The Sun.
London, England, 1860-01-05 00:00:00

less beauty in face and figure. We are no heroes nor
angels; neither are we fiends from abodes unmentionable,
black assassins, treacherous Lagos, familiar with stabbing
and poison—murder our amusement, daggers our play-
things, arsenic our daily bread, lies onr conversation, and
forgery our common handwriting. No, we are not mon-
sters of crime, or angels walkink the earth—at least I know
one of us who isn't, as can be shown any day at home if
the knife won't cut or the mutton comes up raw. But we
are not altogether brutal and unkind, and a few folks like
us. Our poetry is not as goad as • Alfred Tennyson's, but
we can turn a couplet for Miss Fanny's album : our jokes
are not always first-rate, but Mary and her mother smile
very kindly when papa tells his story or makes his pun.
We have many weaknesses, but we are not ruffians of
crime. No more was my friend LOvel."
Another contribution from the same hand, being
the last in the number, is the first of a series of
" Roundabout Papers," and relates to " a lazy, idle
boy." Nothing can be more delightful, and we
commend it to all who take up the magazine. The
article on " The Search for Sir John Franklin "
will be read with interest, being front the pen of
one of the members of the the last melancholy but
successful expedition. From a very interesting and
discriminating paper on "A Man of Letters of the
Last Generation"— poor dear Leigh Hunt—we
quote the following felicitous remarks .
As few men brought their personality more thoroughly
into their writings, so few men, out of the bookworm pale
aforesaid, were more thoroughly saturated with literature.
He saw everything through books, or saw it dimly. Speak-
ng of his return from. Italy, he writes :—" I seemed more
at home in England, even with Arcadian idealisms, than I
had been in the land nearer their birthplace; for it was in
England I first found them in books, and with England
even my Italian books were more associated than with Italy
itself." And speaking of the Parnaso Ifaliano, he goes
on :—" This book aided Spencer himself in filling my Eng-
lish walks with visions of gods and nymphs,—of enchane
tresses and magicians; for the reader might be surprised to
know to what a literal extent such was the case." He used
to "envy" the "household waggon that one meets with in
sequestered lanes" for its wanderings, but was daunted at
the bare imagination of "parish objections" and raffish.
society; and so he ever recurred to " the,stationary domes-
ticities." He failed in practical life, because he was not
guided in it by literature. He could only apprehend
so much of it as ho found in the cyclopiedia. On the
other hand, he could render all that literature could
give. His memory was marvellous ; and to try him Ali
history, biography, bibliography, or topography, was to
draw forth an oral "article" on the topic in question.
Ask him where was the Ouse, and he would tell you of all
the rivers so called ; what were the books on a given sub-
ject, and you had the list; "who was Colonel O'Kelly?"
and you had a sketch of the colonel, of the horse " Eclipse,"
of Epsom, and of horse-racing in general, as distinguished
from the racing of the ancients or the modem riderless
races of Italy—whore, as in Florence, may still be seen a
specimen of the biga sweeping round the meta fervidis
evitata rotis." His conversation was an exhaustless Curio-
sities of Literature. The delighted visitor read his host,—
but it was from a talking book, with cordial voice natu-
rally pitched to every change of subject, animated gesture,
sparkline• eyes, and overflowing sympathy. In society
Leigh Hunt was ever the perfect gentleman, not in the
fashion, but always the scholar and the noble-minded man.
But his diffidence was disguised, rather than removed, by
his desire to agree with .those around him, and to fall in with
the humour of the hour. He was better known to his
reader, either in his books, or, best of all, in his home,
where familiarity tested his unfailing courtesy, daily inter-
course brought forth the persevering goodness of his heart
and conscience, and poverty did but fetch out the thorough-
going generosity that not only "would share" but did share
the last crust.

