The Sun.
London, England, 1841-11-02 00:00:00

DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.

The author of" Charles O'Malley," who is by
far the ablest contributor to this Magazine, con-
tinues hisi military reminiscences with a vigour
and vivacity that never sink into tameness. In
his off-hand, dashing mode of narration he re-
sembles Mr. Maxwell; but he has more versa-
tility and less assumption, producing effect with-
out the slightest effort or parade. Indeed the
great charm of his writing is its manly unaffect-
edness. His humour is unpremeditated, and his
pathos is equally the impulse of the moment.
In his present chapters lie brings back his hero
to Ireland, poor and discontented, having, been
compelled to sell out of the army in consequence
of family necessities. While residing in that
country in a state of unwilling seclusion and in-
activity, the author sets him moralising as fol-
lows—for Charles O'Malley, we should premise,
is throughout supposed to be his own biographer :
Life is marked out in periods in which, like stages in
a journey, we rest and repose ourselves, casting a look
now back upon the road we have been travelling ; now
throwing a keener glance towards the path left us. It is
at such spots as these remembrance comes full upon us,
and that we feel how little our intentions have swayed
our career, or influenced our actions; the aspirations,
the resolves of youth, are either looked upon as puerile
follies, or a most distant day settled on for their realiza-
tion. The principles we fondly looked to, like our guide-
stars, are dimly visible, not seen ; the friends we che-
rished are changed and gone ; the scenes themselves
seem no longer the sunshine and the shade we loved ;
and, in fact, we are living in a new world, where our
own altered condition gives the type to all around us ;
the only link that binds us to the past being that same
memory that, like a sad curfew, tolls the twilight of our
fairest dreams and most cherished wishes. That these
glimpses of the by-goneseason of our youth should be
but fitful and passing—tinging, not colouring, the land-
scape of our life—we should be engaged in all the active
bustle and turmoil of the world, surrounded by objects
of hope, love, and ambition, stemming the strong tide
in whose fountain is fortune. He, however, who lives
apart, a dreamy and a passionless existence, will find
that in the past, more than in the future, his thoughts
have found their resting-place ; memory usurps the
place of hope, and he travels through life like one walk-
ing onward, his eyes still turning towards some loved,
forsaken spot, teeming with all the associations of his
happiest hours, and preserving, even in distance, the
outline that he prized. Distance in time, as in space,
smooths down all the inequalities of surface ; and,
as the cragged and rugged mountain, darkened by cliff
and precipice, shows to the far-off traveller but some
blue and misty mass, so the long-lost-sight-of hours lose
all the cares and griefs that tinged them ; and, to our
mental eye, are but objects of uniform loveliness and
beauty.
If there be no decided originality in the above
reflections, yet there is an easy grace and elo-
quence in the manner in which they are ex-
pressed, deserving of high praise. It will be
observed, too, that there is no showing-off of
thought in them. The author lays no more on
his theme than it will bear, but just simply
" says his say" in the first language that occurs
'to him. His descriptive powers are exercised in
a way not less creditable to his good sense. We
subjoin a sketch of an Irish sylvan landscape,
which a few hasty but discriminating touches
place vividly before us :
It was a fine evening in May, when, rigging up a
spritsail, I jumped into my yawl, and dropped easily
down the river : the light wind gently curled the crested
water ; the trees waved gently and shook their branches
in the breeze, and my little bark, bending slightly be-
neath, rustled on her foamy track with that joyous bound-
ing motion so inspiriting to one's heart. The clouds
were flying swiftly past, tinging with their shadows the
mountains beneath ; the Munster shore, glowing with a
rich sunlight, showed every sheep-cot and every hedge-
row clearly out, while the deep shadow of tall Scariff
darkened the silent river where Holy Island, with its
ruined churches and melancholy tower, were reflected in
the still water. It was a thoroughly Irish landscape; the
changeful sky ; the fast flitting shadows ; the brilliant
sunlight ; the plenteous fields ; the broad and swelling
stream ; the dark mountain, from whose brown crest a
wreath of thin blue smoke was rising,—were all there
smiling yet sadly, like her own sons, across whose lour-
ing brow some fitful flash of fancy every playing, dallies
like sunbeams on a darkening stream, nor marks the
depth that lies below.
64 Whewell's Philosophy of the Inductive
Sciences" is an elaborate notice of a masterly
treatise that has excited the attention of the scien-
tific world in no ordinary degree. The " Por-
trait-Gallery " contains a full-length like-
ness, accompanied by a short memoir, of Co-
lonel Chesney, well-known for his recent
surveys, by order of Government, of the naviga-
tion of the Euphrates. The "Proposal for the Re-
conciliation of the Protestant and Roman Catholic
Churches," however kindly and charitably meant,
is, we fear, little better than a visionary crotchet.
Two suns cannot rule in the same sphere, nor
can two antagonist religions ever be brought to
act in'harinony with each other in England. As
well might we expect to see two rival statesmen,
or two rival beauties, or—more improbable still
—two rival actors--live together in good-fellow-
ship I The Catholic Church, always ambitious
of supremacy, cannot forget nor forgive her
being supplanted by the Protestant; and the
latter Establishment, well aware of this, repu-
diates the idea of reconciliation, knowing that it
is hopeless. When Mr. Peter Borthwick shall
fail to clear the House of Commons by his ora-
tory—when Lord Stanley shall recognise the in-
carnation of patriotism in Lord Mayor O'Con-
nell—when Mr. Horace Twiss shall write a
tragedy that cannot be mistaken for a comed,y—
then, but not till then, will the Protestant
and Catholic churches act in amicable concert
' together, as if influenced by one indivisible
interest.

UNITED SERVICE JOURNAL.
"A Three Weeks' Ramble and Cruize in the
Summer of 1841," is a picturesque account of a
trip to Ireland, and the Highlands of Scotland.
The writer was naturally desirous of treading
scenes immortalized by the genius of Sir Walter
Scott, so set out fur the Trossac:ls, in the full
conviction that he was about to beliOld a sort of
Arcadian clime. But, alaps for the diffeiTnce
between fiction and fact! lite weather was exe-
crable j the sun invisible; the landscape hidia.linodinliVelTasli3fracitluMalifyfe)'co; ragged spongy clouds;
glle4 to make the cir-
cuit of the " Lady of the Lake4s' dominions
under an umbrella, which, as a matter of eoufsel
turned inside out whenever the rain and wind
were more than ordinarily lively ! " Military
Force of Great Britain," is a very useful statis-
tical article, and put forth just at a fitting season.
" Anson's Expedition,: is passable ; and so is
ssl little) to
the account of "Syria et:;!'ing the Campaign
under Mehemet Ali,' although it a.4cl
the public stock of information on the u