The Sun.
London, England, 1829-07-30 00:00:00

KNUTSFORD RACES.

TUESDAY, JULY 28.—The Produce Stakes of 50 sows.
each, h. ft. for 3-yr-olds. Two miles.
Mr. Clifton's Butterfly, by Whisker, walked over
A Piece of Plate, value 100 sovs. by subscription of 10
each, with 50 added, for all ages. Three miles.
Mr. Mytton's Halston, by Banker, 4 yrs ... .......... ..... 1
Lord Grosvenor's Pelion, by Blacklock, 4 yrs 2
Mr. Giftkrd's Sampson, by Ambo, 5 yrs 3
Fifteen paid.
Sweepstakes of 50 sovs. each, h. ft. for 3-yr-olds. Mile
and a distance.
Mr. Yates's Cicely, sister to Cain . 1
Lord Grosvenor's Fag, by Master Henry 2
Sir W. Wynne's Sir Walter, br. to Stapeley 3
Lord Derby's Grimbald, br. to Urganda
Sweepstakes of 50 sovs. each, for 3-yr.olds. Peover Course.
Mr. Yates's Cicely, sister to Cain
Sir W. Wynne's Sally Nags, by Woful 2
Lord Derby's ch. c. by Magistrate 3
A Maiden Plate of 50 sovs. for all ages. The Peover
Course, once round and a distance.
Sir T. Stanley's Herbert Lacy, 4 yrs
Mr. Giff'ard's Tatler, 5 vrs 1 2. 2
Mr. Randall's Magoro, 5 yrs 0 0 3
Sir T. Mostyn's Ultimatum, 4 yrs 2 0 dr

The CHAIRMAN of the Commissioners of the
Board of Excise, and the CHAIRMAN of the Commissioners
of the Board of Stamps, had interviews with the CHAN-
cELLoR of the EXCHEQUER yesterday at the Treasury.

LITERATURE.

HALL'S SKETCHES OF IRISH CHARACTER.

2 VOLS..---LONDON, 1829.

The Irish character, like the Scotch, has of
late years bee❑ the subject of much amusing
speculation. More than one novelist of emi-
nence has directed his attenlion to its pecu-
liarities, and brought out their lights and shades
in a very superior style of excellence. To say
nothing of Miss Edgworth and Lady Morgan,
with whose delightful fictions all our readers are,
or ought to be acquainted, we may just venture '
on a passing allusion to Messrs. Crowe and
Banim ; the former, the author of those deserving
novels, " To-day," and " Yesterday in Ireland ;"
the latter, of the equally meritorious " Tales of
the O'Hara Family." Mr. Crowe is a gentle-
man who has seen and studied the materiel of
Irish character, with the discriminating eye of a
man of the world, and a philosopher. He has
little range of invention, still less power of ro-
mance ; he deals neither in the marvellous, the
sentimental, nor the exaggerated ; but paints his
scenes, his characters, and his incidents, as he
himself has met with them in real life. He wields
no enchanted pencil ; I)avus est non ./Edgms ;
his heroes and heroines are creatures of flesh and
blood like ourselves, impelled by the same feel-
ings, excited by the same passions. But, though
a matter-of-fact observer, with a sort of pu-
ritanic contempt for the decorations of style
and sentiment, Mr. Crowe possesses in-
finite power and energy. He is, in fact,
the most masculine novelist of his day.
—His pictures of real life, as it may
be supposed to exist in the more troublous and
uncivilised districts of Ireland, are drawn with
terrible fidelity. In every page we trace the
hand of a master. His Carders—his Peep-o'-
day Boys—his Excisemen—his low, cunning,
crawling, vulgar Protestant attornies—his rude
but high-minded old Milesian chieftains, all are
exhibited with a force—a manliness—a stern un- •

compromising veracity, that scarce another writer
of the day can be found to equal. In addition
to this, Mr. Crowe displays threughout his
works a depth of thought—a range of reflection,
drawn, like his characters, from his own personal
experience, not second-hand from books, which
prove, despite the prevalent opinions to the con-
trary, that au author may severely discipline his
judgment and be a devout admirer of Locke, at
the same time that he cultivates with success the
rich, productive, and, according to Burke, the
inexhaustible fields of fiction.

Mr. Banjul is a writer of far different capacity.
lie too has power, but it is of a gloomy, ro-
mantic, exaggerated character. He is seldom at
home but in the wildest regions of romance.
He has a warp, like Byron, in his genius.
The most homely familiar incidents touch-
ed by his magic pencil, assume an air of
almost superhuman grandeur and mystery. He
is the Salvator Rosa of Irish romance ; and in
details of murder beats even a Sunday news-
paper. Making allowance for this strange pro-
pensity to exaggeration, we know few writers of
more sterling merit than Mr. Banim. By sheer
dint of feeling, he carries his reader with him
wherever he pleases—whether to the lone lake
by the hill side—the wild secluded mountain
pass—the grey ruin, tenanted only by rebels,
outcasts, and murderers—or to the more peace-
ful and civilized abode of beauty, love, and inno-
cence. But—and sorry we are to be compelled
to thrust in such an ungracious, neutralizing
monosyllable—he wants judgment. His inci-
dents are hurried one over the other, without a
why or a wherefore ; his characters are inco-
herent and improbable ; and he unravels his
plots with a precipitancy and confusion, unparal-
leled, we believe, i❑ the annals of any literature.
Where, then, it may be asked, lies the secret of
Mr. Banim's popularity ? The answer may be
given in a sentence. It lies in his intense over-
whelming passion ; in his extraordinary earnest-
ness ; and, above all, in his firm undoubted con-
viction of the reality of whatever scene, incident,
or character, he may be describing.

