returned already. The object of her affection, however, advanced no further, but pulling rein, suddenly addressed O'Leary. "Well, Larry, I believe all's right now, I see the Mistress standing at the door there, and, as I have a long ride before me yet, I don't see the use of accompanying you any farther. Here, take this key, give it to Mrs. Mac Ullage, and tell her I desired you to place the keg beside THE OTHER LITTLE ONE that's on the oak stillion behind the cellar door." "I will, sir," said Larry, with an expression of face miraculously solemn; "I will, sir," and he took the key. Mac Ullage then, merely pointing with the butt of his fowling-piece at Larry, nodded significantly to his better-half, meaning her to understand thereby, that he consigned Larry and his cargo to her care, and then, turning his mare's head, was soon once more on his way to Ballyshindy. His pace, at first, was rather slow, and, after proceeding a short distance, he turned about his head and looked back, but seeing Mrs. Mac Ullage and Larry in close conversation, and the latter frequently pointing to the guilty load of brooms," all's safe!" he exclaimed, and, setting spurs to his mare, galloped away to visit with vengeance every unlucky wight, that his vigilance might detect trespassing on his majesty's sacred rights and privileges. In this instance, however, he had drawn his conclusion too hastily when he assured himself that "all was safe;" for, as it happened, all was not safe, nor anything like safe either. For Larry no sooner found he had the opportunity than he began to cast in his own mind, a plan not only to keep his own keg, but even to possess himself of that other little one that the gauger mentioned as being on the stillion behind the door. Now, Mrs. Mac Ullage being a lady of rather excitable nerves, was, as we before mentioned, rather surprised at her deary's sudden return; this surprise was considerably increased by that loved one's mysterious “nods and becks," which to her lively penetration, were perfectly unintelligible; but her astonishment and anxiety to know what was the matter?" reached the very highest pitch possible when she saw her liege lord as suddenly gallop away again at a pace that in her estimation fully equalled that of John Gilpin, through the famous town of Edmonton; from Cowper's authen tic history of whose ride she had frequently derived a fund of pleasure and improvement; as which of us has not? Larry was not at all excited, but was very mysterious. Mrs. Mac Ullage could not contain herself; he merely nodded, and pointed frequently to the broom-load. you ever. "My good man, Mr. O'Leary I mean," she exclaimed agitatedly, "did -. Goodness gracious do, if you can, for heaven's sake inform me what in the wide world is the matter with Mr. Mac? what can be come over him, or where is he off to now, in such a frightful hurry?" "Ah! sure enough, ma'am," responded Larry, "it's himself that has` good rason to be in a hurry." "Merciful! how you frighten me," exclaimed the lady. "The dear man! I hope nothing unfortunate-nothing dangerous can have―" Larry, who had been eagerly looking after Mac Ullage, and was now satisfied that there was no likelihood of his sudden return, here interrupted the lady's tender apprehensions. 64 Oh, no, no, ma'am," said he, "don't be afeard, at all, ma'am ; there's no danger at all, I'm sartain surethat is, I hope not; purvided only we make haste." "Haste! then why haven't you been quicker you brute?" screamed the irritable lady, giving way for the moment to her passion, and giving way at the same time to her fist, which sounded against Larry's lower ribs. 66 Why, you see, ma'am, it was myself found it all out, and more power to me for that same; but, to cum to the pint at wanst, the whole truth is simply this, some dirty big blagard has up, and wint, and gev information of the master for having a drop of something in the house; and to be sure, in a whiff, officers is despatched to sarchthey are in Ballyshindy now-but by good luk myself got wind of the matter, put the master on his gard, so he's gone back to keep them in parley while you and I are making all sartain to disappoint the 'ternal villains. But, avourneen, (I beg your pardon for the word, ma'am,) we haven't a minit to lose; so, mind my words now, he desired you to give me the KEG that's on the oak stillion behind the cellar door, AND HERE'S THE KEY !" Mrs. Mac Ullage, whose wits had been, one by one, taking leave of her during Larry's recital here made a most magnanimous effort to rally her scattered energies; she could speak only in incoherent sentences, it is true, but