THE DUBLIN OF TEMPERANCE, SCIENCE, AND LITERATURE. VOL. II. No. 1. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY. OSSIAN'S POEMS. PRICE 1d. of Irish worthies, remarkable for genius, talent, and creative power, let us never fail to emblazon, in brilliant characters, the melodious name of OSSIAN. TO THE EDITOR OF THE DUBLIN JOURNAL. 24th Oct., 1842. DEAR SIR-On lately looking over No. 80 of the Monthly Magazine for Sept., 1820, published by Bently, of Dorset-street, "Extract of a letter from Belfast, dated 4th August, 1820.— Discovery of the Original Ossian's Poems.-On opening a vault where stood the cloisters of the old Catholic Abbey at Connor, founded by St. Patrick, the workmen discovered an oak chest of curious workmanship, the contents of which proved to be a translation of the Bible in the Irish character, and other MSS. in that language. The chest was immediately forwarded to the Rev. Dr. Henry, who, not knowing the aboriginal language, sent it to Dr. Macdonald, of Belfast, who soon discovered the MSS. to be the original poems of Ossian, written (read copied) by an Irish friar of the name of Terence O'Neal, in the year 1463." A correspondent, whose letter we subjoin, has brought before us matter for fair and impartial examination. He is a lover of Erin's immortal bard, and regrets, in common with other Irishmen, that this gifted child of song should lie comparatively unnoticed and unknown. What did Macpherson in his version but rend into prosaic piecemeal, like the torn Absyrtus, the body and soul of the poet's creations? The disjecta membra poeta were distinguished, no doubt, but the poetic fire was, phoenix-like, indestructible; else, it were quenched for ever. We have no doubt but that the original MS. of our bard, alluded to in the subjoined letter, lies in the archives of the Belfast Academy. Dr. Macdonald certainly, we would say, who examined it, would be able to give the required information; and our hope is, that he will do so. As to the genuineness of the poems alluded to, we have no difficulty; for where is it more likely to find an author's works than in the country of his birth ?-where would the broken strings be found but where the lyre was wont to hang ?--and where, we would emphatically demand, could such a garland of wild flowers be enwreathed, redolent of beauty and romance, but in the "Sweet land of the West"? Yes, we fully agree with Lady Morgan, that Ossian was a veritable Irishman, and believe that, like the Spartan Tyrtous, he called forth such strains from his rude chords, that, by thus inspiriting but we cannot insert them. Many of them, we perWe are very grateful for several contributions; his countrymen to battle, he used as fatal a weapon ceive, are of a high order, but we are sedulously as if he discharged his arrows from the bow-string. anxious to "make no honest man our foe" by an Love, too—that universal ingredient in the composi-attack on any one. The slightest tincture of religious tion of a true-hearted Irishman-beams from his untutored verse; nor can we find a more appropriate name to call him than the Irish Homer, in order to express all we think and feel concerning him. It may be said, that as the Celtic and Erse dialects closely approximate, so, it is not unlikely that what was really Scotch would be called Irish. To this we reply, that remark cuts as much one way as another. For why is it not as likely that our north. ern friends should have appropriated Ossian, though thoroughly Irish, as we believe he was? Let us then, respect his memory, and esteem him as our own. Let us proudly point to him as the Chaucer of Irish poetry, who brought the first-fruits of his effusions as an offering to the Epic Muse; and in the long roll Now you would greatly oblige some of your antiquarian readers (and myself among the number) by giving any information in your power respecting these highly interesting and valuable national MSS. I should like to know what has become of them, and also of a translation said to be written by Baron Harold, and dedicated to our countryman, the celebrated Edmund Burke, which, it is said, greatly surpasses Macpherson's. I am, Sir, yours most respectfully, TO OUR CONTRIBUTORS. • J. B. or political acrimony, we may say with Horace, and promise too-" procul abfore chartis." There is a common green spot yet in the Emerald Isle, where all that love their country can cordially shake hands. Thither we invite them in the spirit of love and good will. We wish it to be particularly understood that we will not insert any paper or correspondence of which the entire has not been forwarded. All articles sent to us for insertion we shall assume are ORIGINAL, excepting, of course, such as are acknowledged to be selections, or which we know to be so. We, therefore, shall not ticket each paper, prose or verse, as "original" in future, Such is the custom cf other periodicals, THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. "For jealousy is the rage of a man, therefore he will not spare "Cut off even in the blossom of my sin, SHAKSPEARE. The following sketch, all the events of which are perfectly true, is written with the hope that it may be the means of exhibiting in its true colours the base practice of anonymous letter-writing, and of pointing out the evil effects which sometimes result from it. If it should be the means of preventing a single anonymous letter from being written, the author will consider that he has rendered some service to society, and that his labour has not been in vain :— A very few years back, there resided, near the town of Nch, in Cheshire, a nurseryman and gardener, named Thurlo, who bore amongst his neighbours, and indeed amongst all those who had any dealings with him, a high reputation for steadiness and integrity. The consequence was, that his fruits and flowers were always most sought after, and every one wished to procure their seed from his shop, knowing that they could safely rely upon its being good and recent. Added to all this, he was of