The Sun.
London, England, 1844-02-01 00:00:00

THE SUN, LONDON, THURSDAY EVENING, FEB f, `CARY

•
scene of which is laid in Oxford, at the time when
the Duke of Wellington was installed Chancellor of
that University. The narrative is skilfully sustained
throughout. « A Word for Bores" is a defence of
these unhappy individuals, and is more ingenious
than successful. " The Struggle for Fame" contains
some sound advice, albeit in rhyme, to a young
aspirant after celebrity. The poem is one that can
hardly fail t> please from the ease and grace of the
versification. Of the few remaininc, articles the best
is a notice of Gautier's Travels in°Spain."

AINSWORTH'S 111,4GAZINE.
The intriguing character of the well-known
Harley, Earl of Oxford-,-.whotii--,Swift has praiSed -in
such fulsome terms—is skilfully brought .out in the
chapters before us of Mr. Ainsworth's " Court of St.
James," and there is much nature and propriety .in
the dialogue which he holds with Queen Anne, and
in which he is interrupted by the sudden irruption
of the Duchess of Marlborough into the royal pre-
sence. Nor is humbler English life less truly painted
in thts: story, as may be seen by reference to the
entertaining conversations that take place between
Sergeant Scales and the Queen's State coachman.
There are OM' or two lyrics, we perceive, interspersed
among the chapters, but they are certainly not in
the author's most successful manner. ' The best is a
humorous song, sung by the redoubtable sergeant,
and entitled the " .13oots of Marlbrook," which is full
of pointed allusions to the Duke's victories over the
:French Marshals. The " Long Hours" is the con-
tinuation of . a story, by Mrs. Hall, *which
was' commenced last month, and is founded
on the fact of the exhausting labours .to
which young apprentices are too often subjected
in . the metropolis and elsewhere, and the
evil habits which they are apt to engender. " Oriana
and Vesperella." is a species of fairy tale, with a
dash of allegory mixed up with it ; but we must con-
fess that it is not much to our taste. "John Manesty,
the Liverpool merchant," is rather prosy this month,
and the dialogue between the merchant and a Mo-
ravian priest might have been very advantageously
curtailed. The " Seiren Sleepers of Ephesus"—as its
title imports—is a prose. version of the celebrated
legend of that name. The -sleepers, it may be re-
membered, were Christians, who one fine day fell
into a heavy slumber in a cavern, and did not wake
up till two hundred years had rolled over their un-
conscious heads. Had Mr. Robert Montgomery's
poems been written in those days, we could at once
have accounted for the sleepers' long nap, on the sup-
position that each had taken a copy of those drowsy
productions with him into the cavern, and gone off "as
fast as a church" in a vain effort to master their contents.
Under such circumstances, the sleep would have been
no miracle, but the most natural thing in the world.
"A Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla" is a light,
graceful, critical essay, from the pen of Mr. Leigh
Hunt, who is certainly one of the most cordial and
discriminating of living critics. In the new series of
the "Elliston Papers,' which we are glad to meet
with again, we find an entertaining account of a sort
of 0. P. row, which took place in 1810 at the Surrey
Theatre, in consequence of a professional dispute be-
tween two rival Columbines. Shortly after this row,
the great leSsee, says his biographer slily, Iliad "a
chronic attack of a religious nature"--in other words,
tocik to Methodism for a season—a distressing ma-
lady to which, it appears, he was at times peculiarly
liable. " James's Late Romances" is a very com-
mon-place criticism ; and the " Song of the Sabbath"
is one of those mediocre poems which it is more diffi-
cult to read than to write. In looking about for ex-
tracts, we have lighted on the following description
of Queen Anne's state coachman, which we quote
from the Editor's romance
"On the morning after the ball at the Palace, and just as
the clock of old Saint Martin's Church (for the present struc-
ture was not then erected) was striking eight, Mr. Thomas
Proddy, the Queen's coachman, issued from the Royal Mews
at Charing Cross, and bent his steps towards Marlborough
House. A little man was Mr. Proddy--a very little man—
but' great, exceedingly great, in his own estimation ; indeed,
it may be doubted whether the Lord-Treasurer entertained a
higher opinion of his post or himself, than did Mr. Proddy.
Nature had been singularly kind to him, and if she did not
actually design him for his exalted Situation, she formed him
in such a manner as ensured his elevation to it. She coloured
his gills with the blushing hues ordinarily bestowed by her
on the turkey-cock; moulded him after the fashion of the
Bacchus on a rum-puncheon ; and kindly limited his•growth
to four feet nothing. Not insensible, it has been said,
to these natural advantages, was Mr. Proddy. No man was
prouder of his calves that he was, or set greater value on
his paunch, or took more pains to nourish the genial tinting
of his cheek. He felt it incumbent upon him to strut in his
gait when called upon by necessity to walk ; to nod slightly,
very slightly, if he encountered a friend ; to eye disdain-
fully all other persons who might cross his path ; and to
cock his nose; Which, being small and snubby, suited the
action well, and thrust out his under-lip and double chin in
a manner that should leave no one in doubt as to his self-
importance. Great was little Mr. Proddy on his feet, but he
was greater far on the box. To see him seated on the ham-
mer-cloth of the Royal state-carriage, in all the glories of
his rich livery, his laced three-cornered hat, his bouquet, and.
his flaxen wig, contrasting so happily with his rubicund
face, his little fat legs fixed upon_the splashing-board, and
his eight milk-white horses in hand—this was a sight Worth
beholding. All the dignity of all the coachmen in the king-
dom seemed then to be concentered in Mr. Proddy. He was
deaf to the shouts of admiring crowds; but you saw a smile
of ineffable consequence irradiate his cheek and chin, and
twinkle in his round protruding eyes, while he now and then
addressed a brief injunction to the groonis at the horses' heads
in the tone of a general issuing orders to his aides-de-camp.
Once, and once only, did he forget himself, and this was on
the occasion of the Queen's recent visit to'St. Paul's, to re-
turnof Ramifies, when the. name of
Proddy
shouted in feminine accents near Temple
Bar, he looked up for a moment, and recognising some fami-
liar face, winked in reply. But this discomposure was mo-
mentary, and is merely mentioned to show that the great are
the victory
fortk
not entirely free from the infirmities that beset other less
distinguished mortals. We must now follow Mr. Proddy up
Pall-mall, along which he Was slowly marching, or to speak
more correctly, waddling, with one hand thrust up to the
thumb in his waistcoat-pocket, and the other sustaining the
stem of a yard of clay, from which he was drawing huge
whiffs, and expelling them at the noses of the casual passen-
gers. The hour being early, he was somewhat in dishabille,
and wore only a white calico jacket, crimson plush breeches,
and stockings drawn above the knee. His shirt was unbut-
toned, and as his little white wig merely covered thatop of
his head, it gave to view the back of a neck, precisely re-
sembling in colour and expanse the same region in a scalded
pig. Then he had a velvet
cap, bound with gold, with an
immense neb."

