The Sun. — 1842-10-01 (London, England)

DUBLIN TIAVIVERSIT.Y,3I44GAZN _,. The military reminiscences "i• . "Jack the Guardsman," are here continued by Mr. Leer, with a liveliness and vigour that as yet cyanptoins of exexhibit not the slightest, * haustion. No writer of the day—with the exception; perhaps, of Mr: IVlaxwell—throws *X the light, dashing,- ad captundum military tale with so . much ease and readiness as this gentleman. His pen seems ever prepared for active service, and his high animal spirits carry him triumphantly through whatever task he takes in hand. Yet thou- •h social, buoyant, unaffected humour is his forte;: there is no want of earnestness and sensibility in; his writings, and occasionally, though not often, he strikes a deep chord of feeling. a In his present chapters, he narrates the particulars of the d isastrous retreat from Burgos with considerable pi ctures pie effect, and with a minuteness of det iil mat would almost lead us to infer that he was hitnself a sharer in the horrors he d escribes. "An Hour's Talk about Izaac Walton" chime s in with the popular opinion of th is o verrated writer, who, because he has penned' orte or two pas f sages studded with pleasing pastoral images,'Mr. Churten's Cinderella, 5 yrs drawn from his familiar acquaintance with the Four others meadows near the Goat and Boots at Tottenham, has set all the lovers of the rural raving about the " heavenly innocence," " simplicity," " unworldliness," &c., &c., of his " Angler's Guide." There is infinite cant in this admiration of a very ordinary writer; and we doubt much whether, of those who hold him in such reverence, one half have ever read his works, or•are at all aware how much quiet, worldly shrewdness he concealed under his meek, unsophisticated demeanour. " A Narrative of the Affghan War" is by the late Colonel Dennie, who fell in that murderous campaign, gallantly fighting at the head of his beleaguered regiment. The narrative is curious, as forming a correct index to the personal peculiarities of the writer, who, unconsciously, gives us an insight into his inmost nature, both as a man and a soldier. His description—which we subjoin—of the march to Caubul in 1839, will zive the reader a pretty correct idea of the herculean difficulties overcome by the British soldiers during that long and fatiguing expedition : At length, after a march of ten months, behold us safely arrived at this far-famedcapital of the Affghans. We moved from Kurnaul early in November; and this circuitous and dreadfully lengthened route has— thank God !—at last terminated. Man and beast are fairly worn out. We have traversed great part of the line of the Indus, upper and lower Scinde, scaled precipitous mountains, forced desperate and difficult passes, crossed boundless wastes, howling wildernesses, endured the most intense heat—the thermometer at 140 degrees in the sun—suffered equal varieties, and extremes of cold at night, had nou°ht to cool our burning tongues but brackish and filthy water, and that most scanty at best of times, and often not procurable at all. . . . Our losses in animals and property have been fearful ; no less than thirteen of my own camels have perished, or been carried off by. the different tribes of marauders through whose country we have passed ; and who, although they never ventured upon an open attack, yet hung upon our flanks, or plundered our baggage, and murdered our defenceless followers, or parties they found too weak to oppose them ; well armed, well mounted, and being inconsiderable numbers, they inflicted serious mischief on us ; harassed our weary infantry, • and laughed at our cavalry, whose horses were quite unable to follow them, or almost to drag through their daily march; in fact, the greater part are dismounted. We have now seen all of these horrid countries of Beloochistan, Scinde, &c., and more inhospitable soils and climates cannot be imagined, or more unfit for animal life. Incredible as it may seem, it is nevertheless true, that for days, weeks, and months we have travelled over as unbroken surface of sand ; at other times of rock or stone ; again of a long dreary line of a hundred miles of thorns and thistles ; not a town or village, not a bird or beast to relieve this dreadful solitude. Our route across these dreary plains will never be forgotten : they are skirted by chains of mountains—the residence of our friends the Cossacks I before alluded to ; and those bands of predatory cavalry bear the same name as with their kindred tribes among the Russians; indeed the name is common through the East, but whether Tartar, Persian, or Arabic, I have not learned. One thing we have satisfied ourselves of, viz.—that no