The Sun.
London, England, 1842-06-03 00:00:00

DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.

The subject of this month's " Portrait Gallery" is
Mr. John Wilson Croker, of whose literary and po-
litical abilities the biographer speaks in terms of the
most preposterous flattery. We are yet to learn
what wonders in the way of literature the. Right
Hon. Gentleman has achieved ; his edition of Bos-
well's Johnson is certainly a careful, intelligent, and
entertaining work; but as for his Talaveras, and his
Trafalgars, these poems are long since forgotten, and
deservedly so, for there is scarcely a glimmering of
fancy or feeling to be found in them. As a poli-
tician, he has evinced no more sagacity than that
which is the almost inevitable result of long practice
and experience ; as an orator, he never ranked above
the second-rates in Parliament; and irt-his capacity
of Reviewer has exhibited tact and sarcasm, but no
powers of a higher character. The portrait of Mr.
Croker, which accompanies the memoir, is a tolerably
faithful likenesS, but somewhat too juvenile, for the
ex-Secretary to the Admiralty is no chicken, in point
of years. The editor's tale of ‘.‘ Jack Hinton, the
Guardsman," is not equal to his " Charles O'Malley,"
but there are some animated passages in it, and the
description of the steeple-chase is quite on a par with
the best of Nimrod's sporting sketches in the " Quar-
terly Review." The " Water-Cure" is a happy expo-
sure of this humbug, which, as is generally the case,
has made the fortune of its originator. Under the
quaint title of " Stray Leaflets from the German
Oak," we find one or two elegant translations from
the German. We quote a fanciful poetic version
from the original of Wilhelm Mueller :
Hark l the faint bells of the Sunken City
Peal once more their wonted evening-chime:
From the Deep's abysses float a ditty,
Wild and wondrous of the olden time.
Temples, towers, and domes of many stories
There lie buried in an ocean-grave,
Undescried, save when their golden glories.
Gleam, at sunset, through the lighted wave.
And the mariner who hath seen them glisten,
In whose ear those magic bells do sound,
Night by night bides there to watch and listen,
Though Death lurks behind each dark rock round.
So the bells of Memory's Wonder-city
Peal for me their old melodious chime:
So my heart pours forth a changeful ditty,
Sad and pleasant from the by-gone time.
Domes, and towers, and castles, fancy-builded,
There lie lost to Daylight's garish beams,
There lie hidden, till unveiled and gilded,
Glory-gilded, by my nightly dreams I

ALEXANDER'S EAST INDIA MAGAZINE.

In an article on the subject of Affghanistan policy,
the writer sensibly remarks that " retribution must
not be the intent of our arms ; rather conciliation,
security for the future, and forgiveness of the past.
It will he well for the British Government if it can
find a diplomatist who will carry out such intention.
The people and their happiness must be his chief, his
paramount object." The writer then makes a passing
allusion to William the Conqueror's invasion of this
country, observing " when William invaded England,
knowledge, social habits, true religion were imparted."
This is any thing but in accordance with historical
fact, for in the train of the Conqueror came, not
" knowledge," but barbarous ignorance and brutality ;
not " social habits," but discord, hatred, and haughty
Norman exclusiveness and tyranny ; not " true re-
ligion," but mingled bigotry and infidelity, of the
most ferocious, uncompromising character. The re-
maining articles in the Number call for no particular
comments. They are all on mxtters connected with
the East.