The Sun.
London, England, 1839-08-01 00:00:00

TAIT'S MA GA ZINE.
The " English Opium Eater "—as Mr. De Quincey
somewhat fantastically styles himself—here continues
his " Lake Reminiscences," in which we find an amus-
ing account of Southey's menage at Keswick. The
article is much inferior to its predecessors, for a consi-
derable portion of it is taken up with a dull, inconclu-
sive dissertation on Political Economy, undertaken
apparently for no other purpose than to show that Cole-
ridge knew little or nothing about the matter
—a fact in which, whether true or false, the
" pensive public " takes not the slightest in-
terest. In the " War in India," the writer discusses
an important question shrewdly and temperately, ob-
serving—and there is much truth in the remark—that
the contest now carrying on in the East, is " by far the
greatest movement which has been made during the
eighty years and upwards which have elapsed since
Clive moved out of the Factory at Calcutta, and made
England the virtual sovereign of Bengal." The " Lion
of the Coteries"is a review, interspersed with well-chosen
extracts, of a novel which is just now in some favour
with the public. We have read it with pleasure, for it
neither "extenuates, nor sets down aught in malice,"
but gives an unbiassed opinion of the work in question,
on which the Reviewer pronounces a favourable ver-
dict. In his " Retrospective View of the Movement,"
Mr. Ensor, the writer, says that Universal Suffrage is
the question now, as it was formerly, for that the
"want of popular authority in the representation, is
felt both by consumers and producers. The following
description of Southey's Study, which we quote from
De Quincey's " Lake Reminiscences" may perhaps
amuse our readers :
Interesting this room was, indeed, and in a degree not
often rivalled. The library—the collection of books, I
mean, which formed the most conspicuous part of its fur-
niture within—was in all senses a good one. The books
were chiefly English, Spanish, and Portuguese; well se-
lected, being the great cardinal classics of the three litera-
tures ; fine copies, and decorated externally with a rea-
sonable elegance, so as to make them in harmony with the
other embellishments of the room. This effect was aided
by the horizontal arrangement upon brackets, of many rare
manuscripts—Spanish or Portuguese. Made thus gay
within, this room stood in little need of attractions
from without. Yet, even upon the gloomiest day
of winter, the landscape from the different win-
dows was too permanently commanding in its gran.
deur, too, essentially independent of the seasons or the
pomp of woods, to fail in fascinating the gaze or the
coldest and dullest of spectators. The lake of Derwent
Water in one direction, with its lovely islands—a lake
about ten miles in circuit, and shaped pretty much like a
boy's kite ; the lake of Bassinthwaite in another; the
mountains of Newlands arranging themselves like pavi-
lions ; the gorgeous confusion of Borrowdale just revealing
its sublime chaos through the narrow vista of its gorge ;
all these objects lay in different angles to the front; whilst
the sullen rear, not fully visible on this side of the house,
was closed for many a league by the vast and towering
masses of Mkiddaw and Blencathara.

THE METROPOLITAN.
in the " Recollections of Ancient Literature, by an
.rich Barrister," we have an eloquent outline of the
public life and orations of Cicero—the greatest orator
but one that the world ever produced. It is carefully
and soberly written, being by no means marked with
that unpruned floridity which is but too apt to disfigure
the first literary productions of young Irish barristers in
general. In " Oliver Goldsmith's Nephew and the
Lottery Ticket" we find the following critical dictum in
reference to the merits of Prior's " Life of Goldsmith :"
" We look upon Sir David Brewster's Life of Newton'
as the best, and Boswell's Johnson' as the worst speci-
mens of modern biography. In the one, how many pages
are wasted on Johnson's "liable Talk,' his way of eating
and laughing, and a hundred little matters which serve
no other purpose than to give an idea of the man as he
appeared to his associates ; while in the other nothing is
said of such trifles, their place is filled with solid ac-
counts of Sir Isaac's scientific works, and we lay down
the book with a clear impression of his philosophical
discoveries, undisturbed by the smallest notion of the
philosopher himself." We can scarcely believe tbat this
is written seriously, and yet the context is too dull to
permit us to mistake it for a joke. The reader, however,
is requested to understand it as meant for one. The
biography of a shoemaker—and a shoe-maker's life
may afford as excellent' materials for a good biography,
as that of a prince—would be a droll affair indeed, if the
author were to fall into the common error of believing
that he was bound rather to detail the qualities of the
shoes made than the habits and peculiarities of the maker.
Perhaps no piece of biography ever equalled Boswell's
Johnson—at least we know of none that at all approaches
it. Bozzy presents to us his " illustrious friend "as
he really appeared. Other biographers almost inv4
riably clothe the subjects of their 11Iemoirs in a cast-off
suite of their own before introducing them to our no-
tice, so that we cannot recognise anything characteristic
of the individual about them. " Lord Killikelly "is a
continuation of a tale of which we have not read the
beginning, and can therefore say nothing about it. The
words " continued from our last," or " to be continued,"
are quite enough to prevent us from looking into any
article in a monthly periodical. The review of " The
Adventures of an Attorney in Search of Practice" is
clever and impartial, and the notices of new works nu.
merous and very well written.

