The Sun.
London, England, 1840-05-02 00:00:00

MAGAZINES (CONTINUED).

BEATLEY'S MISCELLANY.

This periodical leached us at such a late how.
that we were unable to include it among our usual
notices yesterday. The present Number is read-
able enough, and contains, among other prose
sketches, a
.curious narrative written by old Barnes
—the welt-known " lean and slipper'd pantaloon"
of Di ury-lane and Covent-garden,-pif his trip from
Dover to Calais in the year 1830. The old fellow
is very quaint and droll in many of his descriptions,
and from his repeated allusions to brandy, which
occur upon an average once in every paragraph,
we conclude that he was by no means unacquainted
with the flavour of that most potent of " strong
waters." Here is a diverting incident he met with
while at Calais, which goes far to verify the old
adage, that necessity is the mother of invention
" Returning, in crossing the Grand Square, an
Irishman, rather seedy in appearance, addressed me
by name. He was also acquainted with the names of
all the other Englishmen of our party. He told us he
was going over to Dover at night by the steam-packet,
and kindly volunteered to carry over letters for any of
us. I determined to write to say that we had arrived
safe. I wrote also for SlMour to his wife, as that
education had .somehow been in-
cautiously neglected. I asked him in what affectionate
style of terms I should word my letter to his better
half, and he replied, Oh, tell her I ant slap up !'
As this Hibernian gentleman knew us all by name, we
could do no leas than treat him with something to
drink ; for which, by the way, he gave a preliminary
hint by remarking, How much better the brandy was
in France, and how very much cheaper than in Eng-
land.' So, after he had partaken liberally of the eau de
VEAU—as Rolandson would persist in calling it, calf
as he was—the Irishman took our letters, and wished
us a pleasant journey to Paris. Now, as these letters
were never delivered, and when, on my return, I saw
the same gentleman at Calais, making the same offer
to some new-corners, I came to the conclusion that he
obtained his living by this ingenious mode, being a sort
of promissory postman, who made it his business to
get the names of the persons who arrived at the hotels
from the various commissioners, and then, by offering
his services to convey letters to London, always being
about to start by the next packet,' be contrived to ex-
tract something from his dupes.
In the present chapters of " Guy Fawkes,"
incident, as usual, is heaped upon incident in lavish
profusion. By the way, the illustration by Cruick-
shank of Guy's vision at St. Winifred's Well is
most grotesquely at variance with the spirit of
Ainswmth's text ; who talks of the fair apparition
as wearing a " benignant" aspect, while the ar-
tist has pourtrayed her with a sour, grim visage,
as though she were suffering under a severe at-
tack of cholic. " Moral Economy of Large
Towns" is an intelligent essay by Dr. Taylor, who
appears to have taken considerable pains to inves-
tigate all the bearings of his subject. There is
much good sense in these remarks :—" Genuine
philanthropy is cheerful, and even merry. Sour,
pharisaic, lecture-giving charity has nothing of
philanthropy about it ; at best, it is but a way of
showing that one is better than one's neighbours,
and the cost it involves is a tax unwillingly paid by
vanity. We insist that the best way to make this
a moral world, is to make it a merry world." This
is the doctrine that Leigh Hunt has been enforcing,
in verse as well as prose, for the last twenty years
and upwards. The " Death-bed Confession" is
a record of a penitent murderer's last moments. In
places, it is powerfully written. " Captain Morris"
is a whimsical rhymed notice of this veteran's
poems. A portrait of the jovial Captain accompa-
nies the notice, and, as a work of art, is creditable
to the engraver.