then she could act-act energetically-making a sudden rush at Larry, she seized him by the collar of the coat, and led, or rather dragged him along the hall, and down the back stairs, at a pace which considerably hazarded the safety of their pair of necks. In a twinkling the keg was turned, the door dashed open, and they at once stood beside the oak stillion, and its unlawful burden. "There it is," she stammered breathlessly; "did I ever-my poor Mac-what an escape, the odious stuff -goodness me! joy be with it-mercy if they surprise us-how I am obliged to you saved us from disgrace-will we ever be in time? take it-ah, make haste." It happened that these admonitions to speed were superfluous on the present occasion, for O'Leary had far more cogent reasons of his own to hasten his movements than any his fair monitress could urge. He spoke not a word; but the keg was under his arm, and he was up the back stairs, and out at the hall-door, in a single moment. Being no novice at stowing away an article quickly, a few brooms were misplaced, the keg vanished, and the covering once more adjusted with a dexterity that would have been creditable to a Donnybrook juggler. He then merely touched his hat to the convalescing fair one, who was leaning beside the door, and putting Bess to her fastest gallop, exerted his own legs manfully to keep pace with her. The road he took was a short one, and led directly to Ballyshindy Hall, and by this route his journey was nought. The whole distance was accomplished within half an hour; Ballyshindy Hall was gained; the whiskey was deposited where "day's gaudy eye" had never penetrated; in a word, Larry had triumphed, and, betaking himself to the kitchen, was expeditiously supplied with refreshments, while he wiped the sweat from his brow, and flung himself at ease along the settle. The squire had that day a few friends to entertain; it is needless to say that Larry's keg was welcome, it is doubly needless to say that the gauger's was twice as welcome, and it's trebly needless to state, that, after dinner, when Larry with a hot tumbler of the identical material before him, told the company, in his own humorous way, the circumstances of his rencontre with the gauger, that the cheers, laughter, and uproarious merriment of all present, surpassed even anything that Ballyshindy Hall itself had ever shook with. ANTHOLOGIA GERMANICA.-NO. XII. THE LESS TRANSLATABLE POEMS OF SCHILLER. THE greater number of Schiller's Ballads remain undone into English; but nobody who has read them can be at a loss to discover the reason that they have been thus neglected. They are dull; and dulness of composition induces repugnance to translation; for that which people do not get through con amore they seldom get through with éclat to themselves or satisfaction to others. Half the impracticability of shaping a sow's ear into a silk purse is owing to the disgust of the artist upon taking the bristly material in hand; his antipathy paralyses his operations, and he bungles the job. A translator, in grappling with his original, should be possessed by a feeling akin to that which animates the matador in his contests with the bull; but if there be positively nothing in that original which can awa ken such a feeling, it is clear that it must continue to slumber. The energy can be elicited only by the occasion. In other words, none but good poems are susceptible of being well translated. For it is in this department of literature as it is in love; the maintenance of fidelity towards the beautiful is always easier than it is towards the ordinary. Let us not be accused of injustice towards Schiller. We merely echo the opinion of the best German critics. It is admitted that, great as the other powers of Schiller were, he wanted those which constitute the perfect bal-lad-singer. His genius, essentially dramatic and didactic, never accommodated itself gracefully to those restrictions which a judicious adherence to the established forms of narrative must, in a greater or lesser degree, impose on a writer. Where he had to deal with but a few incidents, and those few were of a striking nature, he could depict them vividly enough, especially in prose; but his monologues and dialogues are acknowledged, after all, to be the best parts of him. Speech-making was, in truth, his forte; while, as a story-teller, he sank below zero or Mother Bunch. Next to his Song of the Bell (which is all spoken by the bell-founder,) his Lament of Ceres is his finest rhymed poem; but it is pure declamation throughout. On the other hand, his Cranes of Ibycus is a piece of lifelessness that would be at present