Mrs. Hall, the authoress of the volumes be-
fore us, differs,as might be expected, from either
of her cotemporaries. She is a professed though
not a servile copyist of Miss Al itford, with an
equal freshness of description, an equally amus-
ing knowledge of rustic character, but a far infe-
rior play of humour. Her Irish sketches are
manifestly drawn from life, and possess the rare
merit of homeliness without vulgarity, and of in-
terest without exaggeration. Her Peggy the
Fisher, is an able, and what is better still, an
original character, conceived and executed with
much ease and vivacity. Our favourite, however,
is decidedly the Bannow Postman, a personage
of much bustle and dignity, who realizes in his
own person the doctrine of perpetual motion.
We give the following extract, descriptive of the
heads of a family at whose house this itinerant
Mercury calls with letters ; it is full of spirit
and nature :

" John's next resting place was at an old weather
beaten, but spacious mansion, somewhat out of the Ban-
now district, and close on the beach. It belonged to a
gentleman whose health obliged him to reside for a time
on the continent, but who had lent his house to his rela-
tive, Sir James Horatio Banks, M.P., for the summer; as
the sea bathing is very good all along the Wexford coast ;
consequently Sir James Horatio, his lady, and all his little
ones and servants, were fortunately only birds of passage—
I beg this fact may be clearly understood. Sir James
Horatio Banks, M.P. was a great man in his own way,
and a strange way it was. Any thing but a spendthrift
in the usual acceptation of the word, and yet in perpetual
embarrassments; for he was always at law. Never, to do
him justice, missed an opportunity of litigation, whether
for a thousand pounds or a thousand pence—an estate or
an acre. Long Chancery suits were his delight, and he
Anticipated term with absolute rapture. Most people
"eomplain of the law's delays. Not so Sir James Horatio
Banks. He was always anxious to retard its decisions; so
much so, that lie was once designated, in open Court,
a filthy pebble in the wheel of justice.' He stood a
contested election, or rather Lady Banks got him into it,
and carried him through ; for she even made speeches on
the hustings; but the many thousands expended on that
memorable occasion would have broken his heart to a cer-
tainty, if fortunately three fresh law suits had not arisen
to console him. It was some comfort to the Irish to dis-
cover that his mother had been a native of Wales; for he
was very mean in his household expences ; which, they
asserted, could not have been the case, had he been 'reale
Irish.' In truth he had a miserly aspect, a thin spare body
covered with a parchment-like skin, a rattish expression
of countenance/ and little peering grey eyes, that seemed
eternally seeking for flaws in every thing.
He used to
ride a bony black horse, and always wore over-grown jack

boots, a thread-hare long coat, a flapped hat, that some-
times anmvered the purpose of an umbrella ; and invari-
ably fwened-a pair of horse pistols to the pummel of his
saddle, One of our Bannow poets made the following
hynios on, the W.,:tthy r,f,,no,er, and contrived, in a
crowd, to tie them to the tail of his horse. How he
mourned that he could never d:icove; the author—

" The Divil Sir Jimmy to Patlianip:it
To plaze his mater, Sir Jimmy he wint;
On his old black horse, that looked like a hack.

Success ! cried the boys ; may ye niver come back."
" Indeed, the peculiarities of the family afforded much
amusement to the neighbourhood where they resided, for
a time. Lady Banks was the very opposite of her hus-
band, possessed, as a brother sportsman once said of her,
'blood, bone, and beauty;' wore a scarlet riding habit;
hunted in grand style, awl was always in at the death ;
sung songs after supper, and loved claret; never scrupled
at an oath; called Sir James her little man,' and al-
ways saw the horses fed ; obliged her girls to stand fire,
sad her boys to go barefoot to make them hardy ; and ob-
tained for herself amongst the country people the universal
soubriquet of ' Man Jack.' Perhaps all these eccentrici-
ties might have been forgiven had she possessed the
kindly feelings of her sex, for she was young and hand-
some ; but she was neither an affectionate mother nor a
sincere friend ; she loved to dad' and to astonish, and left
a family of beautiful children to the management of a
French lady's maid and the head groom."

Our very contracted limits prevent us from
enlarging further on the subject of these amusing
" Sketches," but we feel that we should be do-
ing justice neither to the fair authoress, nor to
ourselves, were we to conclude without recom-
mending them strongly to the attention of our
readers, as works from which they cannot fail to
derive amusement.

