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They succeed to their office according which we think them to be wrong, to a fixed rule, retain it on conditions passing. hastily by the very great maprescribed by law, and receive through jority, in which they are undoubtedly their own officer an income with which right, it is because we believe that the no other person has anything to do. welfare of the Established Church, and This independent position, the Com. the general interests of education, missioners, as we have seen, propose to will be deeply affected by all that condestroy, by placing three-fourths of the cerns the Divinity school, the tutorial tutorial income at the disposal of the system, and the principles on which Board, to be paid by them to professors the University should be governed. elected by themselves, and, we pre- And there is another reason. The Uni. sume, removable at their discretion. versity Commissioners require no aid

Who can look for any free criticism from us. There is but little danger from a body so circumstanced ; and that the Government or the public will what Board, not absolutely composed under-estimate recommendations which of angels, would be likely to tolerate bear the stamp of such an authority. such criticism from their own depen- Much more is it to be dreaded that dents? Is there no reason to fear that their opinion should overbear the truth they will use the weapon which is thus where they are wrong, than fail to en. put into their hands, to terminate so force it where they are right. And, unpleasant a discipline—“ut si quis indeed, many of the recommendations memorem libertatis vocem aut in sena- belonging to the latter class are of such tu, aut in populo misisset, statim virgæ obvious utility, that they scarcely resecuresque etiam ad cetorum metum quire or admit of discussion. expedirentur.” This policy, on the part That many of these recommendaof the Commissioners, is no mere error tions will be carried into effect, we hope of detail or hasty experiment. It is and believe. But we have ventured to far worse ; it is a step in the wrong di- point out some, less perhaps in number rection.

than in importance, from which, with But we must bring these remarks to all respect for their illustrious authors, a close. If, in commenting upon the we should only expect detriment to the changes which the Commissioners are University, to the interests of educadesirous to introduce, we have dwelt at tion, and to the welfare of our common some length upon the few points in country.

If they be not so removable, the check over the indolent professor will be much less than the present check over the indolent tutor.

DUBLIN

UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.

No. CCXLVIII. AUGUST, 1853.

Vol. XLII.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

.

127

MIDSUMMER MELODIES. BY JONATHAN FREKE SLINGSBY. NOONTIDE ; A CHANT

NOONTIDE; A GLEB -- THE LEAK ON THE STREAY-YOUTH-EVENING-A SPIN.

NING-WHEEL SoxG-O LOVELY NIGHT
HEROES, ANCIENT AND MODERN.-No. v. BELISARIUS AND MARLBOROUGH
LORENZO BENONI ; OR, EVERY-DAY LIFE IN ITALY
THE HOP-GARDEN; OR, A KExtisu ACADEMUS

135

158

173

THE COUNTESS HAHN-HAHN

184

.

SIR JASPER CAREW, KNT. CHAPTER XXVIII.-AN EPISODE IN MY LIFE. Chap.

TER XXIX.-THE INN AT VALENCE. CHAPTER XXX. LINANGE"

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IRISH RIVERS.--No. IX. THE SUIR.-PART I,

208

THE CROWN AND THE DAGGER.-A TALE OF THE THIRD CRUSADE

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DUBLIN JAMES M'GLASHAN, 50 UPPER SACKVILLE-STREET.

WM. S. ORR AND CO., LONDON AND LIVERPOOL.

SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Editor of The Dublin UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE begs to notify that he will not undertake to return, or be accountable for, Any manuscripts forwarded to him for perusal.

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Carrigbawn, July 25, 1853. I HOPE, my dear Anthony, that, notwithstanding the avocations that chain you down to a town existence, you have, some time or other during your life, been able to break from your tether at such a season as this, and scamper away to the country. Not truer is the instinct, believe me, that leads the panting hind to the water-brooks, or the wild bee to the heathery knolls and the breezy bill-tops, than that which makes man's better nature long for the bright, beautiful, glorious, peaceful country, at such a season. Yes, this is the time to flee the city: for, as sang the “ iolly shephearde's swain” of Edmund Spencer, concerning this same month

"Now the sunne hath reared upp

His fierie-footed teme,
Making his way between the Cupp

And golden Diademe:
The rampant Lyon hunts he fast,

With dogges of noysome breath,
Whose balefull barking brings in hast,

Pyne, plagues, and dreerie death." When the blistering glare of a city, reflected from white, glowing flags, and plate-glass windows of mighty monster-shops, makes the eyes ache and the temples throb; when the heavy electrical atmosphere, thickened with the soot and carbon of many a chimney, chokes free respiration, weighing down the mind, and, as it were, clogging the heart; when the frame is hot, the energies languid — the intellect vapid, and the spirits dissipated - oh! how one then thirsts for a draught from out those springs which can alone refresh body and soul—the repose of some deep sylvan shade – the freshness of a solitary hillside - the coolness of the sea-beach, or the margin of some dark, dull river. How one then hungers after the pure, the true, the natural-in a word, for the country. And he, indeed, must be bound by a strong chain, or have but the pitiful and broken spirit of the long-time captive, who would not, at such a season, struggle hard for his liberty.