a very handsome exterior; and this, we know, is no small attraction to the soft sex, of whom the greater part of his customers consisted. He had been in business a little more than six years, when the circumstances occurred which led to the tragical catastrophe of this narrative. As I have before said, he was a pretty general favourite; yet the most excellent will have their enemies, and he was not an exception. There was one individual, who took every opportunity of making him feel his enmity, and this apparently for no other reason than that he, through integrity and good conduct, had stepped into a business, which the other had lost through dishonesty and dissipated habits. This person had at one time been his bosom friend, but latterly their friendship had ceased, and gave place to deepest hatred; thus verifying the trite remark, that he who has injured you will be your most inveterate foe. But here we must introduce to our readers a new and rather important character in this eventful drama-viz., Miss Jane L, who, for beauty both of face and figure, bore the palm from all, whether aristocratic or otherwise, who frequented Thurlo's garden; she was indeed a perfect little rustic beauty, and, had you seen her tripping lightly to market, with her basket of fruits and flowers, you would have agreed with me that a poet or a painter might make her the model for his Pomona or his Flora, and acknowledge that it was no wonder a susceptible heart should be deeply interested for her. My readers, I am sure, anticipate that Mr. Thurlo is unable to resist her attractions, and falls desperately in love with the fruit girl. He too was not without favour in her eyes. No, no-Miss Jane had rather too much sense, and too little inclination, to reject such a promising suitor; but, like most women, having a spice of the coquette in her disposition, she was in the habit of frequently making her swain | wretched. This she managed to do by leading him to believe, from sundry hints and inuendoes, that she had another more fortunate suitor, and to insinuate that the man whom I have mentioned as his bitterest enemy, was the favoured one in her affections. This statement, although really untrue, yet to Thurlo it bore the semblance of truth, and not groundless, for the person alluded to had, from the first, been his rival, and did not bear with equanimity the success, (which, to every one but himself, was apparent,) but set afloat various slanderous rumours, in order to injure him in the estimation of the girl's mother, who had all along opposed him, and countenanced Thurlo. Harassed and irritated by the conduct of Jane, Thurlo at length resolved to come to an understanding on the subject; and with this resolution, having screwd his courage up to the sticking point, he set off late one evening to her mother's dwelling, and arrived there just in time to see the man he detested leave the house. This did not alter his purpose, but rather sharpened it, inasmuch as his rising anger proved more than a match for the bashfuluess which before had oppressed him. -n. Well, Jane," said he, on entering, " I hope you have had a pleasant visit from M"A very pleasant one, I can assure you," was the reply. "And may I ask," returned he, "what brought him here at this hour?" "Perhaps the same business brought him here that brought your. self." This reply staggered Thurlo not a little; but summoning up his courage, which was ebbing fast, he again addressed her "That may or may not be, but let us go now to your mother, and I will tell you my business by and bye." They accordingly went in, and sat chatting with the old woman, who, in about half an hour, retired to bed, leaving the lovers alone. He immediately seized the opportunity, and pleaded his cause with all the ardour and eloquence of impassioned love. Jane, however, was insensible to every solicitation; she, in the most heartless way, resolved to make the man she really loved, thoroughly miserable, by leaving him in distressing doubt, and thus immolated his most sacred feelings on the demon altar of her inordinate vanity. After having plied her in vain with every species of prayers and entreaties, Thurlo went away angry and dispirited, threatening, as he took his departure, that she should yet sorely regret her obstinacy. When he was gone, she felt compunctious visitings for her conduct, and, with dire misgivings lest she should have alienated him for ever, and foreboding of some coming calamity, she sat by the fire occupied with painful reflections, until it had quite burned out, when, suddenly recollecting herself, she retired to bed, where she cried herself to sleep. But, alas! matters did not end here. A few days subsequent to the evening to which I have alluded, Thurlo, whose love for Jane was still as strong as ever, although his pride forbade him to acknowledge it, received an anonymous letter, bearing the postmark of a distant town. This letter stated that his sweetheart had absolutely pledged herself to his detested rival. This intelligence was maddening and unexpected, for he had hitherto all along attributed her behaviour to the real cause, and consequences resulted which, it is to be hoped, the unhappy author neither foresaw nor intended. Thurlo fell sick, so much so, that he was obliged to keep his bed for two days. During that period, when his mind had full leisure to brood over his imagined loss, he formed the resolution, the moment he was able to get up, to go once more to Jane, and ask her to become his; and, should she refuse, he made up his mind (to use his own expression) that " if he should not have her, no one else should." Jane also, during this interval, had received another anonymous letter, telling her that Thurlo was not the man she thought him: that not only was he wooing her for the sake of her money, (about £300,) but that, at the same time, he was attached to an improper female. This intelligence touched two of the most sensitive chords of a woman's heart-and, alas! too true they responded. |