The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1845-05-06 00:00:00

1r work not toll. your pleasure pure,

Your dr

k not rr

toots enjoy toy)

But Kt eat ones not at all

—tlimworth's 31a,

NOTICE

u t to cheer

THE SERIALS

FraBer's
Fraser this month is full of very pleasant reading—not
too le ,rued or too trifling, hot a happy medium of grave
and gay. The political article on the Maynooth Bill
paints in rather too dark colours the conduct of England
towards Ire:and in past times; but it contains much
which we must admit with 'orrow to be true, and its
views of the plicy of the present concession to Popery
in that country are just and forcibly stated. Some ex-
tracts will be found elsewhere.

Dublin University Magazine.
Dublin

Wm. Curry, jun., & Co.,

The present is a very excellent number ; and we shall
probably, in our next publication, borrow from it largely
The first article, on " the past and present policy of Eng-
land towards Ireland," we have remarked upon elsewhere.
The " Personal Rec,dlecti(ns of Thos. Campbell, Esq."
convey a some% hat different and less amiable impr sion
of the poet than is generally entertained. They be,r,
however, the stamp of truth.llThe poetical articles are,
as usual, very good.

The Whiteboy : a Story of Ireland in 1822. By Mrs.
S. C. Hall. Part I. London : Chapman and Hall,
186, Strand.

The name of Mrs. Hall, and her intimate knowledge
of the lights and shadows of the Irish character, are suf-
ficient warrants of the value of any publication from her
pen. In the work before us, which is No. sof Messrs.
Chapman and Hall's Monthly Series of original Works
of F)ction and Biography, the authoress has chosen for
illustration an eventful period of recent Irish history;
and so far as she has progr.ssed, this promises to be one
of the best of her productions. The dramatis persona
already introduced present abundant materials for the
exercise of her peculiar powers of depicting character.
and developing the unravelled web of discordant and
strange tissues which make up the fabric of society in the
sister country. The following " cry of the keener" over
the remains of the last of one of the old houses of Celtic
Ireland (the Macarthys), is almost Ossianic; and the
practice, of which it is a specimen, goes far to account
for the undying hatred kept up in the hearts of the purely
Irish people against the " Saxon new corners". The ex-
tract darkly shadows a portion of the history of the fa-
mily :

THE CRY OF THE " KEENER."
" Her `cry' contained allusions to the history of the
family—and its leading chiefs for ages—without regard to
dates,. rudely, yet not unpoetically, strung together.
" Commencing with the usual question, ' Why did you
Why did you die? dark-

di(
haired fiat

she framed her replie,
.Ighter of kings. Why ?
• Ask not again ! What had she to keep her from
those of her proud race, who are now suns in heaver.?
Only one bright child, the child of a Macarthy—of him
her only, only one—the young eagle—struck down by a
poisoned arrow, with a broken heart ! A curse on them
that broke i► ! Only one young boy was left to the lady,
whose hair, once es black as the raven's wing, is now soft
and colourless as -he white cloud upon the Reeks—one
young boy ! but his bands were week, and his voice feeble.
Ab, woe and wail ! he could not keep the great soul from

its sister spiri,-;

Dark-haired daughter of kings, why did you leave your rastle, the wily castle where there still lived a Ma-
earthy ? Who now calls out the echoes of broad lye.
rash ? Who fi-hes the brimming waters of the Laune?
Who dwells within the castle of Palice—the Caislean-va-
earthy ?. Whose banner floats over the proud walls of
Carrig.a.droid, which the Macarthy built in a single
week to pleasure the fair lady of his love. Ah, woe and
wail!

" ' The echoes of Iveragh will not repeat the Saxon
name. The waters of the Laune are dark from the sha-
dows of the thick trees; and salt, from the tears shed by
the enslaved of her noble race. The Caislean-va-carthy
ito;wracked by the Saxon's breath; and the banner of
Carrig-a-droid is the wing of the hoarse raven.
" Dark-haired daughter of kings, why did you leave
your land.)

" ' Hark ! how her spirit laughs. " My lands !"
what lands? The child of a Macarthy—the widow of a
Macartby—the mother of a Macarthv—has no lands;
they have taken and spoiled them ! A few fields, such
as her people would grant to a gallowglass, were all that
was left to the blood of Dermod Macarthy More, who
sleeps at Innisfallen !

"` Where are the lands of Carrigrohan? Where those
of Cormac Laidir—the strong Maearthy, who built the
castle of soft words, and the holy abbey of Kilcrea?
Where the lands of him who set his foot on the neck of
the Geraldine ? of him who humbled the proud Desmond ?
the sound of whose voice could bring three thousand true-
hearted men to the war-cry, Macarthy aboo!
" • Ab, woe and ss ail ! are there no sons of that three
thousand, ready and willirg—now ?
" Dark-haired daughter of kings! to count over the
castles that bore your name, would be to count the sands
of the wild sea-shore ;to Lumber those who paid ycu
homage, would be numbering the blossoms of the wild
rush upon the evergreen fields.
Who wanted, when a Macarthy had bread ? Who
sorrowed. when a Macarthy could shield ? Who suffered
that the Macarthy did not avenge? The love of thy race
was sweeter than honey. Thy maidens were fair and
gentle—fleet and light of foot. Faithful wives and tender
mothers—oh, toe and wail !
" ' They are still fair and gentle, but they are not fleet-
footed to shun the famine and the fire; the starving child
looks into the weeping eyes of the starving mother !
" The dark-haired daughter of kings had lived many
days!

She saw that the Saxon divided to destroy.
" She knew that his step was stealthy ; that he poisoned
the free rprings ; that he pinioned the eagle in his hen-
coops, and fettered the red-deer in his sheep-folds. That
his heart turned away from the Celt : while hi.

grew LUIB sworn. That he looked upon the mountains
and the valleys and said, " They are mine !" While his
lips spoke peace, his breath kindled the fire in valley and
highland. lie held out his hand to the Madam ; but she
cursed the red palm ; she scorned it, as became a Macar-
thy.

" Even in

vision or toe future; blight, with a green and
purple glory. And a voice said, " Live! " And the
dark-haired daughter of kings said, " Why? And the
voice said, " Behold ! " And the vision did not come
from afar, nor from over the sea, but from our own land
it arose—a vision of peace, of golden harvests, and low-
ing cows, of dancing and feasting ; the harp, and the pipe,
and the grass-green flag—the council of kings. arid the
music of a happy multitude.
" ' Ab, woe and wail ! " Such visions pass away,"
said Katherine Macarthy; " I close my eyes, and they
come crowding round me, as I saw them in my young
oe • - : I open them, and they are gone—gone—

gone! " ' "