The Sun.
London, England, 1840-03-02 00:00:00

TAIT'S MAGAZINE.

Despite his prolixity and constant habit of digression,
we are glad to meet with the Opium-Eater again, for
there is always matter for reflection in his articles, and
occasionally a burst of impassioned eloquence worthy
of the batter days of English literature. This month
he furnishes our sturdy Radical friend Tait with his
personal recollections of the late Charles Lloyd—one
of the Lake poets, whose " Nugte Canorm " we re-
member to have read, though not without some little
difficulty, arising from a weakness of digestion as respects
small poesy. Mr. De Quincy speaks of poor Lloyd
in a touching and affectionate nnnner, and in so doing
does not forger. to have a lick at Wordsworth, who
certainly does not exhibit to advantage in the Opium-
Eater's reminiscences. Lloyd, it seems, passed his
latter days—horrid idea!—in a private mad-house, and
for years before his mind became benighted, anticipated
its total eclipse. According to his biographer's account,
he must have been a sensitive, kindly-hearted creature,
but his friends should not have allowed him to bewilder
himself with such maudlin, dreamy speculations as those
of Rousseau—a mere crack-brained visionary, who dis-
coursed upon Love like a pedant, and upon Ethics like
a Laputan' philosopher—but have directed his mind to
healthier and more bracing studies. "The Church ofScot-
land and the Veto Question," argues soundly and tempe-
rately on a question which is fast rising into importance
with the public. The chief excellence of this shrewd essay
is its utter freedom from cant. The " Sons of the
Soil" is an acute criticism on a poem recently published
by Mrs. Ellis. The Reviewer thinks favourably of
this production, and gives reasons for the faith that is
in him. The " Story of Ango" is the continuation of
a tale by Mrs. Gore. We cannot say much for it. It
is too wire-drawn. " Parvenus" is a lively sketch.
" Memoirs of Jeremy Bentham" is a very indifferent
sample of biography. One or two of the anecdotes,
howeve; are amusing. " Woman" is a poem cleverly
translated from the German of Schiller by Mr. Swynfen
Jervis. " Recollections of Days in Belgium" are better
calculated to interest a private circle than Tait's readers
generally. " Violet Hamilton" is a narrative of great
merit ; well put together, and easy and spirited in its
dialogue. In the poem headed the " Martyr's Cairn"
there are some pleasing thoughts clothed in appropriate
language. We quote it accordingly, and direct the
reader's attention to an emphatic line, which we have
marked in italics :

" Grey cairn of the valley, lone rest of the dead 1
Long years their dark mosses around thee have spread
And the brook that they cover runs lowly beside,
Where the deer cometh down from the pines of his pride.
The briefly-told legend that hallows each stone,
No name bath to give, but this record alone :
There sleeps, amidst strangers, one faithful and good,
For truth and for freedom—a witness in blood.

Unseen, through the valley the brook glideth by,
Yet tells to the weary its waters are nigh ;
So hid though the Martyr may lie where he bled,
There are words in the silence, and speech from the dead.
Unnamed by the shepherd, are wild blossoms there,
Yet knows he the odour they breathe to the air ;
So nameless the sleeper, though his memory still,
And his witness, are sweet to the sons of the hill.

How beauteous and balmy the place of his rest,
With flowers that the sunbeams of summer have drest
While o'er it is chanting the bird on the bough,
And the wild bee is glad on the heather below.

Returned, on the Sabbath, from worshipping God,
Here the tread of the shepherd falls light on the Lod ;
When points the grey sire that his children may learn,
And the maiden, half-chid, plucks a flower from the cairn.

The twilight of evening scarce deepens the peace
That there is abiding, though shadows increase ;
Though the stream all alone on its journey may keep,
And, sleepless, is lulling the valley to sleep.

And there, when the midnight bath gathered In gloom,
No fears for the timid have place by that tomb;
Nor troubled by mornings, or visions of dread,
Is the eAlm that is round thee, lone rest of the dead I"