Only two contributions remain unmentioned.
One, " The First Morning of 1860," being a poetic
aspiration against war—the other, Father Prout's
" Inauguaration Ode," which is capital, and well
worthy of its right humorous author. Its advice—

sound sensible advice—has been judiciously carried
out by the editor : with a verse or two from which
genial greeting we cannot do better than conclude

our notice of this new and promising aspirant in
the field of periodical literature :

Proffer good material—
A genuine Cereal,
Value for twelvepeuce, and not dear at twenty.
Such wit replenishes thy Horn of Plenty I
Nor wit alone dispense,
But sense :
And with thy sparkling Xerez
Let us have Ceres.
Of loaf thou hast no lack,
Nor set, like Sbakspere's zany, forth,
With lots of sack,
Of bread one pennyworth,
Sprightly, and yet sagacious,
Funny, yet farinaceous,
Dashing, and yet methodical—
So may thy periodical,
On this auspicious morn,
Exalt its horn,
Thron'd on the Hill of Corn!
Of aught that smacks of sect, surplice, or synod,
Be thy grain winnow'd
Nor deign to win our laugh
With empty chaff.
Shun aught o'er which dullard or bigot gloats ;
'With meal from Titus Oates
Or flour of Joseph Miller.
There's corn in Egypt still
(Pilgrim from Cairo to Cornhill l)
Give each his fill.
But all comers among
,Treat best the young ;
Fill the big brothers' knapsacks from thy bins,
But slip the Cup of Love in Benjamin's.

The Universal Review of Politics, Literature, and

Social 'Science. Allen and Co.

There is an article on Richard Brinsley Sheridan,
which is very deserving of perusal. It is observed
at the commencement that " of all the eminent men
of these latter days whose lives have been thought
worthy of embalmment in printer's ink, Sheridan
seems to have met with nearly the worst treatment
at the hands of his biographers." The books that
have appeared on the remarkable man are then cri-
ticised, and the most recent one is by an octogena-
rian, of the general merits of which a most unfavour-
able opinion is here recorded, although it is allowed
that it presents us with desirable information.
After a well-written and comprehensive essay on
the chief points of the life of this distinguished in-
dividual, the critic thus concludes :

"Human character is always more or less of a riddle, and
the key to that of Sheridan has not yet been, perhaps will
never be, given us in full. How much of his careless, idle,
procrastinating ways sprang from his natural self! how
much from coo forethought, aiding and abetting a secret
love of display and startling surprises? Tie seemed ut-
terly to hate all needless and much needful exertion, and
yet he could work hard and steadily for particular ends.
Sometimes the previous idleness enhanced immeasurably
the results of his sudden industry. The last scenes of one
of his most popular plays, " Pizarro," were actually being
written while the first acts were performing on the stage.
We have seen how nearly a former success of. his hovered
on the brink of a more serious ilrilure. At ether times it
seemed that nothing whatever could save hire from delibe-
rately starving out the life of some hopeful literary bant-
ling, or from shutting the door on some fair scheme of per-
sonal advancement. He could brave a world in arms tm win
his wife, he could wait patiently for the right moment to
assert his rank as an orator and a statesman, but he never
could be brought to look into his own pecuniary affairs, or
to decline paying twice over for bills sent in a second time
by pure mistake. . . . That he`had many rare and
winning gifts of mind and soul; that his impulses were
mainly right and noble • that most of those who knew him
best seem also to have loved him most dearly; that his
ambition, large as it was and growing what it fed on, sel-
dom, if ever, outran his high-toned honesty of purpose, or
turned his proud self-reliance into uncharity and overween-
ing self-conceit; that he loved his political principles, how-
ever faulty they may have been, better than party, is nd
never sacrificed either to a greed for worldly advancement
at any price; that he, had a fine scorn for hypocritical pre-
tences of every kind, and a sense of honour finer on the
whole than most gentlemen of his time or ours—are con-
elusions which the candid reader will hold us fairly war-
ranted in drawing from the faCts within our reach."
A new tale is commenced, called "Sir Everard's
Daughter," which promises well, and displays some
correct definitions of character. Sir Everard him-
self is a fine specimen of an old English country
gentleman. There are two very instructive papers
on recent works of importance that have been added
to the stores of our literature, both being valu-
able in themselves and useful for reference.
One is the diaries and correspondence of Sir George
Rose, and the other the autobiography 'of Lord
Dundonald. The opinions expressed on the works
of" Mary Anne Schimmelpennick" on the principles
of Beauty may attract the reader. On the whole,
there is a great deal of solid reading of various
styles to render this number a very readable one,
and political students will find matterfor reflection
in the details of the Shipping Interest and the re-
marks on Finance, which form portions of the
contents.