The Sun.
London, England, 1836-04-01 00:00:00

MA

AY.

BLACKWOOI; S MAGAZINE.
This, bating its politics, is an admirable Number.
But how injudicious is the wholesale abuse of Dr.
Hampden in the first article, when the Rev. Professor's
defence of his theological tenets has only just appeared
in print, and been received with the greatest approba-
tion, even by those who were previously most inclined
to doubt his orthodoxy ! " Sampayo, the Contractor
is full of agreeable incident and anecdote, respecting one
of the most singular pounds-shilling-and-pence gen-
tlemen of the present day. In the " State of Protes-
tantism in France," the author observes that this creed
is making slow but sure progress in that country ; and
in cursorily alluding to the present state of French li-
terature, adds," the new literature of the country, instead
of speaking out in the calm; polished, ironical, self-satis-
fied tone of the classic time, breathes the feverish ar-
dour of a distempered heart ; a wild fire runs through
it ; profound but turbid emotions well up from its
fountains ; and even in its most impious and
impure specimens, is mingled a strain of what
shall I call it ?—not religious sentiment, but reli-
gious torment. Never do I read a modern French
book, without feeling at once that it is the production
of a very troubled mind." There is considerable truth
in these observations, which we suspect have imme-
diate reference to the late popular productions of
Victor Hugo, and his imitators, whose name is Legion.
" Job Pippins, the Man who could'nt help it," is the
best of Mr. Jerrold's clever tales we have yet seen.
The flow of incident is rapid to a degree, though here
and there, the natural is perhaps too much lost sight
of. " Fanny Fairfield" is the conclusion of a very
sweet and unpretending tale under this title ; and the
" Unbidden Guest," an attempt, and not an unsuc-
cessful one, to inculcate a useful moral through the
medium of the fancy. We have no space for extracts.

FRA SER' S MA GA ZlNE.—Fraser, Regent-street.
Happen what may in the worlds of science, liters•
ture, politics, religion, and fiddlesticks—the greates
world of them all—we are sure to, find something to
delight us in Fraser. If all elseipe above or below Or
beyond our comprehension, we have at least a portrait
to-look at, in itself worth a dozen of common-place,
twaddling articles. The embellishment for the present
month represents Mr. Francis Place, author of the
" Principles of Population," more noted for his Mal-
thusian politics than his tailoring, sitting in an attitude
of profound thought, and apparently labouring hard to
digest the leading article of the Examiner, which lies
on a table at his left hand. The likeness is excellent.
In truth, we never saw a better in our lives—counte-
nance, dress, attitude, every thing. Of the biographical
sketch that accompanies it we have not a word to say.
The opening article, on Cowley and his Contempo•
raries, is admirable. The following letter, though rather
long, is so beautifully descriptive of the last days of Ben
Jonson, that we ar• tempted to quote it entire :
TO MR. WILLIAM HERVEY, WITH AN ACCOUNT OF A VISIT TO
BEN JONSON, A SKETCH OF CARTWRIGHT, AND ♦ NOTICE
OF THE " SAD SHEPHERD."
" Dear Will,—Rejoice with me, rejoice with me—l have
seen Ben l Once, indeed, when I was a young scholar at
Westminster, I remember to have caught a glimpse of the
festive meeting at St. Dunstan's ; and even now the shouts of
merriment that shook the walls, as the Canary went round,
ring in my ears; but the scene itself has faded from my mind.
My delight, therefore, was unbounded when Mr. C—, a
close friend and admirer of the poet, offered to take me with
him to his lodgings in Westminster, on last Friday. He is
now confined entirely to his apartments, rarely wandering
further than from his bed to his studying chair, which is of
straw, and covered with a cloth wrapper, such as the old
country wives use. We found him wrapped in a large and
loose great coat, with slits under the arms, like those we have
often seen at Newmarket. His first appearance disappoints
the reader of the Alchymist. His face, once, as I have been
told, very fair and beautiful, is now roughened, as it were, by
a scorbutic eruption, to which he has been long subject. His
eyes are rather grave and thoughtful than bright, and one
seemed to me somewhat bigger than the other. Still, there is
great power in the weight of the brows, the massive depth of
the forehead, and the general severity and antique air of the
features. Indeed, Mr. C— informs me that he is thought
by his friends to bear a very striking resemblance to the head
of the Greek poet Menander, as engraved on old medals,.
His recent sickness leas made him more feeble than usual ; and
it was only in the last week that he had a narrow escape from
hurning—a spark from his charcoal lire having ignited the
curtains of his bed. Our conversation turned upon the
Muses, and he spoke, as his custom is, with great admiration
a Donne, repeating from the ' Calm' two lines, which he said
were admirably descriptive of unbroken stillness :
, In the same place lay
Feathers and dust—to-day and yesterday.'

