The Sun.
London, England, 1844-11-01 00:00:00

Young
gn
Wtreuillj, that
e-sleyseem' is
been
natlhikeer of the m a
liked in
his n.
gene-
ration at Eton, because his feats were admired by the
whole school, and very few could dare to be his com-
panions in many a perilous and persevering endeavour in
pursuit of a fayourite object or pastime.
" The room in which he slept is still shown at Eton,
and was the one apportioned to myself for a consider-
able time. In this room Wellesley, Leith, and myself,
passed many hours in reading Byron, and Scott, and
NToore, and other leading authors, and in talking of
Welin;Von, and his connexion with it. The boarding-
house in wii;Clthis room may be seen is situated at the
upper end of Etoa (furthest from Windsor), and wassx
kept in my time by eell9.t people of the name of
Ragueneau ; and the large bock house (now coloured,
I believe), immediately beyond wI2PI was occupied by
the Rev. Charles Yonge, my inestimabit; tutor, who was
a superior man, both in the acquirements of paid and
disposition. Perhaps the house would best be inibeated
now by a large elm which adjoined it by the end next to
the street, and which, doubtless, is still growing there,
while generations of men, like its leaves, have fallen
away. If the internal arrangement of this house be still
the same, the visitor to 'Wellington's room must turn
short to the right after having ascended the litte dark
stairs, and then turning to a right-angle again, the door
on the left-!land will take him into it, and it will be
found to be a ratk:-.r large room, fitted for three beds,
and with a window looking out at the front of the house.
Here the Woodhouses and myself lodged ; and just op-
posite the door. and across the vlssav, is a small one-
bedded room, which was occupied by any friend Carew,
now Sir Walter Palk Carew of the fair lie of Devon."

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
We are glad to meet with Miss Eliza Cook again.
who contributes to the Number before us a little
poem, entitled " My Old Straw flat," in which occur
a succession of pleasing, picturesque, and familiar
images. " Scenes in Society" are laid in fashionable
life at the West-end, and refer to the particulars of a
murder, by the agency of poison, which was perpe-
trated on his wife by a young rout, Jack Grandison,
who was anxious to have the full and uncontrolled
possession of her fortune. The " First Meet of the
Season" is a tale of a humorous caste, by a writer who
has frequently contributed to the pages of this Maga-
zine, under the homely signature of " Peter Priggins."
The humour, though broad, is by no means of supe-
rior excellence, and reminds us, as with a difference,
of Theodore Book. In the " Talleyrand Papers"
there is some twaddle about the celebrated necklace
affair which, it may be remembered, created such a
prodigious ferment in France, a few years previously
to the breaking out of the first revolution. Talley-
rand's account of this affair amounts to little or no-
thing, and leaves it just as great a. mystery as ever.
The " Outcast" is a strange story, by the Medical
Student, of a young man, handsome, accomplished,
and well-born, whose life is yet uniformly rendered
miserable from the circumstance of his being a leper,
and hie nervous anxiety to keep this visitation a se-
cret from the whole world. The scene wherein the
fatal discovery is at length made, is worked up with
considerable skill and spirit. In " Social Piracy"
there are some sketches of society in the middle grades
of life. The " Robertses on their Travels" lags terri-
bly in places, as if the author, Mrs. Trollope, was
chiefly desirous to furnish a certain amount of matter
for the Magazine without regard to its quality. We
quote Miss Cook's " Old Straw llat," to which we
have already alluded :
Farewell, old friend, we part at last,
Fruits, flowers, and summer, all are past,
And when the beech-leaves bid adieu,
My old straw hat must vanish too.
We've been together many an hour,
In grassy dell and garden bower,
And plait and ribbon, scorch'd and torn,
Proclaim how well thou hast been worn.
We've had a time, gay, bright, and long,
So let me sing a grateful song,
And if one bay-leaf falls to me,
I'll stick it firm and fast in thee,
My old straw hat.
Thy flapping shade and flying strings,
Are worth a thousand close-tied things.
I love thy easy fitting crown,
Thrust lightly back or slouching down ;
I cannot brook a muffled ear,
When lark and blackbird whistle near ;
And dearly like to meet and seek
The fresh wind with unguarded cheek.
Toss'd in a tree thou'lt bear no harm,
Flung on the sod thou'lt loose no charm ;
Like many a real friend on earth,
Rough usage only proves thy worth,
My old straw hat.
The world will gaze on those who wear
Rich snowy pearls in raven hair,
And diamonds flash bravely out,
In chesnut tresses wreathed about ;
The golden bands may twine and twirl,
Like shining snakes through each fair curl,
And soft down with imperial grace,
May bend o'er Beauty's blushing face ;
But much I doubt if brows that bear
The jewell'd clasp and plumage rare,
Or temples bound with crescent wreath,
Are half so cool as mine beneath
My old straw hat.
Minerva's helmet ! what of that ?
Thou'rt quite as good, my old straw hat ;
For I can think and muse and dream,
With poring brain and busy scheme.
I can inform my craving soul,
Row wild bees work and planets roll,
And be all silent, grave and grim,
Beneath the shelter of thy brim.
The cap of Liberty ! forsooth !
Thou art the thing to me in truth,
For slavish fashion ne'er can break
Into the green paths where I take
My old straw hat.

