The Sun.
London, England, 1837-10-02 00:00:00

BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.

The gem of this Number is, beyond a question,
Dr. Maginn's analysis of the character of " Bottom
the Weaver." There is nothing in 14azlitt better, if
so good, as this disquisition. It is as ingenious in
conception as it is skilful in execution, and the Doc-
tor appends a moral to it which will come home to
the hearts of the great bulk of the community. We
really thought that Johnson, Hazlitt, Lamb, Morgan,
Wilson, Jameson, and a host of staler minores in the
shape of commentators, had exhausted all that was to
be said on the subject of the Shakespearian creations ; •
but we find we were mistaken, and accordingly we
come round to Burke's opinion—made in all the pride
of superior intellect—that " there is no subject but
what is inexhaustible." The following remarks, grow-
ing out of some shrewd speculations on the real cha-
racter of our friend with the ass's head, are replete •
with sterling sense, expressed in the most unaffected
manner :

" Self-conceit, as great and undisguised as that of poor
Bottom, is to be found in all classes and in all circles, and
is especially pardonable in what it is considered genteel or
learned to call " the histrionic profession." The triumphs
of the player are evanescent. In no other department of
intellect, real or simulated, does the applause bestowed
upon the living artist bear so melancholy a disproportion to
the repute awaiting him after the generation passes which
has witnessed his exertions. According to the poet himself,
the poor player
" Struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more,'
Shakspeare's own rank as a performer was not high, and
his reflections on the business of an actor are in general
splenetic and discontented. He might have said,—though
indeed it would not have fitted with the mood of mind of
the despairing tyrant into whose mouth the reflection is
put,—that the well-graced actor, who leaves the scene not
merely after strutting and fretting, but after exhibiting
power and genius to the utmost degree at which his art
can aim, amid the thundering applause,—or, what is a
deeper tribute, the breathless silence of excited and agi-
tated thousands,—is destined ere long to an oblivion as
undisturbed as that of his humbler fellow-artist, whose
prattle is without contradiction voted to be tedious. Kemble
is fading fast from our view. The gossip connected with
everything about Johnson keeps Garrick before us, but the
interest concerning him daily becomes less and less. Of
Betterton, Booth, Quin, we remember little more than the
names. The Lowins and Burbages of the days of Shak-
speare are known only to the dramatic antiquary, or the
poring commentator, anxious to preserve every scrap of in-
formation that may bear upon the elucidation of a text,
or aid towards the history of the author. With the sense
of this transitory fame before them, it is only natural that
players should grasp at as much as comes within their
reach while they have power of doing so. It would be a
curious speculation to inquire which personally has the
greater enjoyment,—the author, neglected in life, and
working for immortal renown, or the actor living among
huzzas, and consigned to forgetfulness the moment that
his hour is past. I suppose, on the usual principle of com-
pensation, each finds in himself springs of happiness and
self-comfort. The dim distance, in its shadowy and
limitless grandeur, fills with solemn musings the soul of the
on ; the gorgeous gilding of the sunny scenery in the fore-
ground kindles with rapturous joy the heart of the other.
Sheristone lays it down as a principle, that, if it were left
to our choice whether all persons should speak ill of us to
our faces, and with applause behind our backs, or, vice
terra, that the applause should be lavished upon ourselves,
and the ill-speaking kept for our absence, we should choose
the latter ; because, if we never head the evil report, we
should know nothing about our bad reputation, while, on
the contrary, the good opinion others entertained of us
would be of no avail if nothing reached our ears but words
of anger or reproach. Since, after all, it is from within
and not from without the sources of joy or sorrow bubble
up, it does not matter so very much as the sensitive Lord
of Leasowes imagines what the opinions of others concern-
ing us may be,—at least as compared with those which,
right or wrong, we form of ourselves. The question is of
no great practical importance ; and yet it would be some-
what curious to speculate in the manner of Hamlet, if wo
could do so, on the feelings of Kean and Wordsworth in
the zenith of the popularity of the former, when he was
worshipped as a demi-god by the unquestionable, or at least,
the scarce-questioned dispensers of daily renown ; while the
other by the recognized oracles of critical sagacity was set
down as a jackass more obtuse than that belaboured by his
own Peter Bell."
" Lady Blue's Ball" is a light, airy poem to which
a moral is attached, like a tail to a kite—we suppose
by way of balance. The author is Mrs. Cornwall
Barry Wilson, who has filled many volumes with
small, discreet poesy, but never produced any thing
half o good as her present jeux tresprit. The " Man
with the Club Foot" is too long. There are one or
two dainty bits in it, but these will not justify its pro-
lixity. A " Full Report of the Mudfog Association"
is a capital quiz on those lengthy notices of the pro-
ceedings of certain scientific societies with which one
of our weekly literary contemporaries has been cram-
ming its columns to a degree provocative of intensest
slumber. The catastrophe of the old maid's favourite
pug-doc,,, who has been killed, embowelled, and dis-
membered for the benefit of science, is irresistible, and
might split the sides of a hypochondriac. 13oz is, of
course, the writer
,of this caustic specimen of grave
irony. He has done few better things. " Beau
Nash" gives some curious anecdotes of a man much
talked of, but little known. The portrait prefixed to
the memoir is an engraving of a very superior order.
The " Secret" is a slight, animated sketch, translated
from the French of Paul de Kock. In the " Au•
tobiography of a Good Joke," a clever idea is marred
by the slovenliness of the execution. The " Poison-
ers of the Seventeenth Century" is an interesting do-
mestic historiette. The crimes of the Earl and
Countess of Somerset have however already been made
familiar to the public by Godwin, in his " Lives of
the Necromancers." The illustrations by George
Cruickshank are as clever as usual.

FRAZER'S MAGAZINE.
There is rather too much " learned lumber" in this
Number, such as the essays on that interminable sub-
ject $6 The Pyramids," and (much worse) on the
" Apocalyptic !lumber," for which none but a theo-
logian of the old 66 Dryasdu it" school, cares two
straws. " Melange from th one Journal of an
a ne Ecdotemploye of
"
is far better, and contains ex
Sheridan, which, albeit we have read it before, will

bear repetition :
" On one occasion, his antagonist on the Treasnry bench
had made a quotation from a Greek dramatist that quite
startled from its aptness. It was the end of a peroration,
too, and the house was on the point of dividing, when.
Sheridan started up, with apparent warmth, and tallith°
right honourable gentleman opposite with having unean-
did:7 stopped short in his quotation ; for that, if he had
continued it to the close, he must have announced a prin-
ciple and an illustration wholly subversive of tlio first, prQ
positon-4 pernicious hypothesis, merely put forward to be
demolished by the sequel. He Oleo delivered a number of
Greek lines, without any apparent effort of memory ; and
so perfectly in accordance with his assertion, that the mi-
nister admitted the application, and declared that he really
had forgotten the solution WA Mr, Sheridan supplied.
This iiifklent balked the expectation of the Miffir,try on
division g clinestiPlied by some classical friend,
; and being
who had vainly rofvrrycl to his library for thQ lilies, Sheri-
,

•