The Sun.
London, England, 1849-07-02 00:00:00

between Lord Castleton and Pisistratus, or _ more

especially that subsequent interview so simply but so
earnestly narrated. With the departure and farewell of
Fanny Trevanion; the heart of Pisistratus has lost for
ever its " youth and its poet-land." Christopher
promisesldr an
e teobveagss.„ n
greater than
iet and h
ever (if thatis b
wisdom,epossi ble)
under his
animation and his eloquence . appear to have this in
common with good wine, that by age they are mel-
INlellow and ripe as they were of
lowed and ripened.
yore, to-day they are mellower and riper. The
Dies Boreales threaten to rival in excellence, as we
are certain they will in popularity, the immortal
Soctes Ambrosiance. It does our heart good to hear
Buller congratulating the great North upon his being
" himself again," declaring that he cannot detect on
his face or forehead one single additional wrinkle—
" nay, not a wrinkle at all —not one—so fresh of colour,
too, sir, that the irradiation is at times ruddy—and
without losing an atom of expression, the countenance
absolutely plump— yes, sir, plump's the word
plump, plump, plump." In a burst of admiration
Buller indeed cannot help telling Christopher
North to his face that he is " one of the finest
looking old men in Britain, in Europe, in the World."
In mind as in body he is still the same glorious
Christopher. Witness it in his masterly analysis of
the beauty of Virgil's famous description, in the
Georgics, of a storm of thunder and lightning; the
way in which he controverts the opinions of Karnes,
Blair, and Alison ; the vividness with which he paints
in language the tempest that has actually overtaken
him at Cladich ; his comments on Jemmy Thomson ;
his account of his having once himself been " in the
sulks" in his childhood. We must, perforce, extract
the last-mentioned passage, it is so inimitably ex-
pressed :
" Once, and once only, during one of the longest and
best-spent lives on record, was I in the mood proscribed
—and it endured most part of a whole day. The anni-
versary of that day I observe, in severest solitude, with
a salutary horror. And it is my Birthday. Ask me
not, my friends, to reveal the Cause. Aloof from con-
fession before man—we must ket pto ourselves—as John
Foster says—a corner of our own souls. A black corner
it is—and enter it with or without light—you see, here
and there, something dismal—hideous—shapeless—
namelets—each lying in its own place on the floor.
There lies the Cause. It was the morning of my Ninth
Year. A I kept sitting high upstairs by myself—one
familiar face after another kept ever and anon looking in
upon me—all with one expression:! And one familiar
voice after another—all with one tone—kept muttering
at me—' He's still in the Sulks!' How I hated them
with an intenser hatred—and chief them I before had
loved best—at each opening and each shutting of that
door ! How I hated myself, as my blubbered face felt
hotter and hotter—and I knew how ugly I must be, with
my fixed fiery eyes. It was painful to sit on such a chair
for hours in one posture, and to have so chained a child
would have been great cruelty—but I was resolved to
die, rather than change it; and had I been told by any
one under an angel to get up and go to play, I would have
spat in his face. It was a lonesome attic, and I had the
fear of ghosts. But not then—my superstitious fancy
was quo led by my troubled heart. Had I not deserved
to be allowed to go? Did they not all know that all my
happiness in this life depended on my being allowed to
go? Could any one of them give a reason for not al-
lowing me to go? What right had they to say that if I
did go, I should never be able to find my way, by myself,
back? What right had they to say that Roundy was a
blackguard, and that he would lead me to the gallows?
Never before, in all the world, had a good boy been
used so on his birthday. They pretend to be sorry
when I am sick—and when I say my prayers, they say
theirs too; but I am sicker now—and they are not sorry,
but angry—there's no use in prayers—and I won't read
one verse in the Bible this night, should my aunt go
down on her knees. Ana the midst of such unworded
solilcquies did the young blasphemer ran asleep. I
know not how long I slept; but on awaking, I saw an
angel with a most beautiful face and most beautiful hair
—a little young angel—about the same size as myself—
sitting on a stool by my feet. ' Are you quite well now,
Christopher? Let us go to the meadow e and gather
flowers?' Shame, sorrow, remorse, contrition, came to
me with those innocent words—we wept together, and I
was comforted. have been sinful'—' but you are for-
given.'
Down all the stairs hand in hand we glided; and
there was no longer anger in any eyes—the whole house
was happy. All voices were kinder—if that were pos-
sible—than they had been when I rose in the morning
—a Boy in his Ninth Year. Parental hands smoothed
my hair—parental lips kissed it—and parental greetings
only a little more cheerful than prayers, restored me to
the Lose I had never lost, and which I felt now had
animated that brief and just displeasure. I had never
heard then of Elysian fields; but I had often heard, and
often had dreamt happy, happy dreams of fields of light
in heaven. And such looked the fields to be, where
fairest Mary Gordon and I gathered flowers, and spoke
to the birds, and to ono another, all day long—and
again, when the day was gone, and the evening going,
on till moontime, below and among the soft-burning
stars."
Talboys makes his appearance and promises to be
no small acquisition. Hear him tell of the adventures
of his umbrella with a gusto Mr. Rodwell would
envy ! And hear his sonnet read by the musical voice
of Cnristopher
!
"(On reading. Dies Boreales.—No. I.')
A friend returned! spring bursting forth again!
The song of other years! which, when we roam,
Brings up all sweet and common things of home,
And sinks into the thirsty heart like rain!
Such the strong influence of the thrilling strain
By human love made sad and musical,
Yet full of high philosophy withal,
Poured from thy wizard harp o'er land and main!
A thousand hearts will waken at its call,
And breathe the prayer ti:ey breathed in earlier youth—
May o'er thy brow no envious shadow !all!
Blaze in thine eye the eloquence of truth!
Thy righteous wrath the soul of guilt appal,
As lion's streaming hair or dragons' fiery tooth!
One or two of the facetious repartees are capital—as
where North, on being called a Laker, and having
answered thereto that he is a Locher, not a Laker,
Buller hums to himself ironically " Tweedledum—
tweedledee." "That means," says North, "the
Tweed and the Dee ? Content." When dinner is
served up the four comrades discourse again on a
variety of topics, Christopher being especially elo-
quent in his definition of the " Classical," in his pane-
gyric on the ancients, in his remarks on the meaning
of words, and, above all, in his impassioned oration
as to the existence of a God. As the conversation
turns on a hereafter, they all move out into the open
air to look at the stars. And there the second por-
tion of the Dies terminates. Blackwood contains an
ingenious paper cn Sardinia, suggested by Mr. Tyn-
dale's recent historical description of that island.
"Pestalozziana" is the sketch of an educational esta-
blishment worthy of sketching. "The Game Lawn
in Scotland" afford a subject for grave discussion in a
well written and well-digested article. " Dominique"
presents a very powerful attraction—being an enter-
taining magazine story, such as will more than
repay perusal. Poetical as is the title of the last
contribution in Maga—" The Crowning -03 f :P a
Column and Crushing of the Pedestal"—thitani
an fin.
very sober character, being nothing_ less
now that
tain
quiry into the prospects of Great id
free trade has been completed by the abolition of
the laws relating to navigatien. It is scarcely pos
sible not to recognise througnout tne argument the
hand of the historian Alison.