The Sun.
London, England, 1850-08-01 00:00:00

FRASER.

We are much pleased with the article on Sir Robert
Peel in the Fraser of this month. It is written in a
philosophical spirit, and traces the gradual develop-
ment of the mind of Sir Robert Peel, from the
time that he first entered the House of Commons
to that in which he reigned over it as Dictator and
Moderator. We entirely agree in the very high esti-
mate this writer has formed of Sir Robert Peel's
genius and character; and we believe that our escape
from the violent revolutions which have recently con-
vulsed the continent, is mainly to be attributed to
the wisdom of Sir Robert Peel, who, to use the
words of this writer, " precluded revolution by pre-
cipitating reform, making those changes natural and
easy, whicb, but for him and such as him, would
have been forced and violent." The present number
of Fraser opens with an elaborate and favourable (in
our opinion, far too favourable) notice of Word-
worth's Posthumous Poem. A chapter on our poli-
tical relations with St. Domingo, gives an inte-
resting account of that Mulatto Dominican Repub-
lic, which seems to be advancing as rapidly
in civilization as the negro empire of Solouque is
retrograding into savagery. Morgan Rattler gives us
a pleasant prolusion " Touching Fly-fishing." The
Naturalist continues his amusing and instructive leaves
from his note-book, and " Madame de Pompadour" is
the heroine of one of the most amusing specimens of
gossipping memoir-writing it has for a long time
past been our lot to peruse. There is one other arti-
cle in Fraser deserving of especial mention, it is en-
titled " Swindon," and is one of the best parodies
ever written. It is as follows :
" At Swindon, when the night drew nigh,
Few were the trains that went thereby,
And very dreary was the sigh
Of damsels waiting dolefully.
" But Swindon saw another sight,
When the train came at dead of night,
Commanding oil and gas to light
Much stale confectionary.
" By soups and coffee fast allured,
Each passenger his choice secured,
Excepting those locked in, Immured,
By sly policeman's treachery.
" Then rushed the mob, by hunger driven;
Then vanished buns, in pieces riven;
And louder than the orders given
Fast popped the beer-artillery.
" But farther yet that train shall go,
Ard deeper yet shall be their woe,
And greater horrors shall they know,
Who bolt their food so speedily.
" Time's up! but scarce each sated one
Can pierce the steam•cloud rolling dun,
Where curious tart and heavy bun
Lie in dyspeptic sympathy.
" The combat thickens. On, ye brave!
Who scald your throats, in hope to save
Some spoonfuls of your soup, the knave
Will charge for all he ladles ye!
" Few, few, digest where many eat,
The nightmare shall wine up their feat,
Each carpet bag beneath their seat
Shall seem a yawning sepulchre."

SONNET.—JULY.
(From the Lady's Companion.)
'Mid beams and rains alternate flashing, now
July, the ripe luxuriant month, we hail!
Queen of the Season—by each jewelled bough
That yields for her its riches to the gale.
Cherries the sweetest—Currants crystal red,
Or moonlight hued, or ebon black displayed.
We know her come by all the token's spread:
The swelling apple, and the fig-tree's shade;
By poppies burning 'midst the fields of grain,
The tox-glove's purple, and the pale wan flower
That smiles unto the stars, and shuts again
Ere morn,—and by the gold of noontide hour,
By all the rills that tinkled songs to May,
And now for flowers can scarce see night from day;
E. E. M. K.