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From

the Dublin University Magazine.

MARIA EDGEWORTH.

As friends must be torn by Fate from the embrace of individuals, and what was affection be subdued into memory, so is it decreed that celebrated characters must pass from time to time from before the eyes of the community they had shed a lustre upon, leaving in place of the gladdening influence of their presence a void, occupied only by the melancholy satifaction that at least the honored names belong to its permanent history.

That she was a highly successful novelist, when that field was less trodden than it is now, is inferior praise to this; and we have ever held that the lessons of morality, which all her writings aimed at conveying, were then most conspicuous and most conducive to human benefit when they cast off, as it were, the gravity and reserve of society, and introduced themselves, in sportive guise, as the playthings and companions of the nur

sery.

If we are to measure the importance of literary efforts by the effect they produce, the influence they exercise, and the changes they work, then, in other departments as well as this, Miss Edgeworth stands eminently conspicuous. The tone of thought and feeling of the generation now already passing its maturity, has been moulded unquestionably to an appreciable extent on her educational works; but when we recollect that to her earlier novels Scott confessed himself indebted for the first idea of illustrating the character and scenes of his own country by means of popular tales, we shall see to how large an extent that one intellect has made the world its debtor. Indeed, it is one of the circumstances which enhance the interest creative talent is ever invested with, that it operates beyond itself, as it were, developing powers and originating actions lying without the orbit of its own career.

Maria Edgeworth is no more. At this period of the month we have not time to enlarge upon an announcement, which indeed is in itself sure to arrest public attention without any comment of ours. English literature claims the calamity as her own, and will find a voice wherever its influence reaches--and where does it not reach ?throughout the civilized world. Our part is a more peculiar one-a more painful and difficult one, too, than any mere formal panegyric: we have to mourn on the part of Ireland, the loss of its brightest literary ornament. In the brilliancy of her more extended works, the true grounds of this gifted lady's fame are apt to be lost sight of. As in the case of a desultory and inconsistent, though eminent legal philosopher of our time, the less-observed and humbler achievement of cheapening knowledge, and bringing that illustrious guest to doors she would not have previously condescended to visit, will form with posterity the true foundation of his greatness; so, in estimating Miss Edgeworth's services to literature, we ought to do what future generations will do, and make it her title to the place she is destined to hold in public estimation that, with a very few exceptions, she it was who first brought the operation was going on every hour; we the rational morality and exalted sensibilities could see precepts reduced, before our eyes, of maturer life to a level with the compre- to practice; and the tender mind becoming hension of childhood, forestalling the teach visibly impressed with those patterns which, ing of schools and colleges in this respect, falling within the grander outline of Christianby the power of combining ethics with enter-ity, serve to fill up the details of the human tainment, suited to attract the young, and teaching the language of truth and virtue, in its alphabet.

On the young the effect of Miss Edgeworth's writings was striking. The wisdom derived from them was not, as Lady Mary Wortley Montague has expressed it, the

-"slow product of laborious years;"

character, and blend the whole into one chaste and harmonious design. Within many a family circle we can imagine the

event we are now recording to fall as a sens- | ible blow, and can fancy the eye, bent over the favorite page, to be dimmed with a tear, which, dropping on the familiar words, consecrate them from thenceforth a sacred memory in the youthful heart.

But we are straying beyond our limits. This distinguished lady has passed from amongst us. To all except the few who enjoyed the inestimable advantage of her friendship and acquaintance, she lives in her influences alone. In these, indeed, she still survives she exists for every one as long as they continue to peruse her writings with delight and profit. In the increased power she affords to one class of self-instruction, and to another of disciplining the minds under their charge, she stands beside them an ever-present good. Being dead, she speaketh.