THE MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
" John Wilson's Poetry Reviewed by Christopher
North," is an article which, were it what it purports to
be, would be indeed a feast at which the gods might
recline with pleasure. We would ourselves address to
Old Kit, did we recognise in the prose portion of the
article before us a scratch of his pen :
" Tu das epulis accumbere Divum I"
But in truth it bears no more resemblance to the style
of Old Christopher's criticisms than the published
fragments of the Chartist Epic do to the " City of the
Plague." It is too pointed—too barren of words
that fill the ear with music—too antithetical, to
be mistaken for a moment for one of the
diffuse but beautiful rhapsodies of old Christopher,
in which are blended facts and fictions, realities
and idealities, recollections of the past and dreams
of the future. From the conclusions of the critic,
a very recent perusal of Wilson's Poems does not
incline us very far to dissent. It is singular, how-
ever, that several of his best pieces are not so much as
named, as, for instance, " The Convict," the " Lines
written at Killarney," and many others: Nor are the
quotations from the " Isle of Palms," and the
" City of the Plague," the best that might be selected,
especially from the latter of these poems. The Reviewer
talks about the similitude between Wilson and Words-
worth,
and even Shelley ! This is nonsense. The
" Kett ospect of Sp finish Literature—The Cid," is by far
too general an essay to afford many readers either plea-
sure or profit. Would it not be better to attempt
an English translation of the " Cid" than to fa-
vour an English public with specimens of one
in the Italian, or even in French ? The " Maniac" is
a short but powerful poem, in Spenserian verse, from
the pen of H. L. Manse], an unknown author to us,
but one who evidently deserves not to be long so to the
world. Mr. Bernay's translation of " Faust" is con-
tinued in this Number. Faust has had so many trans-
lators, and interpreters, and expounders, that we are
fain to confess ourselves sick of the subject. For our-
selves, who profess not to be very critical, Dr. Anser's
translation of Faust, has left nothing to be desired by an
English reader. " Cryptic Dialogues" are by the Edi-
tor, and right worthy are they of him. The other arti-
cles are respectable, and the Number, relatively speak-
ing, is altogether a good one.

THE DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.
A review of Otway's Tour in Connaught—one of
the most amusing volumes of travels in Ireland that
we remember to have met with from the number of
legendary anecdotes which it contains, and which are
narrated with singular fidelity as well as felicity of
manner—is the subject of the first article in this
Magazine. It is correct, but cold and lifeless. Sur-
rounded by materials abounding in humour, the
Reviewer contents himself with transcribing the
tourist's route, or writing a dissertation on Irish
politics By something like chance he stumbles
on the quotation of two capital legends—the reci-
procal maledictions of the saintly founders of
Clonkeen and Kilconnel Abbeys ; and Father Christy
and the Fairies. But why (for Mr. Otway's volume
happens to be on the table before us), why, we repeat,
is the " Legend of Lough Ouel," the " Drowning
of Old Mullingar," omitted ? Why the characteristic
anecdote of " My
Lady Cuffe ?" Why the legend
" Master Levis," the recreant Monk, and thee'end of
rat ?
dWh ter
y the story of " O'Melaghlin's thirst," so likely to
all Kings from refusing to entrust saints with the
o
keys of their wine-cellars, and in fact the whole of
Darby Claffry
's legends of the Seven Churches of
nm?rnoise, and a hundred more into the bargain?
There is hardly an old ruin or moat in Ireland that
has not a legend connected with it, and we would
prefer a collection
of these from the mouths of
hereditary chroniclers on the sot purposes of legislation, to all ' even for the
the Reports of
all the Committees
ever appoin by a British
House of Lords. A complete ctedc C of Irish
Legends would be a valuable acquisition to the litera-
ture of the nineteenth century ; and we know of few
writers so well qualified to contribute to the completion
of such a work as Mr. Otway. The second part of the
journal of Franga:se Krasinska, entitled " A Polish
Chateau in the last century" is quite as vivid, and as

musical tastes are equally peculiar. Their favourite
instrument " is a flute made of the thigh-bone of some
devoured enemy, pierced with holes, and covered at
one end. According to the most scientific criticisms, it
would appear that the sounds produced by this instru-
ment closely resemble the shrieks of a carpenter's saw,
when it meets some unexpected resistance in the grain
of a log." It must excite painful and embarrassing
reflections in the breast of a philanthropist, to think of
a great, healthy hulk of a New Zealander dining off a
man's head, to the soft music of his thigh-bone!
" Elegiac Ode" is rather a cumbrous performance,
abounding more in words than ideas. The " War in
the East" tells some stern home truths, and speaks in a
tone of becoming distrust of the policy now pursuing by
Russia.