ejected from the Balaam-box of a half-penny miscellany; but it is narrative throughout. And the difference observable between these twain is a sample of the difference that subsists between all his poems of the declamatory class and all his poems of the narrative class. Candour, however, demands from us the admission that among the latter there are two which, though displaying many imperfections, exercise considerably less of a soporific influence over us than nine-tenths of the rest. One of these is a ballad foundered on the story of Damon and Pythias, and is warbled in this manner : The Hostage. Zu Dionys, dem Tyrannen, schlich. They seize in the Tyrant of Syracuse' halls He is bound by the Tyrant's behest: The Tyrant bebolds him-Rage blanches his cheek: "Wretch! Death on the cross is thy doom even now !” "It is well," spake the youth; " I am harnessed for death; Yet would I be granted one prayer :- Nail him to thy cross without respite or ruth!" Then smiled with a dark exultation the King, The best blood of thy friend shall be forfeit for thee!" And Pythias repairs to his friend-" I am doomed By Death in its shamefullest guise; But the Monarch three days ere I perish allows, Thou, therefore, my hostage must be, Till I come the third day, and again set thee free." And Damon in silence embraces his friend, And he gives himself up to the Despot; And ere the third morning in Orient is burning To save his friend ere it be later, By dying, himself, the vile death of a traitor! But the rain, the wild rain, dashes earthward in floods, Strong torrents rush down from the mountains, And, lo! as he reaches the deep river's border And the waves, with a roaring like thunder, To and fro by the brink of that river he wanders- And, made mad by the stormy commotion, O, stem the fierce force of this river! And Damon, my Damon, will die on a scaffold !" But the tempest abates not, the rapid flood waits not; Day, minute by minute, is wasting- And Jupiter pities the struggler-and saves. The hours will not linger; his speed is redoubled- And they brandish their weapons in clamorous wrath. "What will ye?" he cries; "I have nought but my life, And that must be yielded ere night: Force me not to defend it by fight!" But they swarm round him closer, that truculent band, And the remnant, dismayed and astounded, retreat. The storm-burst is over-low glows the red sun, Alas!" he cries, "have I then breasted the flood, Have I vanquished those wild men of rapine and blood, But to perish from languor and pain, While my hostage, my friend, is my victim in vain ?" When, hark! a cool sound, as of murmuring water! Hark! louder and louder it rushes! And the wanderer bathes his hot limbs, and he drinks, The sun looks his last!--On the oft-trodden pathway The shadows of Evening grow deeper, When, pressing and hurrying anxiously on, The wretch that betrayed the magnanimous Damon!" Then Horror lends wings to his faltering feet, And soon a few roofs, looking sunward, "Back, Master! Preserve thine own life at the least! For the last rays of Eventide beam : O! though hour after hour travelled on to its goal And though mocked by the King as forsaken, "Eternal Avenger! and is it too late?" Cried the youth with a passionate fervour, Then Death shall unite whom not Hell shall divide ! That there be souls whom Friendship and Honor can bind!" And on, on, unresting, he bounds like a roe: See! they lay the long cross on the ground! See! the multitude gather all round! See! already they hurry their victim along! When-with giant-like strength a man bursts through the throng, And Astonishment masters the crowd at the sight, The strange tidings at length to the ears of the king, And he orders the friends to be summoned before him. And, admiring, he looks at them long ere he speaks- By a friendship as glorious as rare! You have melted to flesh the hard heart in my breast! The conduct of Pythias in this ballad is of course intended to enlist the sympathies of the reader; and his energy and intrepidity are certainly incontestable. But energy and intrepidity, as it happens, are in themselves such excellent qualities that in witnessing the exhibition of them we sometimes forget to enquire whether the circumstances demanding that exVOL. XII.. hibition might not have been controlled in the beginning, and the resources of the exhibitor thus husbanded against a season when they should be really wanted. That we do so forget is to be attributed to us as a fault. When a man chuses to set his own house on fire the grand and striking coups de theatre that he may show off in rescuing his wife and children from the flames, while E |