The Sun.
London, England, 1849-04-05 00:00:00

THE MAGAZINES.
BLACKWO OD.

On cutting the cialy !eaves of Man and reading
through tho:ie double columns cf letter-press which
have be ..Jule welcome to eo many thP.e.ands, because
familiarized by such enthralling contributions—we
have to thank Christopher for the perusal of one of the
best magazine numbers we can just now call to re-
collection. Blackwood for April, being the four-
hundred-and-second number, is little short of being
a model magazine. It is rich in verse and prose, in
real and fictitious narrative, in biography and
criticism. The criticism, moreover, is peculiarly
varied, extending to poetry and the fine arts, to his-
tory, both profane and ecclesiastical, to the writings
of anecdote-mongers, and to the delineations of the
geographer. We must not be mistaken, however--
the different articles being of unequal ability.
The commentaries, for example, on " Macaulay's
History of England" are distressingly
meagre and
superficial, although the writer occasionally reveals in
himself that discriminative faculty which is indispen-
sable in a reviewer—as where it is finely and judi-
ciously said by him that it were better for Mr.
Alacaulay's reputation as an annalist had he taken his
seat "on the Bench instead of the Bar qf History?'
Better, immeasureablv better, than the criticism on
Macaulay, is the one subsequently given on Tenny-
son. Allowing fur a little want of appreciation on
the part of the contributor in reference to the musical
versification of the greatest of the young poets of this
generation—as in that melodious dirge of " Claribel low
lieth !" or, as again, in the fantastic " Lady of Shalott,"
the sweetness of which the- writer has altogether
failed to recognise—the estimate of Alfred Tenny-
son's powers, given by old Ebony is singularly felici-
tous. We sympathise as heartily in the derision
cast at such nonsensical verses as those ad•
dressed "To the Owl," as we do in the
admiration expressed for " The Talking Oak."
When, however, the critic complains of the
iteration recurring in such stanzas as " Mariana" and
" none," he takes too lightly into account the pre-
cedents of so many bewitching ballads and imperish-
able idylls. To our thinking Theocritus never sang
words more mellifluous or impassioned than those
with which the lover complains of the shaft which
had accidentally destroyed his betrothed :

" The bitter arrow glanced aside, Oriana,
The false, false arrow glanced aside, Oriana;
The damned arrow glanced aside', a .

And pierced thy hei'rt, my love, my bride, Oriana;
Thy heart, my love, my life, my bride, Oriana."
And yet here has Tennyson out-Tennyson'd
himself in iteration. Again, there is not a word
about " Locksly Hall," beyond the mere mention of
its title, and yet " Locksly Hall" is the finest poem
Tennyson has ever yet written, and perhaps the finest
he ever will write. That " The Princess," his latest
production, fairly " took his admirers by surprise,"
we agree with the reviewer in thinking, and we coin-
cide also with Blackwood in regarding Tennyson as
having already risen to a level with the glorious
pedestal of Coleridge. " Claudia and Pudens" is a
graceful though rather abbreviated notice of the
learned essay published last year from the manuscript
of the distinguished biblical antiquary, the Arch-
deacon of Cardigan. Our old favourite B. Simmons has
roused himself again from his long indolence, running
his hands over the chords of his lyre, first in a plaintive
chaunt about "The Life of the Sea," and afterwards
in a strain of unexpected facetiousness. IVe are un-
sentimental enough to prefer his grotesque lines
about the " London Cries"—more especially as they
afford the poet an opportunity of celebrating the glo-
ries of good old Mr. John Harris, of St. Paul's
Churchyard, " the Aldus of the nursery. nook," over
whose story books we have all of us pored so often
and so long, that we could almost go demented like
old Scrooge end cry out in rapture " There's Ali
Baba! and here's Friday and yonder goes dear
Robinson Crusoe with the parrot on his shoulder !"
How heartily do we echo the malediction pronounced
by Mr. Simmons on the Organ Fiend! And how
we relish that capital verse—
" Why did not Martin, in his Act,
Insert some puni.hment to suit
This crime of being hourly rack'd
To death by some melodious Brute
From ten at morn to twelve at night
His instrument the Savage plies,
From him alone there's no respite,
Since 'as the victim, here, that cries."
We wish in truth that Macaulay, Talfourd, Smythe,
or Lord John would listen to the last apostrophe.
Part XII. of " The Caxtons" carries the story on
very lazily. As yet the interest stagnates in the
ruined tower of Uncle Roland, though there is at
length some promise of change in the dawning ambi-
tion of Pisistratus. For Uncle Jack we have im-
bibed a sort of horror, second only to that inspired in
us by the ever-abominable and detestable Mrs. Pip-
chin. We wish Sir Edward would subject Tibbits to
some excruciating torment, just out of revenge ; roast
him before a slow fire, broil him on a gridiron, or
stew him to a jelly in a caldron of boiling oil. Until
he does we shall never sleep comfortably. Mr. Squills,
too, is somewhat of a bore in his way—but dear, noble,
wise, simple-hearted old Austin Caxton ! we
look upon as one of the most beautiful of all the crea-
tions of the novelist. The dry, odd stores of learn-
ing picked up in the nooks and crannies of literature
and pouring out of his mouth in the moments of
innocent garrulity, when he gets his hand in his waist-
coat—impart a novel flavour to the dialogue that not
a book-worm amongst us but will smack his lips at.
" Sir Astley Cooper" is the commencement of a
biography of that illustrious surgeon and ac-
complished gentleman, by one eminently quali-
fied to appreciate the eminence of his abilities
and the purity of his character. It is just and
appropriate that. the life of Astley Cooper
should be narrated by the hand that wrote the
" Diary of a Physician." And few will fail to recog-
nise with us in the opening of this attractive series
the masculine but sensitive and earnest voice of Mr.
Warren. There is no mistaking the ring of his in-
exorable tomahawk upon the skull of Mr. Bransby
Cooper, or the serene satisfaction with which he holds
fluapyed to usan scalp
dthpaieit
ii
or
meriting the unfortunate victim while he is still lying
ti
utg inn off in his
hiscriticism—compli-
menting
grasp.
aThe excoriating
review of the two volumes which have been penned
by the nephew of the deceased surgeon in the shape of
a memoir—the excoriating review of this work, with
which Mr. Warren prefaces his own biography of the
departed, has all the severity, without any of the
coarseness, of Carlyle. Speaking of the theme chosen
by him for consideration, the biographer exclaims—
" Oh that a Southey could do by Astley Cooper as
Southey did by Nelson !" The ejaculation would of
itself be an incitement 'We shall observe how the
aspiration may be realised. We may be permitted
for once to be sanguine when the biography is that
of Astley Cooper, and when the biographer of Astley
Cooper is Samuel Warren. Besides these various
and remarkable contributions, there are in the cur-
rent number of Blackwood some agreeable annota-
tions on the " Aristocratic Annals" of George Craik,
of Peter Burke, and of Bernard Burke—an exami-
nation of the Treatises on Painting collected by Mrs.
Merrifield—and a clever paper upon Mr. Johnston's
important work on " Physical Geography." Maga
has assuredly deserved our filial benison for a number,
like this, honourable to the sway exercised by the
crutch of our immortal Christopher.

