The Sun.
London, England, 1855-08-09 00:00:00

The dance of last Whit-Monday night exceeded all
before,
No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the
floor ;
But Mary kept the belt of love, and 0 but she was gay !
She danced a jig, she sang a song that took nay heart
away.
When she stood up for dancing her steps were so
complete,
The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet ;
The fiddler moan'd his blindness, he heard her so much
praised,
But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her
voice she raised.

O lovely Mary Donelly, your beauty's my distress,
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish
it less."
- -

Why, a song like this weighs more in the balance
to our minds and hearts than all the spasmodic
grandiloquence that Professor Aytoun, wicked
wag that he is, sang with so- soporific a lullaby
into Lethe through the mocking echoes of his
" Firmilian." But the jewel of the book before
us—girdled by its filagree setting of the " Day and
Night Songs "—the central gem of all, we have not
yet mentioned—the principal poem of the collec-
tion, " The Music Master." It is " A Love Story
—a simple, homely tale enough—the theme of a
ballad—a village romance about the loves and the
lives of poor little Milly and young Gerald White,
the music master. The story might be told almost
in two minutes, so few and so plain are the inci-
dents related in it. Yet, in the telling of it,llllWil-
liam Allingham has struck the chords of his harp—
our heartstrings—so deftly that the sounds seem to
call the tears up into his voice as he sings, and
into our eyes as we listen—and we lay the tale
that is told aside at last only to revert to it often,
and very tenderly, afterwards, remembering the
song and the singer, as we do the thought of some
dear friend and the token of some cherished friend-
ship. Yet the Love Story of the Music Master is not
without its faults either, when considered with
anything like critical acumen :—Sister Ann we
cannot but deem maligned without apparent reason
of any appreciable kind whatsoever—Gerald's first
departure remains to the last moment altogether
unexplained—Milly's premature death appears even
now when we think of it entirely and bewilderingly
incomprehensible. Nevertheless, enough for every
blemish of the poem when these passing exceptions
to it have been pronounced. Otherwise " The
Music Master"—the poetic gem in its setting of
Day and Night Songs—remains, to our judgment,
" one entire and perfect Chrysolite." How ex-
quisitely, and with what a loving hand, how very
tenderly and delicately, Mr. Allinghan pencils the
form and features of his heroine :
" White lily,—Milly,—darling little girl !
I think I see as once I saw her stand ;
Her soft hair waving in a single curl
Behind her ear ; a kid licking her hand ;
Her fair young face with health and racing warm,
And loose frock blown about her slender form.
" The dizzy lark, a dot on the white cloud,
That sprinkles music on the vernal breeze,
Was not more gay than Milly's joyous mood ;
ig,glsilftethe
birds,
The silent lark that starry twilight sees
Cradled among the braird in closest bower,
Not more quiescent than her quiet hour.
" Her mind was open as a flowery cup
That gathers richness from the sun and dew,
To knowledge, and as easily drew up
The wholesome sap of life ; unwatch'd it grew,
A. lovely blossom in a shady place ;
And like her mind so was her innocent face."
Such was Milly as she appeared to her lover in the
early morning of her girlhood. Later oa we see
her, when . . .
" Her silky locks have ripened into brown,
Her soft blue eyes grown deeper and more shy,
And lightly on her lifted head the crown
Of queenly maidenhood sits meek and high ;
Her frank soul lives in her ingenuous voice,
Most purely tuned to sorrow or rejoice."
Of Gerald we hear at the very outset—
" The boy's whole thought to music lean'd and sway'd ;
He heard a minor in the wind at night,
And many a tune the village noises played ;
ChoirYe c el lei tenderness
iiifehses
The thunder roar'd like bands before the might
Of marching armies ; in deep summer calni,,
The falling brooklet: would intone a psalm.
And so the great love of his art deehdPeue:
aitntolasat
passion with his advancing life—andougth and the
between the two, between the
earliestmaiden,
apparent at o nce ars
reciprocation ibpornodc
sat
inoda a soonfao
eveninsfgdea,s
theirthe
comes indeed to them silently
ltoailtke,r
whenthrou
their
their
lipsvilbionl
jayfn:obgcevi
it
lienesectibc:biecdiienst6gaidn ecebymade .
and treble ii ........ The dapp;leig
Lit up in Pchi—
worde't"
The kine's deep 107
d 'int•ecit' like a hopping
The Quairi `l2O---- ' . pebble
passionate outpouring of his love for
The
Gerald'sniasterotohnifneksza
confession
nimself
But
The rusta2°lingngt:vcigfiltilel nderatigeoend-iliniefsew
improvised upon the keys of the piano,
steals
piano,
steals forth not long after in the
darkness, when
streamedalne alone,
into bu
hthwhen
-
lighted ears, and through them '
thethe 1
Milly,
inarticulateniusi
heart of Milly standing at the into the enraptured
doh.
served. It is the climax of th opefn
the
poem—
the climax of the sorrow emergingfromejoye't but too
quickly afterwards, The ' 1
composition of the
*age Molise la ' yea
a as. rims* fa the brow
- - ---- -