GABRIELLE, a TALE of the SWISS MOUNTAINS.

LONDON, 1E129.

Mr. Redding has here. presented the public
with a very sweet volume.of -poetry, full of high,
spirited, and natural thoughts and images, ex-
pressed in a simple and natural manner. The
first and largest poem in the collection, " Ga-
brielle,"is an attempt to give a sort of metaphysical
analysis of madness. The incidents of the tale
are few, and soon told. Gabrielle, a beautiful
young Swiss girl, is betrothed to a neighbouring
peasant, but unfortunately a short time previous
to the nuptials, as she is journeying towards her
lover's cottage, she is surprised by the sudden
descent of an avalanche, beneath which, she learns
but too soon, her intended husband and the
other inmates of his dwelling have been crushed to
atoms. The shock of this intelligence is too
much for her ; reason sinks beneath the blow,
and memory deserts her for ever. It is this
period of Gabrielle's life that our author has
laboured with most effect. He has traced the
ebbings and flowings of the poor maniac's mind;
he has anatomized her feelings, and detailed her
minutest thoughts, looks, and actions, with a
searching power that proves he must be well
skilled in that strangest and most unaccountable
of all mysteries—the female heart. Mixed up
with this, he has here and there introduced de-
scriptive sketches of Alpine scenery, which are
characterised as much by boldness and poetic
fire, as by strict adherence to nature. Of the
minor poems, let it suffice to observe, that they
do credit to Mr. Redding's taste and judgment.
One, indeed, a translation from Korner, is so
animated—imbued with so heroic a spirit—that
we cannot deny ourselves the satisfaction of ex-
tracting it entire. It is entitled " The Sword
Song," and is one of the best translations of
modern times. Who, however, could fail to
catch fire from such an inspiring, daring, and
unequalled a conception as the original presents?
" Thou sword upon my belted vest,
Why glitters thus thy pol:sh'd crest,
Kindling high ardors in my breast,
From thy bright beams ?—Hurrah !"
" A horseman brave supports my blade,
Proud for a freeman to be made—
For him I shine, for him I wade
Through blood and death.—Hurrah !"
" Yes, my good sword, behold me free,
In fond affection bound to thee,
As though thou wert betroth'd to me,
A first dear bride.--Hurrah !"
" Soldier of Freedom, I am thine !
For thke alone any beams shall shine—
When, soldier, shall I call thee mine
Join'd in the field ?—Hurrab !"
" When the shrill trumpet's summons flies,
When red guns flash upon the skies,
Then will our bridal sun arise,
And join our hands.—Hurrah !"
" 0 welcome union ! haste away,
Ye tardy moments of delay;
I long, my bridegroom, for the day
To wear thy wreath.—Hurrah !"
" Why restless in thy scabbard, why,
Thou iron child of destiny ?
So wild, as if the battle-cry
Thou heardest now.—.Hurrah !"
" Impatient in my dread reserve,
Restless in battle-fields to serve,
I burn our freedom to preserve
Thus with bright gleams.—Hurrah !"
" Rest, but a little longer rest,
In a short space thou shalt be blest,
Within my ardent grasp comprest
Ready for fight.—Hurrah !"
" Then let me not too long await—
I love the gory field of fate,
Where Death's rich roses blow elate
In bloody bloom.—Hurrah!"
" Then out, and from thy bondage fly,
Thou treasure of the freeman's eye I
Come to the scene of slaughter, hie,
Our nuptial home.—Hurrah !
" Thus be our glorious marriage tie
Wedded beneath heaven's canopy,
Bright as a sunbeam of the sky
Glitters my bride.—Hurrah !
" Then, forth for the immortal strife,
Thou German soldier's new-made wife !
Glows not each heart with tenfold life
Embracing thee ?—Hurrah !
" While in thy scabbard at my side,
I seldom gazed on thee, my bride—
Our hands now join'd, we'll ne'er divide,
Ever in sight.—Hurrah !
" Thee sparkling to my lips I press,
And thus my ardent vows profess—
() cursed be he beyond redress
Who parts us now !—Hurrah !
" Come joy into thy polish'd eyes,
Let thy bright glances flashing rise—
Our marriage day dawns in the skies,
My Bride of Steel.—Hurrah !"

A belief, founded upon satisfactory evidence,
is entertained by the silk- manufacturers of SpitalSelds,
that there is scarcely an instance in which their work was
cut, where the workmen were not directly or indirectly
accomplices, or might not, by due vigour, have prevented
the mischief. In order, therefore, to givn the workmen a
motive in future to act with more energy for the protec•
tion of the property committed to their care, and to check
future outrages of the kind, the manufacturers have put
in operation a measure which will, no doubt, produce a
salutary effect. A list of the names of all those workmen
whose work was cut, is made up and circulated amongst
the manufacturers in town as well as the country. When
workmen apply to a manufacturer for work, the list is
resorted to, and those whose names arc upon it are the last
engaged. In several instances the workmen have found it
expedient to make good the damage which the work re-
ceived whilst in their care, and in those cases they are re-
stored to their former standing.—Times.