To that favored few, alas! her loss is less easily repaired. For many years she had, it is true, secluded herself within the ancestral groves of Edgeworthstown, from which of late she rarely emerged, except when she lent herself to the affectionate importunities of members of her own immediate family; but she continued to the last to keep herself in communion with the great world without, by means of constant and unrestrained correspondence with a circle of friends, including some of the most gifted and eminent individuals in Great Britain and America, statesmen and philosophers as well as authors. These friends can best testify to the justice of this encomium-they can witness to the freshness of heart, retained to the verge of extreme old age, and surviving not only the common assaults of time, but the attacks of more than one severe domestic bereavement. They best can exonerate the writer, when he speaks of the keen and affectionate sensibilities beating as strong within her bosom up to the supreme hour, as when they instigated the happiest effusions of her fancy, and attracted the most ardent admiration of society. They know that not a feeling flagged-not an energy failed. Alive to everything around her, and responding to every exalted and humane emotion, she might be said to partake of that comprehensive philanthropy, the expression of which earned for the dramatist of old the plaudits of assembled Rome. Nothing was foreign from her affections, except what was unworthy of them; and she retained to the termination of her existence that power, generally judged to be the exclusive characteristic of

youth, of admitting new interests into the companionship of old ones, and of allowing the heart to warm for a cause, or an individual, the meridian of her life was a stranger to.

It is fortunate that these qualities are known as they are by so many friends and connections competent to give the world the benefit of a personal narrative. We should otherwise have feared lest the unostentatious humility of Miss Edgeworth's private virtues should cause them to be overlooked, or overborne rather, in the current of her literary history.

Nor can we, in our editorial capacity, be suspected of being influenced by any undue bias. In her views respecting the relative publishing claims and capabilities of England and Ireland, many of our readers are aware that she differed from us very widely. Her sentiments-dare we call them prejudices?— were all in favor of the metropolitan centre. She considered London the natural soil of Irish as well as English literary enterprise, and felt little interest in promoting any local rivalry. Whilst, like Moore, she was inspired with a truly patriotic regard for her native land, and, like him, shed a lustre upon it by the brightness of her genius-like him, too, she was an English writer born in Ireland, and connected her literary existence exclusively with the sister country.

She has

She is gone from amongst us. done much good that the world knows ofmuch that it may yet know of-and much that it will never know of. Instances will spring to many an affectionate memory. They throng to one breast which might seize the tempting opportunity of discharging the burden of gratitude that weighs upon it. But unfortunately the same feelings towards that revered friend which prompt the tongue to utterance, restrain the expression of acknowledgments that might have done violence to the sensitive delicacy of her nature. It more redounds to the honor of the dead, and profit of the living, to have it known, that one of the last acts of government bounty extended to native literary merit, was influenced in no small degree by the ardent and disinterested eloquence of this true-hearted Irishwoman.

Maria Edgeworth is no more. This is but a hasty offering cast upon her hearse. Around her urn will twine more costly wreaths, but there will none be presented with truer respect or more heartfelt devotion.

ON THE DEATH OF ABEL.

ADDRESSED TO LOUIS NAPOLEON.

"A tear for Abel, and a curse for Cain."

"WHERE is thy brother? Where is righteous Abel?" This awful question God asked murderous Cain. "Where is our brother? Where is free-born ROME?" This awful question we ask murderous France. Thou darest not lie, thou darest not say, "I know not!"

We know thou knowest, and heaven and hell do know.

Thou canst not lie, "Am I my brother's keeper?"
Thou saidst thou wast, and hell and heaven heard it.
There is no trick, no lie, no perjury left,
Thou standest at the bar-and thou art dumb.

O woe! "What hast thou done? What durst thou do?"

A voice there crieth-'tis a voice of blood-
A murdered man's still warm and reeking blood-
It is our brother's, 'tis thy brother's blood,
That crieth up to heaven from the ground;
That crieth with a voice that rends the skies,
A mighty earthquake voice that shakes the earth,
A dagger voice that pierceth every heart,
That cries: Revenge! revenge! revenge! revenge!
My brother Cain, my France has murdered

me!"