The Neweomes. No. XXIII. and XXIV. By W.
M. Thackeray.
Mr. Thackeray never wrote anything worthier
of the admiration of his readers—meaning, nowa-
days, the million—than this double number, which
brings hiA noble serial story of " The Newcomes"
to a conclusion. We linger over it tenderly and
regretfully. Unwilling to be persuaded that all
is over in regard to that narrative, among whose
fluctuating incidents we have wandered so
pleasantly during the last two years, we are fain
still to believe ourselves observant of one of the
severer crises in the progress of its vicissitudes
rather than spectators of its actual termination.
Yet in spite of all our wishes to the contrary, it is
to us now but as a tale that is told. We must close
the last page of the last volume. It is finished.
It is completed. We have, as it were, in our hands,
the catalogue of births, deaths, and marriages.
Among the births, those of children to Clara, to
Rosey, to Laura, and to lesser heroines in the fic-
tion, leaving ue marvelling over the sorrowful ex-
clamation of the Duc d'lvry to his poor good-
matured little oddity of a wife—" A.h ! pour-.
quoi n'en avons-nous pas, Jeanne ? pourquoi.
nen n'avons-nous pas ?" Among the deaths
those of grim old Lady Kew, of cordial
James Binnie, of heartless little Rosey, of our
gentle, noble, knightly, "preux chevalier, et parfait
gentilhomme," Colonel Thomas Newcome. Among
the marriages, besides the ill-starred nuptialsof Clive and Rosey, of Barnes and Clara, of the
last mentioned again (when divorced), with her
first flame Jack Belsize, Lord Highgate—besides
these we say, and the union of Lord Kew with
Clara's sister, and that of M. de Florae with a
daughter of the house of Higges, of Manchester,
and that of Sir Barnes with somebody else (name
unknown), whom we are told, though we need
scarcely have been so incited, to hope with the
author that she avenges every one 'by bullying the
Baronet, her husband—beyond all these, we say, the
tardy but inevitable knitting together in wedlock of
the lives and fortunes of Clive and Ethel. Yes—all
our anticipations, aspirations, hopes, desires, in
their regard have been to the full at last most hap-
pily realised. Rosey, as we have remarked, dies
—she dies in childbirth, through a paroxysm of
rage, jealousy, chagrin, despondency, and indig-
nation. Clive is left for a while to lavish all his
tenderness upon his little one—" Boy," otherwise
" Tommykin"—but not long afterwards is per-
mitted to share that love with another, the
darling of his boyhood, of his youth, of
his maturer years, Ethel, once the gay, now the
gentle, the tender, the loving, the love-worthy,
always the noble-hearted, noble-minded, still the
beautiful. They are united at last, but only when
the great joy of their union is saddened inexpres-
sibly by the knowledge that the noblest soul in all
the world is taken from them—the kindly, the
brave, the simple, the lofty spirit animating the
beloved familiar form of the grand old Colonel.
What appears to us the distinguishing peculiarity
of " The Newcomes"—which, by the way, with all
our admiration for " Vanity Fair," and all our
love for " Arthur Pendennis," we are fain to regard
as Mr. Thackeray's undoubted masterpiece—is the
circumstances that among its dramatis personce
there are so many creations so entirely loveable.
There is queer, honest old Fred Bayham,
for example—faithful friend to the very last,
through all his preposterous eccentricities. Even
vulgar, hospitable Mr. Sherrick, wine mer-
chant and bill-discounter, has a dash of hu-
man cordiality in his coarse hebrew-cockney
nature, that admits him to no small share in
the ample disbursements of our friendship. Then
again how sufficiently can we speak, in terms of affec-
tionate regard of our cherished favourites of old—
Arthur Pendennis, and his Fidus Achates of the
Temple, glorious George Warrington ; and asso-
ciated with them our delightful, and inimitable, and
altogether incomparable M. Paul de Florac, Due
d'lvry and Prince de Montcontour. Nor have we
lost our remembrance of the manly, gentle heart of
the young Earl of Kew, or of the noble qualities,
blended with all the bluuderings and peccadillos of
poor, erring Jack Belsize. But with them, and
above them all, how can we speak in terms of ade-
quate tenderness of our gallant and noble Clive,
and of that paragon' of the whole book—
the epitome of the every excellence of a
gentleman—Colonel Thomas Newcome ? Colonel
Newcome we regard henceforth in English Litera-
ture as one among the foremost in that list of
worthies among whom must ever be enumerated
the Sir Roger de Coverley of Steele and Addison,
the Parson Adams of Fielding, the Uncle Toby of
Sterne, the Doctor Primrose of Goldsmith, the
Austin Caxton of Lytton, the Tom Pinch of
Dickens—names beloved and honoured whenever
thought of, and thought of often with a kind of
romantic tenderness, memories henceforth to be
associated in our regard with the loving recollec-
tion of the Colonel Newcome of Thackeray.
As we have in other words already intimated,
the double number now before us, terminating the
story of the Newcomes, is the very crown and.
flower of the whole serial. There are scenes
described, and incidents related in it, that, to our
thinking, are in their way veritably wonderful.
As, for example, the scene descriptive of the sud-
den appearance of Ethel in the family group of the
Clive Newcomes, or as in the homely incidents of
that memorable morrow of Christmas, upon which
Clive's wrath descends at last upon that fiend of a
woman the Campaigner. The death-bed scene in
the poor Cistercian brother's room, where the
Colonel beats time on the counterpane to the clink-
ing of the chapel bell, and then, as it ceases, cries
" Adsum !" breathing his last as he utters the old
schoolboy response—" and 10, he, whose heart was
as that of a little child, bad answered to his name,
and stood in the presence of the Master." All
this is entirely exquisite. So exquisite, so true,
so natural, so eloquent, that we close the volume,
not without a pang at parting from it—looking
forward to the time when we may resume, under
the shadow of these yellow leaves, our privileged.
commune with the author of " Vanity Fair," and
" Pendennis," and " The Newcomes," a writer
whose genius has embalmed his name in our hearts
in the conserving aromatics of our gratitude and
our admiration.

