The Sun.
London, England, 1836-01-01 00:00:00

phrase would thou encircle and stifle their puny poli-
tics I How would thou lay bare the very heart's core
of that despotic liberalism, whose freedom is freedom
to plunder our neighbours I" Surely, to write in such
a strain as this is virtually to declare oneself utterly
disqualified to draw a correct portrait of the amiable,
simple, child-like mind of Oliver Goldsmith.
We cannot, however, sufficiently express our admi-
ration of the introductory sketch—from the pen of
Anthony Poplar himself—which precedes this por-
trait of the Irish poet, historian, and essayist. Though
rather longer than suits our purpose, we have pleasure
in quoting the following passage :
" It has been 'mid, perhaps with almost as much truth as
bitterness, that Ireland has no history. We look back in
vain along her annals to discover anything of which a nation
might be proud. They present a dreary and a desolate
blank, only stained by the stories of petty oppression, and
of miserable dissension. From the earliest period our
country seems, as it were, destined to be the prey of faction,
and her sons at once the guilty partizans and the wretched
victims of lawless and embittered feuds. Wearied and
sickened by the humiliating prospect of Ireland as'i she
is,' the eye of patriotism turns back with the fondness that
the patriot can only feel' to Ireland as she was,' and
longs to console its sorrow for her present degradation, by
contemplating the glories that are gone. But, alas ! it can
discover nothing that the fondest partiality can dignify with
the name of history.—Nothing but the same miserable
tale of fanatical and misguided insurrections—then their
perhaps too cruel suppression, and then again the terrible
retaliation of those who were, or fancied themselves,
wronged. The page of her annals is stained, it is true, with
blood—blood more than might have sufficed for a hundred
Marathons and Thermopylms ; but it has been shed, not in
the glorious battle-field, but by the cruel hand of midnight
Murder—and where it stains it blots with crime. .In these
recollections the lover of his country can find but little to
reflect on with delight—in vain he looks to the records of
the past—until, unwilling to believe that his cherished na-
tional pride is but a dream, he finds a refuge in the dim
traditions of an antediluvian glory, or indulges in equally
fond, God grant they may not be equally visionary, specula-
tions of Ireland as she will be.'

" We have not darkened the picture of the past ; it re-
quires no gloomy colouring from us. One would think
that in that picture there was but little to minister to na-
ional.pride ; and yet, of all nations, the Irish possess the
• and withal they have much to be proud of. Acutely
as we feel, and deeply as we mourn the degradation of Ire-
land, we, too, have our national pride ; and we would not
exchange the glorious distinction of our birth to be the
favoured sons of the richest empire in the world. We are
proud of our countrymen. Superstition may keep them in
ignorance—ignorance may lead them into crime—want may
aggravate the recklessness of their temper, until many of
them are bound in the bonds of lawleis conspiracy ; but
still there is, amid all this, a nobleness of impulse, a gene-
rosity of character, that tells you that guilt is not natural
to an Irishman. And even when we retrace the past, let
us forget the nation, and think of individuals. How many
sons have been born to Ireland of whoM she may be proud?
This, her worst enemies never have denied to her. Branded
as she is with the stigma of crime, and charitably consigned
by some to the tender mercies of an imagined evil destiny
that dooms her to perpetual misery, no calumny has ever
yet refused her the title of TILE LAND or. GENIUS. Proudly
have her children vindicated her claim ; in almost all the
departments of intellectual exertion they have ,asserted
their superiority ; as orators, as statesmen, as poets, Irish-,
men have borne the first honours of the British arena ; and
this is, to be the conquerors of the world. A foolish and
conceited attempt was made to sneer at Irish oratory, as if
it was forgotten that Burke, and Grattan, and Sheridan,
were Irishmen ; but yet of her orators it may be said, that
I their voice is gone out through all lands.' Need we speak
of her poets when we are about to write the name of Gold-
smith ? But we must stop. What Briton forgets Water-
loo, and who that thinks on Waterloo forgets that to the
gigantic mind of an Irishman, Britain owes her existence as
a nation ? Well may we be proud of our' country. Her
adversity has made Ireland rest her glory on the reputation
of her sons ; but nobly have they sustained, or, we should
say, created her fame. If she has no history, in their suc-
cess you read her triumphs. And when we look on the
long list of names that fame has blazoned in letters of im-
mortal light, we feel that Ireland bears a prouder scutcheon
than if she could engraifniti—it; tliCeniblans-vf- A thousand
battle fields. And this, we repeat, is a glory that never
has been denied to her. Ireland has been oppressed—has
been insulted—has been neglected—has been pitied—