O woe unnamed! O woe too deep for tears!
Our brother Rome, beloved Rome is dead!
So free, so brave, so young, so beautiful,
He flourished but a day, and now is dead!
The youngest of his brethren and our darling,
Our hope, our flower was killed while in the bud.
He was as righteous and as pure as Abel,
And woe is me! he met with Abel's fate.
He loved his brother-just as Abel did,
He trusted in him-just as Abel did,
He gloried in him-just as Abel did,
And lo! his brother proved a wretch like Cain,
And hated him and envied him like Cain,
And murdered him-ay, ay, he murdered him,
The Gallic Cain, the righteous Roman Abel.
O woe, O crime, O shame beyond a name!

O woe! O woe! insufferable woe!
"Our brother Rome is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Rome is dead, and has not left his peer!
Who would not weep for Rome?" He was the hope,
The joy, the pride of Freedom's gallant crew,
His was the brightest lot man can be born to,
The fairest prospect oped before his eye,
A course of glory and a prize of bliss;
And he run well, and he had reached the goal
But for a brother-no, no, not a brother,
A devil in a brother's form disguised,
Who stopt him in the midst of his career,
And stretched him here a lifeless, bloodless body.

O that I were a host and not a man!
O that I wielded swords and not a lyre!

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Then should he have a worthier sacrifice,
The pious dead; then not mere words and tears,
Blood should revenge him on his murderer!
Be cursed then with every withering curse,
Thou hypocritic, recreant fratricide!
Be cursed from the earth which oped her mouth
To drink the blood-thy murdered brother's blood;
The TREE OF LIBERTY thy hand hath reared,
Shalt never thrive, shall never yield thee fruit,
But having stood awhile, an empty show,
The rootless trunk shall die and rot away,
Shall die and rot to mud from whence it sprung,
A mock, a scorn, a by-word with all nations!

But thou thyself, perjurious renegade,
Thou bloody, murderous, infamous, villanous villain,
Thou traitorous Ephialtes, Judas, Cain-
But yesterday an outlaw, now a despot,
But yesterday a suppliant, now a tyrant,
But yesterday a convict, now a hangman—
Again thou 'It tumble from thy dizzying height,
Again the land shall rise and spew thee out,
Again thou 'lt be a fugitive on earth,
A branded vagabond to roam like Cain,
And every one that findeth thee shall spit,
And hurry past as if a viper crossed him,

And pelt thee with this blasting taunt and curse:

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"Fie! Shame on thee, thou mock-Napoleon!
Thou dwarfish imp masked in a Titan's name!
Thou art no kin of him whose cloak thou stolest,
The victor general of the first republic,
The hero on a hundred battle-fields,
Where Freedom gained her first immortal glories;
Who like a thunder-storm broke from the Alps,
And swept the chaff of royalties away,
And burst the Austrian yoke on Italy,
And rocked the thrones in Berlin and Vienna,
Dread bugbear he of frightened despot brats.
He did not crouch to kiss the pontiff's toe,
No, no, he stood and made the pontiff crouch,
And set his foot on the anointed neck,
A tyrant he, too, but a tyrants' tyrant.”
"No, surely, no, thou art no Bonaparte,
They truly call thee right who call thee 'Bastard;'
A cuckoo laid thee in the eagle's nest."
"Avaunt! avaunt, thou leprous renegade,
Thou living carcass and thou rotten soul!
Corrupt not Freedom's healthy mountain air
With thy cadaverous, poisonous traitor's breath!
Go to the chief priests in whose pay thou art,
Go, Judas, go, and get thy Judas fee,
The price of blood, the thirty silver pieces,
And falling headlong and asunder bursting,
May'st thou, who livest like him, like Judas die!"
EMANUEL VITALIS SCHERB,
A Switzer, and former fellow-citizen
of Louis Napoleon.

From the Athenæum.

AUTHORSHIP OF JUNIUS.

