The Sun.
London, England, 1846-04-06 00:00:00

2,853,800

pears'to us a sheer impossibility. Several pieces of
criticism in the present Number merit a perusal, and
the " Record of Missions" deserves a similar word of
commendation.

WANDERINGS OF A PEN AND PENCIL.
Our two pilgrims, Alfred Crowquil and F. P. Palmer,
have a rare appreciation of the picturesque. Witness
that " Yarnton Manor House," flecked with shreds of
sunlight and its lattices curtained by green
boughs I Just the spot in which to pore over
Holinshed of a dark night, or to carol a
madrigal of Christopher Marlow in the summer-time ;
and " Godstone's Nunnery," all crumbled away, and
strewn with ivy, and suffused with an aspect of desola-
tion—a very outhouse to the moated grange of Shakspere's
and Tenneyson's Marianna, " Fair Rosamond" is, of
itself, far beyond the price of the whole number, with its
fantastic marginal illustrations. We can speak of these
Wanderings with unaffected satisfaction ; they will form
a pleasant addition to the historiography of our merry
England.
•

HEATH'S NEW GALLERY OF BRITISH

ENGRAVINGS.

Parts IV. and V.

The six engravings before us are beautiful specimens
of art ; two portraits ; two domestic scenes ; and two
interiors of churches. In the first of the likenesses, the
proverbial loveliness of our fair countrywomen is ex
quisitely represented ; an effect which is doubtless owinc,
to the combination of three things—the charms of the
delicate original, the pencil of the artist, and the finished
skill of the engraver. The altar scenes at Leigo has a
most entrancing effect, every scrap of the gothic orna-
ments upon the groins, the roof beams, and the mullions
coming out with crispness, and yet with softness, in
the pool of sun-light streaming through the stained
windows. If the future parts of this series are only
equal to the present specimens, the work will not be un-
worthy of the supervision of Mr. Charles Heath ; and
that is no mean encomium.

THE KIVIGHT OF G WYNNE. Nos. 111. and IV

By Charles Lever.
Harry Lorrequer progresses but slowly in the en-
tanglement of his plot—a sad failing in so experienced
a writer of fiction, since but little interest is excited
until the characters are in a tolerable state of confusion.
Darcy, the Knight of Gwynne, is very happily con-
ceived and very aptly delineated, and, considering
that his patrimonial estates are threatened with irre-
parable destruction, there is a promise of incidents such
is will enthral the attention, and arouse the sympathies
of the reader. Captain Forrester makes extraordinary
advances in the estimation of Lady Eleanor, the hostess
of Gwynne Abbey, and loses his heart—that truant of
all love-tales!—to Helen Darcy. Bagenal Daly—al-
ready one of our familiar favourites—developer his ec-
centric nature more and more in every successive scene.
His summary way of dealing with the postboy, by
taking a streak of nap off his beaver with a pistol-
bullet, is almost as characteristic as his clearing the
fence with " his reins in his mouth and his hands be-
hind his back." The epoch in which the story is situ-
ated is a most attractive one to all lovers of Irish
romance; being no less important a time than that of
the legisative union. On this very account, however,
the difficulties of the narrative are enhanced: the writer
must avoid any evidence of party feeling, while, at the
same moment, his pages must reflect the most bitter
party politics of that stormy and eventful period. We
shall watch the development of the tale with much
curiosity.

OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE RE VIE IV.
After a hiatus of one month, the Oxford and Cam-
bridge Review is revived. From the circumstances of
this interval, one might reasonably have anticipated a
new infusion of vigour into its lucubrations, but such
an anticipation would, on the perusal of the present
number, have proved thoroughly erroneous. Far from
any additional ability being incorporated in this really
clever periodical, there is a mournful deficiency of that
ability which has hitherto decorated its pages. The gap
in its publication has virtually deteriorated its merits.
A non-issue of a month has, as it wore, salivated a very
healthy constitution to the most remarkable stage of
debility. Two articles only are at all compatible
with its reputalion, " Horace Walpole's Memoirs—
George III.," and "A Chapter of Roman His-
tory"—the latter of which is terse and erudite. For
one paper, however, we cau express our cordial thank-
fulness to the reviewer, we mean the notice of Thomas
Carlyle's " Oliver Cromwell." It is indeed more than a
satisfaction to us when we see a great, bold, muscular
effort like that of Carlyle recognised and appreciated.
We acknowledge there are obstacles to such a recegni-
tion and appreciation in the case of that strange biogra-
pher ; the obstacles of diction almost his own ; the
obstacles of a quaint and startling mannerism. Carlyle
indeed is apart from all writers, and all thinkers of
which there is any record ; he is neither German or
English in his style, wholly; neither is he a combina-
tion of the two. He is, as Gilfillan has said, " above us
like a star—apart from us like a spirit." In rolling for-
ward the great, solid body of his thought to a conclu-
sion he seems like some vast Titan groping his way on-
wards through the darkne3s of a moor—stumbling con-
stantly—shaking the groand with his footsteps—yet
striding ever towards the lights of truth that blaze up in
gleams upon the horizon. i3is words are harsh and dis-
onant, but they burn with intellect : his books are in
defiance of the commonest rules of rhetoric, but they
are luminous with something above rhetoric—they are
glorious in this very deformity. Before we conclude
our remarks upon the Review, we would utter
our protest against another of those unseemly
personalities which occasionally bespatter the arena
of letters with anything but harmless ink. What
we allude to is a most irrate diatribe upon a
gentleman whom one would have imagined common
delicacy, not to say common decency or common
gratitude, would have forbidden them alike to attack—
namely, one of the former contributors to the Review,
and one whose "most successful essays," according to
the acknowledgment of the reviewer himself, " have ap-
peared in its pages 1" To the habitual readers of this
Periodical we need scarcely say that the gentleman in
question is Mr.Keon—one of whose papers in the Oxford
and Cambridge Review attracted such general and de-
served attention to the publication. On this account,
to say the least of it, the present unaccountable ebulition
of spleen is indicative of absolute ingratitude. That
there is something exceedingly like spleen in the so-
called criticism must be evident from such expressions
as—" satisfied apostacy," " ferocious audacity," " a rich
mixture of folly and fustian," " exotic impertinence,"
"itinerant writer," and so forth: phrases which go for
less than nothing in argument, and are scarcely con-
sonant with the character of a gentlemanly critic.
Though we cannot coincide with Mr. Keon in regarding
the writings of Carlyle as " rugged nonsense" (and
why we do not, the foregoing paragraphs will testify),
we are not inclined to asperse Mr. Keon on that
account, in the terms of the reviewer, as an " arrogant
author." Surely writers may indulge in a diversity of
opinion without descending to sheer abuse !