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

MAGAZINE DAY.

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.
There is one article in the Number before us which
we have made two attempts to get through, but with-
out success, for on both occasions we have stunk fast in
the middle, like Banyan's Pilgrim in the Slough of
Despond. The article we allude to is a notice of
Grimn's Teutonic Grammar," which, however seduc-
tive it may he to etymologists—we were about to say
entomologists, and really there is no great difference
between then), for both take cognizance of small
matters—is, to us, as dreary as a November fog.. Yet
the Paper in question shows research, and is, in some
respects, curious. " Theory of Greek Tragedy" is in-
e'enious, but the author's comparison of Euripides with
Wordsworth, is—to quote the classical phraseology of
Bilf Sykes—" coming it rather too strong." The
finest portion of the essay is the account of the opening
of the " Heracleidue," which, by the by, is by no means
bent play, being less pathetic than his
" Alcestis," less impassioned than his " Medea"—
clumsily imitated by Seneca ; and containing no one
scene at all comparable to that terrible one in
" Orestes," where he is represented lying on his couch
and haunted by the Furies. " Song of a Returned
Exile" is by Mr. Simmons. We quote some of the
stanzas, where strong feeling is blended with much
eloquence of description :

Sweet Corrin ! how softly the evening light goes, '
Fading far o'er thy summit from ruby to rose,
As if loth to deprive the deep woodlands below
Of the love and the glory they drink in its glow;
Oh, home-looking ! how beloved dost thou rise
Once more to my sight through the shadowy skies;
Shielding still, in thy sheltering grandeur unfurl'd,
The landscape to me that so long was the world.
Fair evening—blest evening I one moment delay
Till the tears of the pilgrim are dried in thy ray—
Till he feels that through years of long absence not ore
Of his friends—the lone rock and grey ruin—is gone.

Not one ; —as I wind the sheer fastnesses through,
The valley of boyhood is bright in my view !
Once again my glad spirit its -fetterless flight
May wing through a sphere of unclouded delight,
O'er one maze of broad orchard, green meadow, and slope—
From whose tints I once pictured the pinions of hope ;
Still the hamlet gleams white—Still the church yews are

weeping,
Where the sleep of the peaceful my fathers are sleeping ;
The vane tells, as usual, its fib from the mill,
But the wheel tumbles loudly and merrily still,
And the tower of the Roches stands lsnely as ever,
With its grim shadow rusting the gold of the river.
5.
Thou long-vanish'd Angel 1 whose faithfulness threw
0 'er my gloomy existence one glor.fied hue I
Dost thou still, as of yore, when the eveniag grows dim,
And the blackbird by Douglass is hushing its hymn,
Remember the bower by the Funcheon's blue side
Where the whispers were soft as the kiss of the tide?
Dust thou still think, with pity and peace on thy brow,
Of him who, toil-harass'd and time-shaken now,
While the last light of day, like his hopes, has departed,
On the turf thou bast hallow'd sinks down weary .hearted,
And calls on thy name, and the night-breeze that sighs
Through the boughs that once blest thee is all that replies?
6.
But thy summit, far Corrin, is fading in grey,
And the moonlight grows mellow on lonely Cloughlea ;
And the laugh of the young, as they loiter about,
Through the elm-shaded alleys rings joyously out :
Happy'souls 1 they have yet the dark chalice to taste,
And like others to wander life's desolate waste—
To hold wassail with sin, or keep vigil with woe ;
But the same fount of yearning wherever they go,
Welling up in their heart-depths to turn at the last
(As the stag when the barb in his bosom is fast)
To their lair in the hills on their childhood that rose
And find the sole blessing I seek for—REPOSE I

" Wellington" is a spirited lyric from the pen of" Ar-
chums," whose poems, we see, have lately been collected
and published by Moxon in one volume. " Song Sung
at the Symposium" is a lively, rhymed squib in honour
of Christopher North and his contributors. " Miss
Martineau" is a critical notice in which praise—as is fit
—predominates, of this lady's novel of " Deerbrook."
The introductory observations on her" Tales Illustrative
of Political Economy" are forcible and pertinent.
" Letter from Hannibal Smith" is a whimsical, off-hand
epistle to the Editor, wherein Mr. Smith, who dates
from the sea-side, says I have a sm,dl cottage,
nearly on the ledge of a sloping piece of ground, at the
foot of which is the sea. Fish are at all times disport-
ing themselves within two hundred feet of my dining-
room, so that when by any accident they find them-
selves on my table, the change of circumstances must
be so slight as to be comparatively unobserved." This
is archly said. " Poetical Translations of Faust" is a
capital article. • Ditto " Casuistry." The " Affghan.
istan Expedition" is penned in too croaking a spirit.
Tories, however, for whose express edification it is
written, will sea much to zamire in it.