The History of Junius and his Works-Identity of Junius with a distinguished living Character-A Critical Enquiry regarding the Real Author of the Letters of Junius-&c. &c. &c. North British Review.

[We published, in the Eclectic Magazine for February, an elaborate article on this subject from the North British Review, attributed to the pen of Sir David Brewster, which claimed the distinction of Junius' name for a new candidate. The following brief reply of the Athenæum effectually disposes of the argument, and will be read, by those who recall the former article, with deep interest.-ED.]

An examination of the evidence brought forward, from time to time, since 1812, in favor of the several claims of Sackville, Boyd, Francis, Barré, and others, to be considered as the writer of Junius's Letters; with facts and arguments in favor of a new The reclaimant, Mr. Lauchlin Macleane. view is understood to have been written by a gentleman whose opinion on any subject is entitled to respectful consideration-indeed, we need not hesitate to say by Sir David Brewster, for the facts adduced in respect to Lauchlin Macleane are conclusive on that point.

It is not our intention to slay the slain, or generally to criticise the critic. We shall confine ourselves to a consideration of the evidence brought forward by him in favor of Mr. Lauchlin Macleane.

Some years since it was incidentally mentioned in Cooke's "History of Parties," and subsequently confirmed by paragraphs in the newspapers, that Sir David Brewster, in turning over old family papers, had stumbled on evidence all but conclusive that Mr. Lauchlin Macleane was the writer of Junius's Letters. That evidence is now before us; and we will at once submit it for consideration, with such comment as suggests itself:

Upwards of thirty years ago, when Sir David Brewster was looking over the papers of the late James Macpherson, Esq., M. P., he found several letters addressed to him with the signature of L. Macleane, and bearing the dates of 1776-7, a few * One years after Junius ceased to write. of these began with the following sentence: 'I

shall follow your advice, my dear sir, implicitly. The feelings of the man are not fine, but he must be chafed into sensation.' This and other similar passages were shown to Mr. Macpherson of Belleville, who recollected that the name of Macleane was mentioned in Galt's life of West, in connection with that of Junius. A copy of the book was immediately sent for, when to the great surprise of the parties the following passage was discovered: An incident,' says Mr. Galt, of a curious nature has brought him (Mr. West) to be a party, in some degree, in the singular question respecting the mysterious author of the celebrated letters of Junius. On the morning that the first of these famous invectives appeared, his friend, Governor Hamilton, happened to call; and inquiring the news, Mr. West informed him of that bold and

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daring epistle. Ringing for his servant at the same time, he desired the newspaper to be brought in.' Hamilton read it over with great attention; and when he had done, laid it on his knees in a manner that particularly attracted the notice of the painter, who was standing at his easel. This letter,' said Hamilton, in a tone of vehement feeling, is by that d―d scoundrel, Macleane.' 'What Macleane?' inquired Mr. West. 'The surgeon of Otway's regiment; the fellow who attacked me so violently in the Philadelphia newspapers on account of the part I felt it to be my duty to take against one of the officers. This letter is by him. I know these very words; I may well remember them;' and he read over several phrases and sentiments which Macleane employed against him. Mr. West then informed the Governor that Macleane was in the country, and that he was personally acquainted with him. He came over,' said Mr. West, with Colonel Barré, by whom he was introduced to Lord Shelburne, (afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne,) and is at present private secretary to his lordship.' This remarkable anecdote, taken in connection with the casual discovery of Macleane's letters, induced Sir David Brewster to enter upon an inquiry foreign to his own studies, but not without an interest to those who like himself were admirers of the writings of Junius. In this inquiry he has been engaged for nearly thirty years; and though he does not pretend to have

