The Sun.
London, England, 1844-10-01 00:00:00

TAlrs MAGAZINE.

In his monthly political article Tait, as might be
expected, rejoices in the liberation of O'Connell,
which he calls the " reversal of a series of injustices,"
and adds, " never surely was a Government so dis-
graced I They have done the thing at last which they
were eternally twitting wiser and warier men with
not doing—measured their strength
and they have got a most tre-
cwoiwthartdhicee
Afogritator ;
tre-
mendous fall. They have been exulting for many a
month past with rude unmannerly insolence over
convicted conspirators ; and it turns out that they
are the convicts, false imprisonment the crime. They
have taken all sorts of knavish advantages, and they
have taken nothing by them but defeat and scorn,"
This is strong language, but we are not at all pre- ;
pared to say that it is stronger than the circum-
stances of the case warrant. Ministers have played
an unfair game as regards the Irish State Prosecu-
tions, and it is but fit that they should pay the pe-
nalty of their unscrupulousness. " Our Hearth and
Homestead" is the continuation of a domestic tale by
Mr. Mills, The descriptive portions are full of fresh-
ness and vivacity; and the character of Mike, a good-
hearted but somewhat scampish fellow, half labourer,
half poacher, whose notions of meum and tuum are
n c pof
exceedingly vague and indefinite, bears every appeal-
a having
been
drawn direct from the life, The
" Carpenter and the Capuchin Monk" is a wild legend,
translated from the Swedish of Nicander. There is
much truth, vividly expressed, in the parallel between
and we agree with the critic
;,i) Buattrhnes and
formerßon ;"
'syrthollghtless follies have been too often
harped upon. Hundreds, we might add thousands, of
men infinitely worse than ever poor Burns was, and
without a tithe of his redeeming qualities, have
h life esteemed and loved, and been lin.
with an epitaph commemorating
npasseouredd tahfrtoeur gdea
th
their rirtueF, merelj because they possessed more
worldly wisdom and hypocrisy than fell to the share
of the lofty-minded peasant bard. We subjoin a por-
tion of the parallel, previously observing that the critic
presses rather too severely on Jord Byron
" There is little Of the effeminacy of poetry about
Burns ; and, much as has been said about it, there is
little licentiousness, properly so called. It is true he is
often coarse, indelicate, unscrupulous in his phrases ; but
he is so, purely for the sake of the humour or the satire
—not for the sake of indelicacy.. There is no .gloating
over vice as in Juvenal—no painting of it for its own
sake. Holy Willie's Prayer' and The Jolly Beg-
gars' may be too strong for refined tastes bat the one

is a richly-deserved castigation of a class too numerous
in this country, and the other is life, real life, though it
be the dregs of it. But his highest efforts are his purest,
and they show the natural bent of his mind, which was
virtuous and honourable. The Cotter's Saturday
Night' is a picture of piety, benevolence, love, affection,
and contentment, which, we believe, could only come
from a pious and benevolent mind. No radically vicious
man could have so ardently delighted in the description.
It came fresh from an honest unsophisticated heart. His
thoughtless follies' have been rather too often harped
upon. With his festive soul—his adoring companions—
it is wonderful they were so few. But he has himself
immortalized them by his touching confession. There
was at least no hypocrisy in his character. He would
have pleaded guilty at once at any bar of morality. He
would have given judge and counsel no trouble in search-
ing for evidence. They and the world were welcome
both to the full knowledge of his sins, and his manly
repentance of them. His works have toned and improved
the feelings of his class.
" Byron's weakness was, to be thought strong. This
desire shines through the most of his poetry. He wished
to appear above prejudices, sad opinions, and rules. He
was too high to be guided by them. He despised the
vulgar elements of human composition, and looked upon
himself as ' half dirt, half deity.' Byron was a weak
man, and the weakness of his nature was the strength of
his poetry. His works were the diction of his passions.
He was their intellectual bondsman. It was his slavery
to their mandates—his entire devotion to their gratifica-
tion—his intimacy with their operations—his intense
concentrated experience in their indulgence and contem-
plation—his long obedience to their slightest impulse—
that enabled him to paint and shadow, and compare and
contrast them so vividly. He was a poetical gladiator,
exhibiting for fame and gold the nakedness of a mind
diseased.' His feelings were passions, and his passions
crimes. Under their command the voyage of his life
was made with a false compass, and a false chart. He
read history and used it, not for healthful instruction in
the ways of man—not for great, or correct, or useful
views of legislation—not for philosophical analysis—not
for the sake of tracing to its source any art, or any sci-
ence, or any profession : he read it to illustrate his pas-
sions—his own passions—pride, revenge, love, fear. ha-
tred, jealousy. Often he lauds highly and enthusiasti-
cally, the wise, the brave, the virtuous, the patriot, of a
past era ; but it is to gratify his scorn of the fool, the
coward, the libertine, the traitor, of a later time. He
draws an angel of light ; but it is to contrast the angel
with a demon. He looks into the grave of a father for a
scourge wherewith to lash the son. He raises the dead,
to mock the living."