of their poems. We allude,
of course, to Katharine Tynan and Rosa Mulholland. Not only these whose
place in literature is already secured, but higher than some to whom the
enthusiasm of a political crisis gave prominence, we should be inclined
to rank such Irish songstresses as the late Attie O'Brien and the living
but too silent "Alice Esmonde." And then of Irishwomen living outside
Ireland we have Fanny Parnell, Fanny Forrester, Eleanor C. Donnelly, and
the lady whom we claim as our own in the title of this paper--Mrs. Mary
E. Blake. Though the wife of a physician at Boston, she was born at
Clonmel, and bore the more exclusively Celtic name of Magrath.[8]

Boston claims, or used to claim, to be the literary metropolis of the
United States. A prose volume by Mrs. Blake and a volume of her poems
lie before us, and for elegance of typography do credit to their Boston
publishers. "On the Wing"--lively sketches of a trip to the Pacific, all
about San Francisco and the Yosemite Valley, and Los Angeles, and
Colorado, but ending with this affectionate description of Boston
aforesaid:

And now, as the evening sun drops lower, what fair city is this
that rises in the east, throned like a queen above the silver
Charles, many-towered and pinnacled, with clustering roof and taper
spire? How proud she looks, yet modest, as one too sure of her
innate nobility to need adventitious aid to impress others. Look at
the aesthetic simplicity of her pose on the single hill, which is
all the mistaken kindness of her children has left of the three
mountains which were her birthright. Behold the stately avenues
that stretch by bridge and road, radiating her lavish favors in
every direction; look at the spreading suburbs that crowd beyond
her gates, more beautiful than the parks and pleasure grounds of
her less favored sisters. See where she sits, small but precious,
her pretty feet in the blue waters that love to dally about them;
her pretty head, in its brave gilt cap, as near the clouds as she
could manage to get it: her arms full of whatever is rarest and
dearest and best. For doesn't she hold the "Autocrat of the
Breakfast Table" and Bunker Hill, Faneuil Hall, and Harvard
College? Do not the fiery eloquence of Phillips, the songs of
Longfellow, the philosophy of Fisk, the glory of the Great Organ,
and the native lair of culture, belong to h