identified Macleane with Junius, he believes that in favor of no other candidate can such an amount of evidence be produced. Lauchlin Macleane was born in the county of Antrim in 1727 or or 1728. His father, John Macleane, was a nonjuring clergyman, nearly connected with the Macleanes of Coll, and was driven from Scotland in consequence of his attachment to the exiled family, and of his refusal, along with many others, to pray for King George the First and the royal family. This must have taken place previous to 1726, for he married after he arrived in Ireland, and took up his residence in the north of Ireland, near Belfast. He was a man robust in stature and independent in his principles, and he had occasion to exhibit both these qualities during his residence in Scotland. When he was one day coming out of church, a quarrel arose between him and some officers of the army, who had no doubt been chiding him for his disloyalty. After some altercation, they told him that nothing but his coat prevented them from giving him a good beating. Macleane immediately threw off his coat, exclaiming, Lie you there, Divinity, and Macleane will do for himself, and gave the officers a sound drubbing. * Thus driven from the house of his father, and forced to seek an asylum in a sister land, an ardent mind like that of John Macleane must have cherished strong feelings of dislike and even hatred against the dominant party by whom he was persecuted; and in the legacy of revenge which he doubtless bequeathed to his son, we see the origin, if he were Junius, of that unconquerable hatred of Scotland and the Scotch which rankled in his breast. In no other candidate for the mask of Junius can we find such powerful reasons for his bitter and neverending anathemas against our country. Mr. Macleane does not seem to have remained in the Church, for we find him characterized as a gentleman of small fortune."

*

and profit, but certainly the North of Ireland was not a place to be chosen as a peaceful retreat by a persecuted Jacobite. Why, again, should this emigrant for conscience' sake disfrock himself, as Sir David Brewster suggests, so soon as he had reached his selected country? It would have been, "lie you there Divinity!" without pretext or apology. He might have done the same thing and passed in quiet for "a gentleman of small fortune" in his own wild, barren birthplace.

The truth we take to be this-Sir David has "rolled two single gentlemen into one." According to contemporary biography, or autobiography-to papers and paragraphs circulated at the time, and forced from Macleane and his friends by the libels of his personal and political enemies, who accused him of being blood relation to Macleane the highwayman, (which, by the bye, their statements do not disprove)-his grandfather was a second son of the family of Coll. According to the

more circumstantial account of the " Sene

ache," he was a descendant of that family somewhat further removed. Authorities differ as to the early pursuits of the grandfather. He was, we believe, originally in the army; but all agree that he subsequently entered the church, and settled in the North of Ireland soon after the revolution of 1688; was chaplain to Lord Massareene, held a living in Antrim and the prebend of Roferchen. He was twice married; and by his second wife had three sons, John, James, and Clotworthy, named after his patron. John, the eldest son, in due course married Elizabeth Here there are many statements which we Mathews, daughter of the rector of Ballyshall question hereafter; but, for the present, mony, and had three sons, of whom our we will confine ourselves to the parentage of, Laughlin or Lachlin was the eldest. This and the "legacy" bequeathed to Macleane. difference of forty or more years in the reIt is always with reluctance that we call moval, and the introduction of another genin question the statements of a writer who eration, help to explain away some otherwise has devoted time and attention to his sub-perplexing difficulties. But what then beject; and in this instance Sir David, we are told, has been engaged in the inquiry "for nearly thirty years!" Well, then, let us admit that it is something like thirty years to thirty hours—or, in sporting-phrase, "Lombard street to a China orange"-in favor of the writer against the critic. Still we must believe that there are grave errors in this preliminary statement-improbabilities certainly. Why should this stout old nonjuror select, of all places in the world, the North of Ireland for his retreat? unless, indeed, the fighting propensities were stronger in him than the preaching. A poor Highland parson might have been tempted by hopes of patronage

comes of "the legacy," of that "unconquerable hatred of Scotland and the Scotch" which rankled in the breast of Junius, and which, for the first time, we are told, is satisfactorily explained in the case of Macleane, by the persecution of his father? His father, so far as we know, never set foot in Scotland; and even his grandfather had left there some quarter or half a century before the persecution alluded to commenced.

Having thus settled the genealogy and "the legacy," we come now to the hero himself:

"Lauchlin, his second son, [his grandson, as

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