BENTLEY'S.
diversifiedßeiill ey'sinMitissecelolantneynftoz Aft r iopn
l ise more than usually
s
with an instal..
ment of the "Coroner's Clerk," the pictorial illustra-
tion of which represents the imbecile heiress shower-
ing from her window five hundred sixpences, her
" beggars' money," collected for that purpose, upon a
crowd of eager beggars. This extraordinary scene is
very effectively represented. " Sir James Brooke and
the Pirates," by Mr. Augustus St. John, gives an in-
teresting idea of the settlement of Labuan, and the
difficulties encountered by the
~enterprising Raja.
The author of "Stories of Waterloo has contributed, in
his usual amusing manner, a narrative of "An Incursion
into Connemara; with an account of agraveller who
survived it," which startling announcement reminds
us of the comments of Punch the other day on a gen-
tleman who was presented to her Majesty at a recent
levee "on his return from Ireland. Palgrave Simp-
son, under his favourite soubriquet of the "Flaneur,"
holds the mirror up, not to
,nature, but to " the mir-
ror of the French Republic'—the Parisian theatres.
According to this writer (but knowing his strong
anti-Republican sentiments, we credit his assertions
a discretion), at the commencement of the Republic,
"it was gently but imperiously hinted to the theatres
by the Provisional Government, that patriotic pieces,
calculated to excite and support the Republican en-
thusiasm of the Parisians, would be very serviceable to
their own interests. The theatres took the hint, but
they were far, poor things, from reaping any benefit
from their compliance. " the vaunted enthusiasm
would not pay its money at the doors." Now, how-
ever, it is different. The theatres have adopted an
opposite course ; instead of encouraging, they ridicule,
Republicanism, and the result is a golden harvest,
which, considering the pleasantry-loving propensities
of the French, is perhaps not to be wondered at.
Here is a sample of one of these favourite satirical
dramas, entitled "Propriite! c'est le vol,"—Property
is theft, the motto of the Communists :

" The Republic has been established four years—the
scene is in 1852; the doctrines of the Socialists, Commu-
nists, and furious Republicans have had time:to take their
full swing ; the consequences of these innovations in so-
ciety are produced upon the stage. Monsieur Bonnichon
appears as the eternal victim of the progress of Socialist
civilization. The 'right of labour' is established by
law; Monsieur Bonnichon has been carried all over
Paris by a cabman, who has insisted o❑ his 'right of
labour' by force; he in vain seeks repose at home; his
wife has been attacked by twenty merchandes de modes,
and obliged (not unwillingly) to order a new dress of
each; his house is invaded by upholsterers and paper-
hangers, all demanding their right' to new-furnish his
apartments; a variety of other claivaents for the 'dm/I
an travail' assail him; a dentist insists oataking out his