friend Donne,' he said, will perish through the ignorance
of his readers; his orac:es require an interpreter.' Of
Daniel, he szid that he wanted force and imagination ; that
his muse had the silver wings of a dove, but none of the ma-
jestic stren;;th of the eagle. I happened that morning to
have bz..en read:ng Daniel's Triumph of Hymen,
and I
ventured to say that the lines in which he pourtraycd the
growth of love between two children appeared to me exceed-
ingly beautiful. Ben turned his heavy eyes full upon me,
saying, Let me hear them, young man.' You may be sure
that I felt a little disconcerted at such a command. How-
ever, I managed to get through with one or tvo mistakes.
Here are the lines
! I remember well (and how can I
But evermore remember well) when first
Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was
The flame we felt ; when, as we sat and sighed,
And looked upon each other, and conceiver
Not what we ailed, yet something we did ail;
And yet were well, and yet were not well,
And what was our disease we could not tell.
Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look ; and thus,
In that first garden of our simpleness,
We spent our childhood. But when years began
To reap the fruit of knowledge, ah ! how then
Would she, with graver looks, with stern sweet brow,
Check my presumption, and my forwardness ;
Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show
What she would have me, yet not have me know.'
" Ben listened with attention, saying, when I had concluded,
That passage is certainly very sweet and tender ; but, after
all, Daniel was nothing but a verser. He had great art and
ingenuity, as he hath testified in the verses you have recited,
which were evidently suggested by that part of the Romance
by Longus, where he describes the sensations of Chloe and
Daphnis.' While speaking he reached down a sumptuous
edition of this beautiful story, and immediately turned to the
passage.
" Mr. C inquired into his present employment. Tak-
ing up a small MS. beautifully written, he said, The muse
bath not entirely forsaken me in this the winter of my age and
fortunes.' The tears rushed into my eyes as I looked upon
him, and my companion was not less affected. And yet,' he
added, I ought not to complain that she who hath proved so
good a handmaid to me during my earlier years, when the eyes
of youth were full, and the veins burning with passion, should
still keep me from high thoughts in the closing days of my
pilgrimage, when every turn of the path is likely to bring
me within sight of the celestial city.' The poem, he told us,
was entitled the Sad Shepherd.' It is a pastoral drama,
and, when finished, will endure a comparison with the exqui-
site composition of Fletcher. Thus much I can say of it from
the few passages which Ben read to us ; two of them I tran-
scribed, and now enclose to you. The first is from the open-
ing lamentation of the Sad Shepherd, who thus bewails his
lost love
Here she was wont to go,—and here ! and here ! and here
Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets, grow;
The world may find the spring by following her;
For other print her airy steps ne'er left.
Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,
Or shake the downy blow-bell from its stalk;
But like the soft west wind she shot along.
And where she went the flowers took thickest root,
As she had sowed them with her odorous foot.'
The last line is an improvement on a verse of Persius, a writer
of whom Ben is very fond, and whom he pronounces the
greatest of Roman satirists.
Quicquid calcaverit, hic rosa fiat.'
The following verses will remind you of the death of
Adonis, in the lovely elegy of Bion.
A spring now she is dead lof what ? Of thorns,
Briars, and brambles ? thistles, burs, and docks?
Cold hemlock, yew ? the mandrake, or the box ?
gs upon me
These may grow still ; but what can grow beside ?
Did not the whole earth sicken when she died ?
As if there since did fall one drop of dew
But what was wept for her ! or any stalk
Did bear a flower, or any branch a bloom
After her wreath was made In faith, in faith,
Who had her very being and her name
With the first knots or buddings of the spring,
NYvohui
cdho
cnaout fua iur
ut os
upr
tu t
bteh eEs
ieu
rt
ni
en t
Born with the primrose, or the violet,
Or earlier roses blown 1 when Cupid smiled,
And Venus led the Graces out to dance,
And all the flowers and sweets in Nature's lap
Leaped out, and made their solemn conjuration
To last but while she lived
" I must not forget to speak of Ben's reading,_it is deli-
cious. Never was poetry married to more exquisite music.
His voice is deep, solemn, and harmonious ; his accent and
emphasis learned and precise, without pedantry. We may
apply to him the eulogy he gave us of his friend, Lord Vern-
lam—that the hearer is afraid to cough or look aside from him,
and that our only fear is lest he should make an end. While
he was reading, the door of the chamber slowly opened, and a
closing
the door with
finger to keep
young man of a pale and thoughtful aspect, and full of sweet-
ngeressat and
caution,beauty,
and creptmotioning
i t o thet
uu
room,
s with
silent. When Jonson had finished, he went up to him, in-
quiring after his health with peculiar affection, and saluting
him with the title of father, while the poet, warmly grasping