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

FRASER'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 preecdence 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 Parlia-
ment, and telling us what was passing in her
mind at the time—how she reflected with
delight that she had 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 Sovereign should do ;—after
assuring us that such were 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 ! If a
gentleman must write nonsense, let bins at
least forbear from making Majesty ,the theme of
his twaddle. The Luck of Barry Lyndon" is a
paper 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 brief
memoir of " Kate Kearney," the following an-
ecdote, which originated the well-known Irish
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 Stafford, 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 he 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 pheeks deadly pale. She
presented such a ghastly appearance, that even CroM,
well's iron heart quailed for a moment. In the
name of God,' she addressed him, in a voice hoarse
from emotion,—' In the name of God, have you not
had blood enough ? Look I there lie ray father, my
brothers, my betrothed husband,—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 r Crom-
well uttered not a word, but disengaged his bridle

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from her grasp, and rode on. Ti.t the appearance
and the words of Kate Kearney had awed bitn, and
he gave immediate orders to stop the carna;a! : a rem-
nant was saved, a miserable remnant indeed ; but
Wexford was happier in this revect than Tredah,
from which but one solitary, individual c•capc,(l.‘l,ltll
life from the swords of Cromwt-..11's fana:ieal sQldiers
Kate Kearney survived the siege of IVex:'ord, and the
slaughter of all near and dear to her, fur up.vards of
a century."