The Sun.
London, England, 1837-07-01 00:00:00

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

Captain Marryat's " Phantom Ship" is the most
amusing article in this Number, and bids fair, we in-
cline to think, to be the best tale he ever wrote. It
contains more fancy and invention, if not so much
humour, as " Peter Simple ;" and is more sustained
in its interest than "Japhet in Search of a Father."
The Captain is, perhaps, the most prolific author of
his day, but has not—an auspicious sign—yet begun
to repeat himself. His sketch of the mysterious pilot
Schrifton, and of the death of the old miser Potts,- are,
throughout, very striking. The " Gurney Papers" are
clever, as usual. " Subjects for Pictures" is from the
pen of Miss Landon. The first poem is too much in
the Honeysuckle style : but that entitled " Alexander
on the Banks of the Hydaspes" contains some im-
pressive thoughts. The " Poetry of Early Rising" is
the most eloquent and feeling essay that its author,
Cornelius Webbe, has yet written. We must give a
specimen of it :
There was a day when not a brick or stone of this gi-
gantic city of ours was seen standing in what must then
have been a solitary wilderness : ere the following day had
been scored down in the long account of Time, a little hut,
huddled together with mud, and reeds, and piled-up stones
—the foundation-house, the nut and nucleus of this greatest
city of the world—stood on the northern shores of the un-
frequented Thames, upon whose waters then, perhaps, no
other voyagers were seen floating along but the beautiful
wild swan and her dusky cygnets : these having passed along,
the silence and solitude of the green shores and the wild
waters were unbroken for many, many days. The sun—
" the beneficial sun"—passed over the dreary scene ; and
not an eye turned to look upon him, and hail and bless
him, and smile because he smiled. The storm swept over
the waves and rushed into the forest lining its shores, and
not a creature breathing human breath shrunk from its se-
verities. The wild gull laughed and leeped to meet the
storm, and soared and sank, end circled around the melan-
choly scene; and not even n echo answered to its scream.
The wolf visited its waters, and having drank his fill, re-
treated back into the sombre lepths of the wilderness, and
once more hunted for his prey. Night came, and no reve-
rential eye was lifted up to heaven from that silent shore,
unknown to man, or if known, untrodden by his foot.
No voice of prayer or praise we r tup to the Eternal Throne,
at the solemn coming on of the darkness of night, or at the
glorious diffusion of the golden splendours of returning day.
The silence there—the human silence—had never spoken or
sung a syllable to God. The wild boar, and the bear, and the
wolf cried to each other in savage communion, answering threat
with threat. The human hum had not been heard there—the
human joy—the human sigh—the human groan. The human
tear had never fallen there—the hunrn heart had not shud-
dered and shrunk away from the hard, unfeeling touch of hu-
man hands : it had not sunk slowly under a sorrow with tears ;
it had not shut up its griefs, or shed them inwardly in the in-
consolable breast where they were born. Oppressed and over-
laden, it had not broken in sullen silence, and " died and made
no sign." The only hum heard there was that of the wild
bee : the only tear that of the Summer rain ; the only moan
that of the melancholy wind, wailing through the woods in
Autumn ; the only sullenness that of surly Winter. Hard-
hearted Wealth and harder-hearted Poverty had not feared and
hated each other. Insolent Pride had not trodden Humility
down. Human love, pity, hope, fear, despair, famine, sick-
ness, sorrow, and pain had never visited that sylvan shore, and
knew it not. It was a savage, solitary corner of this wide
Eden the earth, with no weak Adam and frail Eve dwelling
therein, to make its once-loved garden unlovely in the eyes of
Heaven."
" Patty Larkspur's Watch" evinces knowledge of
character, and is wrought up with effect. " Some
account of the Inconsolable Society," is a lively quiz
on the' well-known disposition of Englishmen to ex-
tract sorrow front mirth, and make themselves as
miserable as they possibly can. This is a habit that
cannot be too much ridiculed. " Confessions of Ralph
Restless" is an ingenious conception feebly executed.
The " Recollections of Gtimaldi" contain some plea-
sant reminiscences, but the subject is made too much
of. One soon gets tired of theatrical anecdotes, espe-
cially as not one in a thousand has the slightest pre-
tensions to novelty. A " Ride in the Great Western
Jungle," improves as it goes on. We shall be glad to
find it continued, for it is full of various matter.