most

That base word with which men
• Cloke their soul's hoarded triumph—'
but, amid all the indignities that ha'e been heaped on her,
no one has been found hardy enough to dispute her title of

the LAND OF GENIUS.' "
The article entitled " Schiller" is neither pro-
found nor original. The writer, we presume, is
well versed in the German language—at least if we
may draw an inference from some peculiarities in the
way_in which he expresses himself in his own. But
we are bound to state that we think him but au indif-

ferent critic. His translations from the poetical works
of Schiller are remarkable for their force—a rare ex.-
cellence in a translation from any language.: " O'Cro-

Icy on Popery in Ireland," and " Political Prospects,"
are papers which will only find a response in the bo-
soms of staunch Orangemen ; and much to our own
satisfaction, we know nothing of, and have few feelings
or opinions in common with, that faction. The other
articles are continuations of Series, the first parts of
which have already obtained the approbation of the
public.

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
A pleasant, gossipping Number, light as gossamer,
and abounding in varieties. The first article is, of

course," Campbell's Letters on Algiers," the most amus-

ing passage in which is, that where the author describes
his paying a visit to a French officer, just at the
very moment when he was busy with a translation of
his own poems. This must have been highly flattering
to Mr. Campbell's self-love, and he is candid enough
to tell us he was in extacies. " Sabbath Morning" is
a poem by the Corn Law Rhymer, INIr. Elliott, and
contains majiy fine thoughts. In the " Elements of
Conversation, or Talking made Easy," we arc re-
minded of Mr. Paul Pry Poole's—as he delights to
call himself—chatty manner. From this amusing
paper we quote an anecdote of the celebrated Miss
Biffin, who, it may be remembered, was born without
arms or legs :
" Miss Biffin, before her marriage—for married she is—
if alive, and even if dead, was taken to Covent Garden
Theatre early in the evening before the performance began,
by
)laving
ggeonntile:rm ao otherot. ttioi.
jeNnv wasod feapof tones
ove afterwards dt si united.ics fa
upper-frontir f
chargee
in the corn ke hsecena t
boxes, whereupon, aided by long drapery, such as chil-
dren in arms wear, and a large shawl, she sat as un-
moved as immovable; enjoying the play and the farce,
not perhaps applauding in the ordinary style by clapping
or expressing her impatience at any needless delays by
stamping on the floor: The engagements, however, of
her beau, proved longer than the performance of the
theatre. The audience retired—the lights were extin-
guished—and still Miss Biain remained—the box-keeper
ventured to suggest that, as all the company were out, and
most of the lights were out too, it was necessary she
should retire. Unwilling to discover her misfortune, and
not at all knowing how far she might trust the box-
keeper, she expressed great uneasiness that her friend
had not arrived as he had promised. '
mustWe can't wait holy
ely
for your friend, Miss—you really go'—was the on
reply she obtained from the obdurate janitor.
" At length Mr. Brandon, then box-book and house-
keeper, hearing the discussion, came to the spot, and insi-
nuated the absolute necessity of Miss Biffin's departure,
hinting something extremely ungallant about a constable.
" Sir,' said Miss Biffin, I would give the world to go
but I cannot go without my friend.'
" You can't have any friend here to-night, Ma'am,' said
Mr. Brandon ; for the doors are shut.'
" What shall I do, Sir ?' said the lady.
" If you will give me your arm, Ma'am,' said Brandon,
I'll see you safe down to the stage-door, when you can
send for a coach.'
" Arm, Sir !' said the lady.
I have got no arms.'
" Dar me, Ma'am,' said the box, book and housekeeper,
how very odd,! However, Ma'am, if you will get upon
your legs, I will take every care of you.'
" I have not got any legs, Sir,' said Miss Biffin.
" This entirely puzzled Mr. Brandon, who professed him-
self as much astounded at the intelligence as the waiter at
the tavern with the three guests.,—of which more under
some other head,—and had not Miss B.'s faithful friend
arrived just at the moment via the stage-door, it is im-
possible to- imagine what would have happened. Her
:intended, who was perfectly alive to all the little peen-
!liarities of is beloved, settlei the aff.tir in a moment, by
bundling hers up, lift' rig her from her seat, as Caesar died,

' I wish I could, Sir : bu