-The Nation." Apart from his political songs, which are of the fierce and fiery, cut-and-thrust order, he wrote with great tenderness. His love songs are unaffected and graceful. Darling Nell," "Annie Dear," and "The Welcome," are all exquisite songs. He was born in 1814 and died in 1854.]
THE summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles
The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles
*Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a Castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard; The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel
And full of love, and peace, and rest-its daily labour
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there;
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air.
The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide,
Must trust their oars-methinks not few-against the ebbing tide
Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore !
All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street: And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet
June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the artist, the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbourhood is most interesting.See "The Ancient and Present State of the County and City of Cork," by Charles Smith, M.D., vol. i. p. 270. Second edition. Dublin, 1774.-AUTHOR'S NOTE.
A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! "the roof is in a
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame
And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl
The yell of "Allah" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar—
Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore !
Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword;
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored;
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grandbabes clutching wild;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child;
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,
There's one hearth well avengéd in the sack of Baltimore!
Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to sing
They see not now the milking-maids-deserted is the spring!
Midsummer day-this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown;
They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cléire, and saw five leagues before
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.
Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed.
Oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles ;
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey
She's safe-she's dead-she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai;
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore,
She only smiled-O'Driscoll's child-she thought of Baltimore.
'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand,
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan-he, who steered the Algerine!
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman o'er
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.