The Sun.
London, England, 1839-04-01 00:00:00

T. 114',4 SUN, LONDON. I‘PNDANT, APRIL 1, 1839.

MA GA ZINE-DAY.

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.
The fir,t article in Maga this month is entitled
" France and her Elections," and is penned in a spirit
that cannot fail to bring delight to the hearts of all
ultra-Tories. Charles the Tenth, and that precious
sprig of legitimacy, the Duke of Angouleme—whcse
name is a s3nonyin for incapacity of every sort—are
lauded iO the most extravagant manner, and their suc-
cessor, Louis Philippe is spoken of in equal terms of
admiration, because he evinces a disposition to carry
out that system of policy which lost Charles the Tenth
his throne, and compelled him to die an exile in a fo-
reign land. We object in Into to the spirit of this article.
It is intemperate, ungenerous, and reckless of truth in
almost every one of its statements. It is not true that
France,as a nation,is immoral and irreligious. It is not true
that she has an inveterate abhorrence of a Constitutional
roc/lan:by. She is averse only to the encroseliments of
an insidious despotism on popular rights, and is resolved
apparently, at all hazards, to abide by the letter of the
Charter, which the present King seems eqUally resolved
to make a caput mortuunz. Unless Louis Philippe
change the whole tenor of his domestic and foreign
policy, we foresee a severe and protracted struggle,
the ultimate issue of which no sane man can possibly
doubt. " Desultory Dottings down upon Dogs, is a lively
little essay, in which a judicious compliment is paid to
Edwin Ltndseer, the finest painter of an;mals that ever
existed, with the exception, perhaps, of Paul Potter,
" A Week at Manchester," gives a spirited and inter-
esting account of this celebrated manufacturing town,
and of the peculiar—for Peculiar they are-s--habits of
its more industrious inhabitants. We do not altoge-
ther agree with the writer in his detestation of rail-
ways, though we must confess to a sort of sneaking
prejudice against them, if only for the reason that they
have driven the old social stage-coach cut of fashion ;
and in Berkshire have made dreadful havoc with some
of the most picturesque spots in the county. Ne-
vertheless, we cannot but acknowledge that the sight of
a railway train in full activity, now, just visible
a speck on the horizon, and now whizzing past you like
a broad, startling flash of lightning, is a magnificent
sight, whose superior art cannot show. "My After-
Dinner Adventures, with Peter Selalemild," is a capital
extravaganza, worked up with consummate tact, and
with great power of humour. We know not. when we
have perused a more amusing story. " Emily Von Ro-
senthal" is 'another clever tale, apparently by the same
practised hand. " What is Poetical Deseription't"
contains some sound criticism. But the gem of the
Number is " Christopher in his Alcove," in which
there are not a few fine thoughts thrown off at ran-
dom, which combine the fancy of the poet With the
cairn, observant, meditative spirit of the philosopher.
This desultory article contains some delightful stanzas
entitled CEnone," which we would gladly quote, did
time and space permit. We cannot, however, resist the
temptation of extracting this striking passage. In the
solemn and earnest tone of its thought, it is worthy of
Sir Thomas Browne. Indeed it reads very much like
a passage from his " Urn Burial," and we know not
that we can pay it a higher compliment :
" The ruins of Rome l The overthrow or decay of
mighty human power is, of all thoughts that can cater the
mind, the most affecting. The whole imagination is at
once stirred by the prostration of that, round which so
many high associations have been collected for so many
ages. Beauty seems born but to perish, and. its fragility
is'con and felt to be inherent in it by a law of its being.
But power gives stability, as it were, to human thought,
and we forget our own -perishable nature in the spect •ele
of some obiding and enduring greatness. Our own little
span of years—our own confined region of space, are lust
in the enduranca and far-spread dominion of some mighty
State—and we fed as if we partook of its deep set and
roost trinphant strength. When, therefore, a great and
ancient empire falls into pieces, or who n frag7.l,nts of
its power are heard, in the sad conviction of our souls, rent
asunder like column after column disporting from some

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noble edifice, we feel as if all the cities of men were built
on foundations beneath which the earthquake slept. The
same doom seems to be imminent over ail the other king.
doms that still stand ; and in the midst of such changes,
and decays, and overthrows—or, as we read of them of
old—we lock, under such emotions, on all power as fowl-
' dationless, and in our wide imagination embrace empires
covered only with the ruins of their desolation. Yet such
is the pride of the human spirit, that it often unconsciously,
under the influence of such imagination, strives to hide
from itself the utter nothingness of its mightiest works.
And when all its.glories are visibly crumbling into dust, it
creates some imagieary power to overthrow the fabrics of
human greatness—and thus attempts to derive a kind of
mournful triumph even in its very fall. Thus, when na-
tions have faded away in their sins and vices, rotten at
the heart and palsied in all their limbs, we strive not to
think of that sad internal decay, but imagine some mighty
power smiting empires and cutting short the records of
mortal m2geitiecnce. Thus, Fate and Destiny are said in
our imagination to lay our glories low. Thus, even the
calm and silent air of oblivion, has been thought of as an
unsparing ppwer. Time, too, though in moral sadness
wisely called a shadow, has been clothed with terrific at-
tributes, and the sweep of his scythe has, in imagination,
shorn the towery diadem of cities."