Well, if it be that you have never yet so freed yourself (that you have not struggled to do so I will never believe), you can, at least, form some estimate of the charms of which I speak. You have, doubtless, many a time and oft, hung long and lovingly a-gaze over those exquisite pictures, of Cuyp, and Claude Lorraine, and Poussin, which breathe, as it were, the very soul of rural loveliness. Happily you have now the opportunity of so doing, to an extent that you have never before enjoyed. You have but to enter the Fine Arts Hall at our Great Exhibition, and realise, at least to the sight, all that we who are in the country enjoy through every sense and every fibre. Go there now, in the hot noon, and, as it were, Aladdin-like, borne away by the ministrations of the

VOL. XLII.-O. CCXLVIII.

obedient Genie of the lamp, pass in a moment from the dry, dusty, glaring town t) the country. Heed not the statuary grouped before you, nor the gorgeous manufactures on your right; nor let the sound of loom, or shuttle, or the more distant whirring of multiplex machine-labour seduce you from your path, nor tarry to gaze at the beautiful offerings which near you, on the left, Germany, and France, and Belgium spread out. Leave all these, beautiful and brilliant though they be ; leave them for the present, for they fell of art and of the city, and you look only for nature and the country; but pass on till you reach the halls dedicated to the finest exhibition of paintings that have ever been brought together in any city of our empire. Linger and loiter as long as you will through these courts, and you will feel, as you contemplate the works of modern painters, as well as those of the great masters of by-gone days, how the pencil of the limner can teach the eye to cheat the mind, and as it were transport you spiritually, nay, almost bodily, into the midst of those sylvan scenes which their genius reproduces. Look here upon those glowing skies, burning with the ruddy hues of morning, and the long line of sunlight streaming athwart the surface of the rippling water, as the summits of the tiny waves catch and break the yellow radiance, till you can faney the waves are bridged over with a causeway of light, or that the angel. trodden ladder of the patriarch's vision has fullen down from heaven, and is floating, with its golden rundles, upon the water. See the fresh life all aroundthe flocks straying over the sunlit plains—the steers and the horses moving beneath the wains filled with the fragrant hay or the yellow heads of the early harvest crop. Or, look at that most beautiful Cuyp where the light of early morning comes more cool and sober over the quiet scenery. Have you ever seen anything so true and life-like as that cow which the maid is milking, while the swain, her lover belike, stands beside her ?--and there, too, in the river, you see the cattle are standing, patient and contemplative, as they always are when left to themselves. There again is another picture by the same master. See with what a subdued warmth the light comes from the clouded sky, all across the expanse of water; and the cattle such cattle as that inimitable artist painted ! -reposing on the low pasture in the foreground. The shepherd lad is lying in luxurious enjoyment, with his dog beside him ; while upon the hill that rises steeply on the right, two lorsemen are plodding their early way to the distant city.

Or, if you will choose an evening scene, search out one of those where the woods fling their long shadows over the green fields, and the smoke steals gently upward, in a thin vapoury curl, from some snug homestead, whose roof is partially seen through the tree-tops; and in the foreground you see the matron with her children upon the green sward, and the sylvan husband, with his brown-browed farin-servant, releasing the draught-horses from their carts; and the sky is flushing with the rich hues of eventide, and crimson clouds float along the horizon. But you must not fail to see how Cuyp paints an evening also. Look at that landscape, where the foreground is occupied with the sluggish river, and the marslıy banks that scarce rise above it at either side. What serenity and repose is all around? The kine have browsed their fill through the long day, and now lie ruminating upon the pasture, save one that yet stands. The goat and sheep throng together, and the water-fowl plash and revel in the weedy grass, the maid comes to milk the cows, and the farin-servants are placing the last load of hay on the wain in the meadow.

But better still, if you will be indeed refreshed, go at noon,when the sun is the sultriest and the shade the smallest, and cool yourself with the contemplation of one of the pictures of summer noontide. Look upon those pictures of Turner and of Wilson, or that of Poussin-dark, deep, and umbrageous-with the light coming in from the back, and the trees rising thick and precipitous on each side, filling the mind with the sense of cool, still, solitary enjoyment which is enhanced by the two figures, suggesting that so enjoyable a scene is not unenjoyed. Or, faney yourself leaning drowsily over the battlement of yonder rude old bridge; look down upon the stream that runs, half in sunshine, half in the shadow of those dense-leaved birch, and willows, and beech, that hang over the water, and even drop their fringe-like branches into it. See that little cove-like spot, where the patch of white river-sand runs up upon the depressed margin, marking that there is hiere a shallow in the stream. ' This is a favourite spot for the cattle, and you

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