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

THE MAGAZ

ERASER'S MAGAZINE.
Fraser is certainly not among " the shining.
ones"—as John Bunyan would say—this month.
There are one or two clever papers in the Num-
ber before us, but the majority of them do not
rise above mediocrity, and the utmost we can
say in their praise is, that they do not sink be-
low it; We miss that pleasant gossip about
English poets and poetry which used to be so
frequent in the Magazine a few months ago,
and whose place is ill supplied by the lucu-
brations of a writer who signs himself
" One who has a Good Memory." This.
gentleman's biographical sketch of the Queen,
which, in consideration of the subject,
takes preeedence of all the other articles in the
present Number, is a very wishy-washy affair,
fruitful of solemn twaddle, and of anecdotes
which, even if true, were scarcely worth re-
lating. The close of the memoirs is exceedingly
rich. After describing her Majesty's appear-
ance on her return to Buckingham Palace, when
she had prorogued the last session of tarlia-
; meat, and telling us what was passing in her
mind at the time—how she reflected with
delight that she bad expressed herself
strongly in favour of the union between England
and Ireland ; had announced her intention to
maintain the integrity of the Constitution. unim-
paired ; to put down fiction, and, in short, do
everything that a SATereign should do ;—after
assuring us that such *ere the varied reflections
that passed through the Royal mind, the writer
proceeds to observe, " the Queen looked all
this !"—a most wonderful and comprehensive look,
which reminds us of Lord Burleigh's equally
comprehensive shake of the head, whereby
he intended it to be implied that he was

labouring with philosophic and statesman-
like thoughts too deep for utterance 1 If a
gentleman must write nonsense, let him at
least forbear from making Majesty the theme of
his twaddle. The Luck of Barry Lyndon" is a
piper of a far different order, in point of merit.
It is a smart—animated—rapid narrative, which
flows easily and uninterruptedly on, and ex-
hibits much of that breadth of humour, which
formed so prominent a feature in the periodical
contributions of the late Dr. Magian. The
sketches of Irish character show that the
author— Michael Angelo Titmarsh—had all
his wits about him during his late excur-
sions in the sister-country. " Scenes from the
March to Moscow," describe the gradual advance
of Napoleon's immense army, after leaving the
shores of the Niemen. According to the writer,
a Prussian Hussar it must have been a sad scene
of confusion and discomfort even from the com-
mencement of the march, for the commissariat
had been wholly neglected, and the enormous
masses of troops were in a great measure left to
shift for themselves. We quote from a brie'

lemoir of "Kate Kearney,'

the following at

ecdote, which originated (he well-known Iris,
proverb—" as old as Kate Kearney
" But Kate Kearney, the charmer of Killarney, is
known to us only by report of her youthful beauty.
The Kate Kearney, whose longevity has passed into
a proverb, was a native of Wexford, and is, or ought
to be, an historical personage. In the year 1649,
Cromwell, reeking from the slaughter committed at
the storming of Tredah, appeared before Wexford,
and commenced the siege. The garrison made some
slight defence, but shortly held a parley, to treat for
terms of capitulation. During the parley the gar-
rison neglected their guards, as some write, or, as
others aver, the guards were drawn off by the
treachery of Staftbrd, the governor. Cromwell's
troops rushed into the town, and following the com-
mand of their stern General, to give no quarter, com-
menced a furious and indiscriminate butchery. The
young, the old, the woman, the infant, the armed, the
defenceless, all fell victims in the carnage. Cromwell
rode slowly and triumphantly up the principal street,
unmoved by the yells and screams, and the rivers of
blood and mangled carcasses, that met his ears and
eyes. As be advanced he came to an isolated group
of dead. There lay an old man weltering in his
blood, and the corpses of several young men heaped
around him. A girl, respectably dressed, and appa-
rently about seventeen years of age, hung over the
bleeding bodies, wringing her hands in an agony too
deep for words or tears. But she started up at the
near tramp of the war-horse ; and, snatching with a
frantic grasp at the bridle, she stopped the animal,
and glared upon his rider. Her hair was flung back
from her forehead, and fell dishevelled on her shoul-
ders ; her brow and hands were stained with blood,
her eyes were wild, and her cheeks deadly pale. She
presented such a ghastly appearance, that even Crom-
well's iron heart quailed for a moment. 'ln the
name. of God,' she addressed him, in a yoke hoarse
from emotion,—' In the name of God, have you not
had blood enough ? Look ! there lie my father, my
brothers, my betrothed hushand,—all that belonged
to me ; Does not this satisfy you ? Have you not
had blood enough ? How will you answer to a mer-
ciful Creator for what you have already shed ?' Crom-
well uttered not a word, but disengaged his bridle
from her grasp, and rode on. Yet the appearance
and the words of Kate Kearney had awed him, and
he gave immediate orders to stop the carnage : a rem-
nant was saved, a miserable remnant indeed • but
Wexford was happier in this respect than Tredah,
from which but one solitary individual escaped with
life from the swords of Cromwell's fanatical soldiers.
Kate Kearney survived the siege of Wexford, and the
slaughter of all near and dear to her, for upwards of
a century."