FRASER'S MAGAZINE.
Oliver Yorke has turned out an excellent Number
this month, despite his politics, which, as a matter of
course, are of a very so-so character. The first article,
entitled " Eloquence," furnishes us with a very correct
account of old Bishop Latimer, one of the quaintest and
homeliest, but most vigorous and effective of our earlier
divines. We remember a passage in one of his sermons
where, for some purpose or other—we cannot now re-
collect what, and have not his volume by us to refer
to—he enters into a detail of a market-day in the coun-
try, which is as full of quaint humour, as it is of manly
energy. Latimer was an exceeding wag in his way—
like the late Rowland Hill, though he had a thousand
times more wisdom, eloquence, and information—and
must often, when he held forth at Saint Paul's Cross,
have set his congregation in a roar with his diverting
sallies. He it was who praised the Devil in such ec-
centric terms, as being a pattern for Episcopacy—
" never absent from his diocese." " My Irish Tutor-
ship" is a pleasant rambling narrative, bordering, how-
ever, on the extravagant. " Hints for Biographers' i : s
passable gossip. Most of the anecdotes we have an im-
pression of having met with before, but the subjoined
is new to us :

The latest of Dr. Johnson's friends in the Highlands,
who had shared the familiar converse of the English mo-
ralist during his memorable journey. in 1773, was the
Rev, Mr. Grant, minister of Calder, who died in June,
1828. Mr. Grant was formerly incumbent of the neigh-
bouring parish of Daviot ; and on Johnson's staying for a
night at the manse, or parsonage, of Calder. " the intel-
ligent and well-bred minister of Daviot," as Boswell desig-
nates Mr. Grant, attended and assisted with his conversation.
Un the Sunday following,Johnson was in Inverness ; and Mr.
Grant, accompanied by the collector of excise, supped
with him at the inn. Johnson was in high spirits. They
had roasted kid for supper; the cookery was excellent ; the
landlord attentive; Boswell, as usual, obsequious as a
courtier; and all was " rods, and becks, and wreathed
smiles" with the philosopher and his friends. In the
course of conversation, Johnson happened to mention that
Mr. (afterwards Sir Joseph) Banks had, in his travels,
discovered an extraordinary animal, called the kangaroo.
He described its motions and appearance ; be stood erect.
put out his hands like feelers, and gathering up the tails of
his huge brown coat so as to resemble the pouch of the
animal, made two or three vigorous bounds across the
room. The company stared ; and Mr. Grant used to say,
that nothing could be more ludicrous than the appearance
of a tall, heavy, grave-looking man like Dr. Johnson
standing up to mimic the shape and motions of a kan-
garoo. " Sir," said he to the minister, in high glee, and
in his lofty bow-wow manner, "it is a wonderful animal 1"
" Wonderful, indeed !" rejoined the minister of Daviot,
casting a sly glance at the uncouth imitator ; while Bos-
well and the collector were vainly trying to preserve their
gravity. The whole scene would form an admirable sub-
ject for Cruikshank.

- The grave, colossal Johnson, mimicking the motions
of a kangaroo, must certainly have been an exhibition
of the richest order! " Chess without the Chess-
board" is a rhapsodical essay on the merits of this ab-
struse game, whose chief recommendation is, that it is
written with a hearty love of the subject. In the article
headed " Modern /Egypt " occur several graphic
sketches of Memphis, the Nile, and the neighbourhood
of the pyramids. The writer, we perceive, has a capa-
cious swallow, for he confesses to a sort of half-belief
in the miraculous powers of the Egyptian magicians.
His accounts of the famous dancing-girls of Cairo are
entertaining in a high degree. " Scenes in the De-
sert" are, just what they purport to be, exceedingly
romantic. We are told to consider them as " real ;"
if so, they afford another striking proof of the justice
of yron's remark that " truth is strange, stranger than
fiction." " Privilege v. Law" is a very indifferent
diatribe. " The Leap Royal of Leap Year" are three
laughable sonnets from the pen of Sir Morgan O'Do-
herty.

MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
" Jack Sheppard" again ! Here he is figuring in tho
very first article in this number, and lashed, of course,
without mercy. Mr. Heraud writes sensibly, and in an
elevated spirit, on this subject, but we . think he over-
rates the injury done to the public taste by the popu-
larityof such a romance. It can never strike its roots
deep in popular recollection—indeed it is already half
forgotten—and as for finding imitators, that is out of
the question. But granted that it be an injurious work,
which we readily admit, we question much whether it
is half so injurious as those fashionable novels of the
silver fork school, which every now and then issue from
the press, and which, by insidiously inculcating false
notions of honour, of sentiment, of taste, and morality
pervert the public mind, and confound all the distinc-
tions of right and wrong. No one has yet been made a
thief by reading " Jack Sheppard," but how many of the
would-be genteel readers of the trashy, maudlin novels
in question, were made fools and spendthrifts, and (most
likely) knaves for life, by learning—then for the first
time—that Bloomsbury and Russell squares were vulgar
localities ; and that if they wished to stand well with
the '• respecable"portion of the community, they must