The Sun.
London, England, 1830-02-01 00:00:00

MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

This very rising Magazine is this month un-
usually good. It abounds in lively, argumenta-
tive, declamatory, and satirical articles ; some in
prose and some in verse, and all excellent. The
year 1830, though we cannot approve of its
spirit, has some judicious remarks, and in point
of style is eloquently and vigorously penned.
" A Christmas Dinner" is an agreeable article,
though rather too highly worked up ; and
" Walks in Ireland," a contribution that would
do honour to the best Magazine of the day.
But the reader shall judge for himself in the fol-
lowing extract, which forms an introduction to a
series of legends and old Irish historiettes:—

" I leave the county,of Niohlow, with its ever-chang-
ing.alternation of sunshine and shade; its sparkling ribs
and cheerful lawns, on the cast ; its solemn valleys and
unpeopled mountains,.on the west 'the March of Mind'
has brought the Spirit of Improvement' to my pleasant
haunts, and, like poor General Boone, I must retire into
the interior. What with piety and planting, Methodism
and Scotch firs, there is no such thing as taking a stretch
of half-a dozen tulles in any direction now-a-days : on
one side you are Yost with, No person permitted to walk
in this demesne without a ticket from Mr. or Mrs. Pop-
kins ;' on the other, Alderman Perriwig allows no one
to cross this plantation ;' or, ' Take notice, Mr. Ferret
has closed the road over this Hemmed in on the
right and left, you endeavour to advance in front ; but you
are stopped by, ' Any person found on this mountain will
be persecuted according to law. Determined to (fleet a
emely retreat, you face about ; but a great white post, like
an Austrian r:entry, stares you in the face. with 'No
pass tee this way.' Powerscourt is shut up ; the Dargle
is forbidden ground on Sundays ;—nay, no later than yes-
terday, I was greeted, at the fr:A of Bray-head, with
No person allowed to wal on these grounds,' marvel-
lously ill-painted on a dirty board. How often have I
lain on the rocky crown of Bray-head, in the dreamy sun-
shine of a livelong summer day, while a thousand gay
and glittering fancies floated through my mind, like a
half-seen brook sparkling through flowers,' as one of the
pretty writers in the Annuals might say, or as I would
say myself, if I had the luck to be a poet ; or, again, in
thoughtful autumn, watching the evening mists as they
stddened around• the Pirate's Rock, in the uncertain dis-
tance ; or the nstless wavk s, as they raved and tossed be-
neath my feet, like the guilty in a troubled sleep. But
those days are gone by, and Bray-head is now possessed by
'the Spirit of Improvement,' and stack all over with a
legion of little starveling larches; so that, until exorcised
by the wood-cutter some fifty years hence, it is, I suppose,
to be held sacred from intrusion. _ .

" It is strange enough that, in many instances, Religion
is made the stalking-horse for the system of exclusion of
which I complain, and you are denounced as little better
than an idolater if you think of a country excursion on a
Sunday ; as if religious feeling, and abstract love of the
Creator, are not as likely to take possession of one's mind
when listening amidst sunshine, and flowers, and all sweet
and pleasant sights and sounds, to the innocent creatures of
God, the blackbird or the lark, singing their unpremedi-
tated hymns of natural inspiration, as when seated beneath
the loftiest roof that ever ascended at the bidding of man,
unravelling the mazy intricacies of the profoundest dis-
course ever delivered on either side of the question by the
Reverend Doctor Philpotts, or lulled by the sweetest organ
ever built by Flight and Robson.
" Let us away, then, to the south : the wildest moun-
tains of Cork anti Kerry are as familiar to me as the
Burlington Arcade to Pea-green Hayne, or Regent-street
to a Half•p iy ; and although I have not the honour to be
a sworn Whiteboy, yet I can count amongst my acquaint-
ances many distingui-hed members of that respectable fra-
ternity. Moreover, I ant very sufficiently versed in tra-
ditional lore; so that I flatter myself I am not unequal to
the task of guiding you into the heart of that region of
m•, story and adventure, where George the Fourth and
Captain Rock hold divided sway. Let us go then—but
not to-day—not to-day.
" To-day, while the dull rain is falling, and the lagging
wind is moaning through the trees, and the drift creeps
heavily along the sullen waters, let us sit by the fire, and
tell old tales--spin yarns, as we say at sea—for, amongst
my other accomplishments, I ant an amateur sailor. I
will call ❑p, from the depths of my meroory, some of the
countless wild and gloomy legends, which in Ireland cling
to every hill and glen, every rock and ruin—from the
Causeway to Cape Clear—and you shall half believe in
spirits before I have done. 1 promise you that I have not
the least intention of using either order, method, or con-
nected system in my narratien. I intend to follow the
vagrant ignis fatuns of my own fancy, skipping from one
county to another, just as said fancy shall think proper to
bid me. My mind is, at this present moment, too full of
restless indolence either to remain quiet on the one hand,
or to choose its own course on the other. Dim recollec-
tions of bygone scenes and shadowy tales of diablerie, and
chivalric, and ancient wars, and fiPree baronial feuds, are
flitting slowly before me, in orderly disorder, like phan-
toms in a magic glass ; and all I C:01 do at present is to
catch and embody a few of them for you. So pray bend
down your stately reason for a while, like a tall lawyer I
know of, when he puts himself on a civil equality with a
stunted client, and looks, as he bends to lend a sympathetic
ear to the wrongs of the pigmy litigant, his white wig
curling round his solemn face, and his long black gown
drooping around hint, like an aged giantess condoling with
a wayward dwarf. Do now, like a kind reader as you
ire, resign yourself to that species of voluntary illusion

which legmlary lore requires ; and let us tall,: or gltests,
and prophecies, and haunted ruins."

LONDON UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.

" On the Decline and Fall of Roman Litera-
ture," which forms the first article in this able
number, is well written, so far as manner is
concerned ; and not deficient in point of matter,
though, as Horne Tooke said of Junius, " ma-
terient superat,opus." The article is in fact a
chapter of generalities, a sort of preliminary dis-
course to a series of dissertations on the subject
of Roman Literature. We hope the writer,
when he enters fully on his subject; will have re-
gard to condensation of matter ; at present his
remarks, though ingenious and tenable, are
rambling and ill-assorted. We cordially enter
into the spirit of his observations on Ovid ; he
was beyond all comparison the " writer of the
Augustan age, that possesses the most original
genius and greatest intellect," He drew more
rom himself, relied more securely on his own
fancy, invention, eloquence, and feeling, than
all his cotemporaries put together. His chief
defect was his excessive exuberance ; he never
knew when to stop—a dangerous fault, second
only to sterility of matter. " The Eve of Wal-
purgis" is a romantic German story, full of love,
and with lots of diableric to recommend it. It
can scarcely fail to attract the million ; though
German devilries, we are glad to find, are on the
wane, and even the arch-fiend himself, with his
numerous joint-stock-companies, is getting below
par on the Exchange of literature. "On the
Troubadours" is a pleasant, showy essay, replete
with agreeable knowledge. We subjoin a spcci-