TAILORS' LABOUR _AGENCY.

gfinthaetehlenninamg.e
of
Mr
Yesterday, according to annual custom, nearly 200
persons of both sexes connected with the Tailors' Labour
Agency—an institution founded by Mr. Dunn, in New-
ington-causeway, a few years ago at his own risk, but
which has proved of the greatest advantage to a nume-
rous body of workers—dined together at the Rye House.
As some of our readers may be unacquainted with the
objects of the agency, we will give a slight sketch of its
objects. The design of the Tailors' Labour Agency is
to conduct its business on a principle which will be fair
to the producer, the distributor, and the consumer of the
article—a principle by means of which the customer
may obtain all he ought to desire for his money, and the
workmen all he is entitled to for his labour. It is called
a Labour Agency, because the employer merely occu-
pieseez the position of a distributor, and, standing between
the the customer and the workman, renders to
article,
an account of the price charged onfitesac
To put
and a fair proportion of the p
8, rg " s'ystem, care
an end to what is termed the
•o,rk than he is
has been in
T best prgoof of their benevo-
aisblteakteonptehraiot
rnmohpimersseolnf. recehive4s::mwao-reentoiWy
operation six years,
able of accommodating 200
up a commodious hall,
as a
lent purposes and their
school during the day std as
persons, which is used
aeinrdscutahcpec es s i s that they have fitted.
This is
well-selected library. The Earl of
furnished with
a A Pellatt, Alderman W.
Shaftesbury,
h Mr.occ.s.sionally presided t
lire, and other
a lecture axinndonrgeatdhitei
a ec.tures, which
gentlemen Shaftesbury, eras
well chosen and
have always been exceedingly a.po-
priate.
Edwards, the able and indefatigable secretary; the Rev.
and the Rev. W Cadman.
T. Kinney, W. Mr. Dunn, the
founder of the institutionb presidedat . the dinner
table yesterday, and was
and Mr. Adlard. After dinner,supported by Mr. Mason
and complimentary toasts
ha beenthe usual , loyal
r
Edwards proposed the toast having;
•given,
_Mros.•
of the evening, • `F
parity to the Tailors'
Labour Agency," which was
most enthusiattic 11
Mr. a y responded to. In the course of
Edwards's observations, he remarked that the ave-
rage weekly earnings of first-class men in the winter
months was from 1/. 7s. to 1/. 15s. ; of the second class,
from 18s. to 1/. 7s. In the summer the first-class men
earned per week 1/. 15s. to 2/. 45., while the next class
realised 1/. 'Ts. to 1/. 12s.—the maximum of the winter
glircotounirerdsuwrine
being only the minimum of the summer. Mr. Dunn, in
sketching out the various objects he had in view, stated
that one of the first importance was to secure about five
acres of freehold land in a healthy spot, a short distance
from town, for the erection of a workshop and houses
for the workers ; and also, that it had been resolved to
enlarge the reading-room and otherwise to improve the
institution. The announcement of each of the proposi-
tions was loudly cheered. After dinner the whole com-
pany partook of tea, and the evening's amusements ter-
minated with a dance. The whole of the proceedings
were extremely gratifying, and were characterised by a
sense of order and propriety highly creditable to all per-
sona present, and which must have proved a source of
unalloyed pleasure to its philanthropic founder.

The late M. Salamon Rothschild, of
fortune of 2,500,0001. sterling, which
between his two nephewe.

Paris, 120.1114 t a
will be divided