My old straw hat, my conscience tells
Thou hast been hung with Folly's bells,
Yet Folly rings a pleasant chime,
If the rogue will but " mind his time,"
And not come
,jingling on the way
When sober minstrels ought to play.
For oft when hearts and eyes are light,
Old Wisdom should keep out of sight.
But now the rustic bench is left,
The tree of every leaf bereft,
And merry voices, all are still,
That welcomed to the well-known hill
My old straw hat.
Farewell, old friznd, thy work is done,
The misty clouds shut out the sun ;
The grapes are pluck'd, the hops are off,
The woods are stark, and I musi doff,
My old straw hat—but " bide a wee,''
Fair skies we've seen, but we may see
Skies full as fair as those of yore.
And then we'll wander forth once more.
Farewell, till drooping harebells blow,
And violets stud the warm hedge-row—
Farewell, till daisies deck the plain,
Farewell, till spring days come again—
My old straw hat. I

AINS WORTH'S MAGAZINE.
The present portion of Mr. Ainsworth's new tale,
" The Revelations of London," commences with a
sketch of the well-known Rookery in St. Giles's,
which is full of vigour, and minute to a degree in
point of detail. In a dingy cell in the very heart of
this notorious spot—which, by the bye, has no longer
an existence—a brace of foot-pads and a dog-fancier
are represented as indulging in a carouse, and dis-
cussing between whiles the numerous pecuniary ad-
vantages by which the honourable profession of dog-
stealing is recommended. The dialogue that takes
place between these congenial spirits is in the low
flash style of their calling—of which we have had
enough, and more than enough, in our modern
fictitious literature—but we cannot compliment ALr.
Ainsworth on the success with which he has acquitted
himself. The conversations of his ruffians want
truthfulness, and that inimitable ease which Dickens
knows so well how to impart to such subjects.
" A Jar of Honey from Mount Ilybla" is in Mr.
Leigh Hunt's liveliest and most graceful manner, and
furnishes us with some delightful gossip about ees,
and the way in which they conduct the affairs of their
commonwealth. "In the morning," says our
, essayist, " the bee has probably been at the break-
fast-table in the shape of honey ; in the evening
she is the waxen taper ; in the summer-noon/
a voice in the garden or the window ; ire
the winter, and at all other times, we meet
with her in books. She talks Greek to us in
Sophocles and Theocritus ; Virgil's very best Latin,
in his Georgics ; and besides all her charming asso-
ciations with the poets in general, one of the Eliza-
bethan men has made a whole play out of her—a plaY
in which the whole dramatis personce are bees !" In
the above passage a common-place is invested almost
with novelty by the graceful fashion in which it is
turned. "Winter Wanderings" describes the results
of some archeological researches made by Mr. Francis
Ainsworth, among the more unfrequented districts of
Asia Minor. " Doomed to Disappointment " is a
chatty little essay, in which occur one or two of snob
home truths as occasionally delight and surprise us in
the quaint pages of old Montaigne—the raciest of
gossips, the most welcome of egotists. The " Country
Curate " is an entertaining tale from the pen of Mr.
Charles Oilier. :In the Editor's tale of " St. James's,'.
which is fast drawing towards a close, we find an ac-
count of the final quarrel between Queen Anne and
the Duchess of Marlborough, whose characters have
been sustained throughout the narrative with very
commendable consistency. The sketch entitled " New
South Wales " gives us an opportunity of quoting the
subjoined description of its capital, Sydney
is the Pall-mall':
" George-street, it appears,
ney, and 'up and down its hot, dust 3-, glaring, go,fwSeyard;
length, go the fair wives
arenjoyingeto h e
stheir t
rdati\i,ler. and daughters Long of the citizens,
. strings of carriages
saiiiirginf,:orwaiting near the ' fashion-
able emporiums,theastpebeeilang thedeltierhmt in ii\v,lolich `ladyAus,trs.-
lien shopkeepers Sydney (your grocers, and especially
butchers' wives included) blen•
Neves in the possibility of walking ; but the ' turn-
outs,' motley enough in appearance, are often much
wanting in well-appointed equipages; boxes are fre-
quently innocent of hammercloths; and the horses tap
generally undersized, and terribly out of proportion wffls
the carriage behind them.
" A strong line of demarcation, as might naturally be