" 'SreeMenAt GpoApa
Zul/Nr E.
In a notice of novels—more
especially Mr. Lever's " Harry Lorrequer "—which
ASE
someß
appears in the present pages of this Magazine, the
Reviewer, Michael Angelo Titmarsh, insists with
extreme pertinacity en the inherent melancholy
of the Irish character. " All Irish stories," he says,
" are sad, all humourous Irish songs are sad ; there is
never a burst of laughter excited by them, but,
as I fancy, tears are near at hand ; and from
Castle Rackrent downward.s, every Hibernian
tale that I have read, is sure to leave a sort
of woeful, tender impression." There is some
truth in this assertion, but it is not true to the ex-
tent that the Reviewer supposes. Lover's first and
best works, his " Legends and Stories of Ireland,"
are anything but melancholy in their tone; Doctor
Maginn's national sketches and magazine tales have
not—so far as our recollection serves us—a spark
of sentiment in their composition; Crofton Croker's
" Traditions" are full of riotous humour ; and as
for the authoress of " Castle Rackrent" she appeals
chiefly to our judgment and common sense, and
seldom or never excites sensations, whether of
laughter or melancholy. __We do really and truly
believe, however, that the Irish character is in a
transition state, "from lively to severe ;" and if the
present fashion for sobriety continues, and whiskey
take its place among the luxuries "that once were,'
we doubt not, but in a few years we shall find Ire-
land as grave, methodical, and business-like, .as either
England or Scotland. Whether such a radical change
is to be deplored or hailed with delight, we do
not undertake to say ; enough to say that it is
in progress—thanks to Father Mathew and his Tem-
perance Pledge. " The Luck of Barry Lyndon, is a
story penned in a light, easy, conversational style ; and
the character of the principal personage, young Barry,
is developed with much tact. The " Drama" is
another attempt to account for the sad state of degra-
dation into which this great national amusement has
fallen. The author's explanations on the subject are
those of a man of common sense, but we think he
hardly lays sufficient emphasis on the fact,
that we have no longer a corps of actors whom
it is worth our while to go to see. We have the
Keeleys, certainly, and Farren, and one or two others
who are clever enough in their way; but we have
no longer any Kembles, or Keans, or Dowtons, or
Listons; and the very best we could now number are
but second-rate. • Then the daily habits of our lives
are unsuitable to dramatic performances, and half
the middle classes in the metropolis are only just sit-
ting down to dinner when the prompter's bell is
ringing for the drawing up of the curtain. He
must be a brilliant actor, indeed, who can induce
a Londoner to dine an hour or two before his usual
time, in order to hurry off to the ' theatre. The
" Speculative Parricide is an essay on the dialogues
of Plato, in which there is a more than ordinary
display of scholarship and ingenuity. In "Remi-
niscences of Men and Things" we find some dull old
woman's twaddle about Prince Metternich. In the
political article on " the State and Prospects of
the Government," occurs the following opinion,
in the justice of which we coincide : "If
Sir Robert Peel trust for the preservation
of order in Ireland to the law as it is, he must make
up his mind to retain military occupation of
.the
country—a measure which will suffice, no doubt, to
dissipate all apprehensions of rebellion, but which
will neither satisfy the well-disposed nor conciliate
the disaffected." From " Fanny Elssler at Paris,"
we quote this celebrated dancer's account of her debut
in that capital
I came into the opera at the close of Veron's career, but
in time, fortunately, to benefit by his directorial skill and
activity. Hearing of my success in London, he came over
to examine into my claims. Satisfied that I was not ,un-
worthy transportation to the bright sphere he moved in and
controlled, he made very liberal offers for myself and sister,
'which were accepted, and off we startedior Paris. deter.:
mined that my debut should 119 t place 1111111Qdifitely, and