The Sun.
London, England, 1837-06-01 00:00:00

BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.

If Dr. Maginu's " Shakspearc Papers" arc carried
on with the same spirit with which they have been
commenced, they will be among the shrewdest, certainly
the most ingenious, that have yet appeared on the
subject. The theme of the Doctor's present " Paper"
is the character of the " melancholy Jaques" which he
shows, and with considerable skill, has hitherto been
much misrepresented. There is no surer test of genius
than the ability to throw freshness and novelty over a
backnied topic, and Maginn is entitled to this praise.
His Shakspeare criticisms are as fresh as if the writer
was breaking ground untrodden by Johnson, Hazlitt,
and a host of minor commentators ; and when brought
to a close will form as delightful a volume as one would
desire to read. "• Family Stories" is a humorous
poem, full of glib rhymes and quaint ideal. It is
worthy of the " Monster Balloon which appeared a
few months since in this periodical. The story is this.
A party of giddy, rakish young noblemen, having
nothing better to do, agree to make up a " party of
pleasure," to see a man hanged. A room accordingly
is hired in the Old Bailey, where they assemble

over-night, sup, get drunk, and—but we leave the
author to give the denouement in his own words :
The clock strikes Twelve—it is dark midnight—
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.
The parties are met ;
The tables are set ;
There is "punch," "cold without," " hot wit/i," "heavy wet,"
Ale -glasses and jugs,
And rummers and mugs,
And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs,
Cold fowl and cigars,
Pickled onions in jars,
Welsh rabbits, and kidneys—rare work for the jaws !
And very large lolisfors, with very large claws ;
And there is APFuzd,
And Lieutenant Tregooze,
An there Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues,
All came to tee a man die in his shoes !"
The clock strikes One ?
Supper is done,
And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun,
Singing " Jolly companions every one !"
My Lord Tomnoddy
Is drinking gin-toddy,
And laughing at Wry thing, and ev'ry body.
The clock strikes Two I—and the clock strikes Three !
—" Who ao merry, so merry as we ?"
Save Captain M' Fuze,
Who is taking a snooze,
While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work,
Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.
The clock strikes Four 1
Round the debtor's door
Are gather'd a couple of thousand or more ;
As many await
At the press-yard gate,
Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight
The mob divides, and between their ranks
A waggon comes loaded with posts and with planks.
The clock strikes Fire !
The sheriffs arrive,
And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive ;
But Sir Carnaby Jenks
Blinks and winks,
A candle burns down in the socket, and stinks.
Lieutenant Tregooze
Is dreaming of Jews,
And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse ;
My Lord Tomnoddy
Has drunk all his toddy,
And just as the dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.
Sweetly, oh ! sweetly, the morning breaks,
ith roseate streaks,
Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks ;
Seem'd as that mild and clear blue sky
smil'd upon all things far and nigh,
All—Save the wretch condeno'd to die
Alack ! that ever so fair a Sun
As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such scene of misery 1
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning Gallows tree 1
And hark !—a sound comes big with fate,
The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes—Eight !
List to that low funereal bell :
It is tolling, alas ! a living man's knell 1
And see !—from forth that opening door
They come—Ha steps that threshold o'er
Who never shall tread upon threshold more
—God ! 'Lis a fearsome thing to sec
That pale wan man's mute agony,
The glare of that wild despairing eye,
Now bent on the crowd, now turn'd to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the Spirit's unknown career ;
Those pinion'd arms, those hands that never
Shall be lifted again,—not ev'n in prayer ;
That heaving chest !—Enough—'tis done !
The bolt has fallen !—The Spirit is gone—
For weal or for woe is known to but One !
Oh 1 'twas a fearful sight Alt me !
A deed to shudder at,—not to see.
Again that clock !—'tis time, 'tis time 1
The hour is past :—with its earliest chimo
The cord is sever'd, the lifeless clay
By " dungeon villains" is borne away :
Nine I—)twas the last concluding stroke !
And then—my Lord Tomnoddy awoke
And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,
And Captain M`Fuze, with the black on his nose ;
And they stared at each other, as much as to say
" Hollo ! Hello !
Here's a Rum Go 1
Why, Captain !—my Lord I—Here's the Devil to pay
The fellow's been cut down and taken away !
What's to be done ?
We've missed all the fun
Why, they'll laugh at, and quiz us all over the town,
We are all of us done so uncommonly brown !"
What was to be done ?—'twas perfectly plain
That they could not well hang the man over again :
What was to be done ?—The man was dead!—
Nought could be done—nought could be said ;
So—my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed !

