The Sun.
London, England, 1838-05-01 00:00:00

BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.

We have here a capitalbridad‘Oi;.l:e---oler time," from
the pen of Thomas Ingoldsby, who in this class of compo-
sition has no rival among the writers of the present times.
Something there is in his manner which reminds us of
Southey ; but he has an infinitely greater fund of rich,
racy humour, and at least equal grace and facility of
versification. The " Lay of St. Nicholas," with the quaint,
homely moral to be educed from it, is as clever as the il-
lustration of it by George Cruikshank, and we know not
that we can give it higher praise. We give a specimen of
its humour—a description of a jolly dinner given by a
Lord Abbot to the Devil, who has sought his hospitable
roof in the disguise of a beautiful young damsel of high
degree :

" The turkey and chine they were done to a nicety;
Liver, and gizzard, and all were there:
Ne'er mote Lord Abbot pronounce Bencdicite
Over more luscious or delicate fare.

" But no pious stave he, no Parer or Ave,
Pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden's face
She asked him for stuffing, she asked bins for gravy,
And gizzard; but never once asked him for Grace!

" Then gaily the Lord Abbot smiled and prest,
And the blood red wine in the wine-cup fill'd ;
And he help'd his guest to a bit of the breast,
And he sent the drumstick, down to be grill'd.

" There was no lack of old Sherris sack,
Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright;
And aye, as he drained off his cup with a smack,
Ile grew less pious and more polite.
" She pledged him once, and she pledged him twice,
And she drank as a Lady ought not to drink ;
And he pressed her hand neath the table thrice,
And he winked as an Abbot ought not to wink.

" And Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
Sat each with a napkin under his chin;
But Roger the Monk got excessively drunk,
So they put him to bed, and they lock'd him in !

" The lay.brothers gaz'd on each other, amaz'd ;
And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise,
As he peep'd through the key hole, could scarce fancy real
The scene he beheld, or believe his own eyes.

" In his ear was ringing the Lord Abbot singing—
He could not distinguish the words very plain,
But 'twas all about `Cole,' and 'jolly old soul,'
And ' Fiddlers,' and ' Punch,' and thing, quite as profane."

Cruickshank has illustrated this legend in his most gro-
tesque manner. The sketch of the vicious St. Nicholas
giving his name-sake of Tophet a kick on his seat of
honour, and so sending him headforemost through an open
window, is irresistible. The specimens of " Swiss popular
and national Poetry," are gracefully translated, and will
amuse many readers. The story of Mr. Noddy and his
misfortunes is a lively trifle. Dr. Maginn's " Polonius" is
scarcely so ingenious as some of his other Shakspeare
Papers ; nevertheless, it is superior. to Hazlitt's hasty
notice of the same character. Boz, in his present chap-
ters of Oliver Twist, gives us some serene, quiet pictures
of English rural scenery, and a mast diverting anecdote,
related by a Police Officer, of some of the sayings and
doings of his old acquaintance, Conkey Chickweed—an
expert cracksman, whom Jonathan Wilde would have been
proud to have enrolled among his gang. The " Legend
of Walter Childe" is evidently the production of a practised
hand. It is neatly versified, and some of the thoughts are
as ingenious as any contained in Whistlecraft, but the
poem is too much spun out.