TAIT'S MAGAZINE.
The indefatigable Mrs. Gore—who fortunately
for us is as amusing as she is industrious, and
who almost rivals the renowned Princess Sae-

hezerade in the number of her tales—contributes
another work of fiction to the pages of Tait,
under the title of " Blanks and Prizes, or the
Wheel of Fortune." As a chapter or two only
of this'story are yet before us, we cannot under-
take to.pronounce a decided opinion on it; but
we may-state that it opens well; that the mealy-
mouthed country physician, Dr. Toddles, looks
very like a portrait from life; and that the dry,
stingy old maid, Mks Lavinia Meade' whose
quaint, obsolete furniture, "bequeathed by her
grandmother, was rubbed and scrubbed and bur-

Dished till it acquired a sort of ironical freshness,
like the youthful airs of an old beau," is
sketched in that spirit of" merry malice" which
is so conspicuous a feature in the majority of
Mrs. Gore's fictions. In the slight and hasty
notice of "Lord Jeffrey's Contributions to the
Edinburgh Review" his Lordship is taken to task
for his well-known criticism on the Lake poets,
which, observes the writer, "augur something
like limited imagination or a narrow range of
poetical •emotion.' This is by no means a legiti-
mate inference from the circumstance of the
critic's inability to digcover the profound genius
of Peter Bell; or the fancy and sensibility of the
Laureate. Odes. On.the contrary, we think it a
proof of his refined taste and discrimination.
Lord Jeffrey was unquestionably—we say was,
because we believe he has long ceased to write
—the most intelligent critic of his day, endowed
with less sensibility perhaps, than Hazlitt, but
far sounder in his judgments, because less liable
to be biassed by his prejudices, and possessed of
a far more extensive range of information. We
owe to his pen the subtlest analyses that have
ever been given of the poetical powers of Byron,
Crabbe, .and Moore; and his account of Swift
and his writings, coloured us it May be here and
there by an evident dislike of the man, is full
informed- with weighty truth. The "National
Anti-Corn-law League " is a poem very much in

,e manner of Ebenezer Elliott, when in one of

his ultra-truculent moods. In the " Reminis-
cences of Dublin College Life,' we find some de-
tails respecting the well-known Historical So-
ciety when in its decline, but we should have
preterred reading about y when it was in its full

Meridian vigour, and Plunkett and Bushe were
among its orators. The " Recollections of Sir
Walter Scott," are—if the truth must be told—
a little too twaddling this month. Here, how-
ever, is an amusing anecdote or two respecting
the poet's favourite dog Maida, of whom honour-
able mention is made in Lockhart's Life of liis
illustrious father-in-law :

"One morning, while at breakfast, a woman called,
complaining that Maids, Sir Walter's stag-hound, had
bit her child. And did not I give you some-
thing handsome to help to cover it ?' said Sir
Walter. You did so ; but lam told that if the
dog is not hanged, the bairn will go mad." I do
not think that the crime deserves death, as the child
is not yet dead ; but Maida shall be banished; and
if the child die, he shall suffer, which is the law of
the land ; and there is some more money.'
" Maida was an ill-natured tyke, and no favourite
with me. He once attacked MO. I met him in a
narrow path; and he stood in the middle, disputing
my passage. Having, by good luck, a measuring-
pole in my hand, about eight feet in length, I pre-
pared to make my passage good. If I had turned
my back, he would have been on me immediately.
I advanced, and with ray good ash pole hit him a
whack along the ribs, on which he gave a fearful
howl, and fled. So much for the courage of this
Highland brute. On telling it to his master, he
would not believe it. ' I will again defend myself in
your presence ; indeed, I will make believe to attack
you, and you shall see whether this Highland bear of
yours will be bold and faithful in defending his very
kind and over-partial master." I do not entertain
the smallest doubt of his courage and affection ; but it
may be as well not to put it to too severe a test.'
" One morning I heard a dog howling in distress.
On going to the place, I found Maids, who had been
hunting hares ; and on leaping a paling, was en-