The dancing buoyancy of these rhymes, which go
golloping on like the Wild Huntsman, is their least
recommendation. The description of the dying wretch
is replete with easy, unaffected strength, and would do
no discredit to the pen of Coleridge. The writer is
not a mere humourist ; he is something far better—he
is a man of original genius. The " Minister's Fate"
gives an animated account, by one who must have
been an eye-witness of the scene, of the last moments
of Mr. Spencer Perceval. " Nights at Sea" reminds
us occasionally of the rude vigour of the descriptions
in " Tom Cringle's Log." Old Blowhard is a racy
specimen of a boatswain of the Tom Pikes school.
" Glorvina, the Maid of Perth," is a pleasing tale
from the pen of Sheridan Knowles.

FRASER'S MAGAZINE.
Rcgina wears an unusually grave appearance this
month. We never saw her look so out of temper.
Twenty pages, at least, are devoted to the scull-lions
abuse'of one of the least blameworthy institutions in
the United Kingdom—the Catholic College of May-
nooth. The perusal of half a page convinced us that
the author of this diatribe never set his foot within
the corridors of the establishment which he has so
shamefully traduced. The exclusive system of education
adopted at Maynooth is justly censured ; but still
due allowance should be made for the fact, that
Maynooth is not a University where candidates for
any of the learned professions may graduate, but
a college—a foundation exclusively devoted to the
training up of aspirants for the dignity of the
priesthood. Were this fact borne constantly in mind,
it would have the effect of neutraliiing the absurd cla-
mours of persons who, under the plea
_of extending a
greater degree of freedom to youth, seek to introduce
into the quiet halls of Maynooth the irregularities that
so often disgrace the Dublin, the Oxford, and the
Cambridge Universities. This long tirade against
Maynooth is followed by a disquisition, to the full ex-
tent of twenty pages, on the Kantian philosophy—a
subject which has lost most of its attractions by losing,
all its novelty. The " Revolutionary Parallels" be-
tween the past and present state of Ireland display
some ingenuity, with a great deal of the worst leaven
of unmitigated Toryism. The Whigs, however, might
confidently anticipate holding office for ever, had they
np enemies to contend against more to be dreaded than
this political cinder-sifter of a past age. The best
articles in the Number are the " Whiteboy" and the
" Mysteerous Bachelor." Sir Egerton Brydges has
contributed three Sonnets, and our old and familiar
acquaintance, Sir Morgan O'Doherty, two, to the
Miscellaneous of Regina's very best performances.

THE MONTHLY.
Sherwood and Co.

The caterers for.: the " Old Monthly," employ them-
selves most praite-worthily in their vocation. The last
Number contained many good things ; the present
contains,. still more. The articles are all of a proper
lengtfr; -and what they want in force and the appear-
ance oT.:originality, they supply in piquancy and va-
riety. " The Meeting of Creditors" is a capital
sketch of mercantile life in London. The conclu-
sio of the Review of the present state of light
literature in France is worthy of the commencement, of
which it will be remembered, we spoke in terms of
high praise. The " History of the Travels of the
Dobson family" it rather a common-place account of
some few very common-place occurrences. The
writer displays little fancy, less feeling, and no ac-
quaintance whatever with the art of pourtraying the
marked peculiarities of individual character. The
" Baron Court of Little Brought-In" pleases us
better this month than it did the last. The
book notices arc very numerous, and very well
written. Some of them are by far too favourable—as,
for instance, the notice of that ridiculously-tragic abor-
tion, " Bertrand ;" but an error on the lenient side will
' be readily forgiven by all who. can feel for the annoy-
ances to which young authors inevitably subject them-
selves.