The Sun.
London, England, 1841-07-01 00:00:00

DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.

Th; worst: feature in this periodical is its desperate
Toryism. In the political diatribe headed the " Crisis,"
this spirit breaks out in most intemperate style. We
are told of " the diabolical wickedness of the wretched
men who new hold a convulsive grasp of the reins of
power," just as if the Tory faction, for whose delight
and edification such coarse Wingate language is used,
were in themselves spotless and immaculate I The
Whigs may not be all that their best friends could
desire them to be, but compared with their opponents,
they are prodigies of patriotism. Think of the system
pursued by the Tories during the days of Pitt, Pereeval,
find Castlereagh ; think of their Gagging Bills ; of
theft' huge standing armies ; of their unquenchable love
of taxation of their Test and Corporation Acts, Peter-
loo massacres, Sec. ;—let the unbiassed reader think of
these things, and he rill be not a little astonished at the
perverse, anti-national spirit diat could prefer a Tory to a
IVhig Government, " Charles O'Malley, the Irish Dra-
goon," dashes forward at his usual rollicking, slap-dash
pace. Some of the military reminiscences recorded in
the present chapters of this clever biography, deserve
high praise for their liveliness and graphic power of de-
scription, " Our Portrait Gallery" exhibits this month
a half-length portrait of the present Lord Chief Justice
Bushe, to which in added a memoir of this eminent law-
yer, from which we learn that he vv—s one of the best
speakereon the popular side, in the Irish House of Com
mons, and was one of that small, intrepid, unpurchase-
able band of patriots who held out resolutely to the last
against the Union. The "Far East" is a sketchy notice
of some recent volumes of travels in Japan. The ex-
tracts in this notice are are well selected, and just of the
fitting length. From the " Anthologia Germanica" we
quioio a fanciful little poem by Uhland, entitled " Spirits
Everywhere." The imaginative reader will be pleased
with the subtle feeling and novelty of the leading idea
which the Reviewer somewhat harshly calls
ceit" e°ll-

A many a summer is dead and buried
Since over this flood I last was ferried ;
And then, as now, the Noon lay bright
On strand, au water, and castled height.
Beside me then in thig bark sat nearest
Two companions the best and, dearest !
One was a gentle and thoughtful sire,
The other a youth with a soul of fire.
One, outworn by Care and Illness,
Sought the grave of the Just in stillness;
The other's shroud was the bloody rain
And thunder-smoke of the battle-plain.
Yet still, when Memory's necromancy
Robes the Past in the hues of Fancy,
Medreameth I btu and see the twam
With talk and smilits at my side again!
Even the grave is a bond of onion;
Spirit and spirit best hold communion !
Seen through Faith, by the Inward Eye,
It is after Life they are truly nigh I
Then, ferryman ! take this coin I pray thee,
Thrice thy fare I cheerfully pay thee ;
For, though thou seest them not, there stand
Anoar me Two from the Phantom-land _

SMALLWOOD'S MAGAZINE.
There are two or three sprightly prose sketches in
the present Number of this periodical ;, and among
them is one on " The Miseries of Moving,." which is
evidently penned by one who is well acquainted with
the troubles and annoyances—whose name is legion—
of moving a whole house full of children and furniture
from one domicile to another. The " Continuation of
Coleridge's Christobel"—a perilous experiment—shows
some poetic promise. but it is much too lengthy, and
occasionally the diction is verbose and inflated. The
" Tendency of Public Opinion in the Nineteenth Cen-
tury" is the production of a thoughtful observer of the
times. "Extracts from the Diary of a Country Clergy-
man" would have read with more spirit if it had been
less diffuse in manner. Some of the descriptions are by
no means amiss. As a sample of the poetry of the
Number we quote an Address to a Child, which is from
the pen of Mr. O'Briun
The year like thee is young, love,
And mid its vernal bowers,
Thou seem'st the sweet spring's fairy,
The genius of its flowers.
With beauty on thy brow, love,
And gladness in thy smile,
Thou art blooming with the fair buds
Of thy native neTtliern isle.