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE,
Mr. Hook's new Novel of " Fathers anti Sons," is
here continued ; the chapters contain scarcely any inci-
dent, hut are full of that smart, off-hand dialogue in
which the author is usually so remarkably successful.
The engraving illustrative of one of these racy dia-
logues, shows much humour. " Biographical Notices
of the late John Home," arc brought to. a conclusion,
which we are far from regretting, for, though not de-
void of characteristic anecdote, yet they contain many
passages of exceeding twaddle. We have no great
sympathy with those biographers who lay on their pane-
gyric "an inch thick." ".The Adventures of Khoda-
dad"—a portion of which only is before us—bid fair to
form a very interesting Oriental story. The author is
the Hon. Charles Saville. " Nimrod in France," fur-
nishes us with some clever, but superfiCial sketches of
the French character, as it exhibits itself in the present
day. " The Widowllarried," is a continuation of Mrs.
Trollope's clever tale. There is in it a highly-coloured
account of an interview between two confirmed gamblers,
one of, whom is in a state of desperation, as regards his
Exchequer, and the other in a most flourishing condi-
tion. The abject sycophancy of the former, and the
dignified condescension of the latter, will excite a
hearty laugh. Still the story is not equal to its prede•
cessor, the " Widow Barnaby." It wants terseness, and
variety of incident. For whole pages there is nothing but
wire-drawn dialogue. In Mr. Carnes " Letters from
Ireland," we meet with an affecting episode of a young
enthusiastic Irish traveller who resolved to sail over the
Dead Sea, and explore its coasts in all directions. Ac-
cordingly,
just cordingly, he built a suitable boat at Jericho, but,
as his labour was completed, and lie was about pro-
ceeding on his adventurous voyage, he fell a victim to
the heat of the climate, and died at a small out-of-the-
way convent, his last thoughts and wishes reverting to
his happy Irish home. This story is told with much
unaffected pathos. The " Advantages of Travelling in
Dyspepsie," are cleverly and forcibly pointed :out by
Dr. Thompson, a sound authority on all medical topics,
The " Life and Times of Peter Priggins," arc hit off,
as usual, in alight, rambling, good-humoured manner.
From the " Falls of the Cauvary"—a magnificent cata-
ract in India—we quote a description of a tiger-hunt,
wherein some rash English sportsmen endeavour to catch
the animal in a net, and destroy him with their spears :
" He had approached within ten yards of the nets, when
he suddenly stopped, having probably observed the impedi.
merit, and stood in an attitude of indecision, lashing his
tail from side to side, and uttering a low savage growl,
Charles, in conformity with the directions he had received
from Mansfield, immediately stepped from his concealment,
and, bringing his spear down to the charging position, ad-
vanced steadily towards the frail barrier, which formed his
only defence against the expected charge of his formidable
antagonist. It %US a moment of fearful interest ; and the
Doctor, who from his perch commanded a full view of the
scene, felt the blood curdling in his veins. But Charles,
although he felt a peculiar tingling of the •.nerves, and a
slight palpitation of the heart, bore himself gallantly.
" Nu sooner .did the tiger perceive his intended victim
than his whole appearance was altered. His green eyes
_glared savagely—his ears were laid flat back upon his neck--
the hair upon his back stood erect—and, crouching close to
the ground, he crept swiftly towards the nets. flaying
got sufficiently near, lie uttered a tremendous roar, and
springing forward with a lashing bound, threw himself
against the net with a force that threatened to carry every-
thing before it. But the tough cordage yielded to the
shock without sustaining any injury—the upper rope be-
came disengaged—the net fell together in a heap—and the
enraged monster was instantly enveloped in 41 complicated
mass of netaork, from which, in spite of his frantic efforts,
he found it imposs!ble to disengage himself. So curious
was the onset of the tiger, and so apparently frail the de-
fence opposed to it, 'that Charles had not sufficient com-
mand of nerve to stand his ground ; he made an involun-
tary spring backward, stumbled, and fell.
" The Doctor, seeing the desperate rush of the tiger,
accompanied by a roar that mode his heart sink within
him, and perceiving through a cloud of dust, that the net
was, apparently, demolished, and his young friend down,
immediately jumped to the conclusion that he must be in
the tiger's jaws. His first impulse was to shout to Mans-
field fur help, which he did right lustily; his next to slide
from his perch, with a reckless haste that considerably in-
jured the appearance of his nether garments; to snatch up
his fusee, and hurry to the rescue, invoking maledic-
tions on the man who first invented the desperate amuse-
ment of spearing tigers on foot."

BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.
So far as we can at present form an opinion, "Guy
Fawkes" bidi fair to be the best work of fiction that its
author has yet attempted. Ls dialogues arc less stiff
and constrained, and there is more ease and vigour of
description than we meet with in " Rookwood," or
" Crichton," where exageration supplies the place of
energy, and nature is lost sight of in the constant
effort to startle and surprise. The subject, too, is a
likely one, and, judging by the present chapters, the
character of Guy Fawkes's age—so far, at least, as is
requisite for the purposes of romance—has been dili-
gently studied. Though not a man of genius, that is
to say, destitute of the power of breathing absolute life
into the Creations of his fancy,
as Fielding, and Scott
and Dickens have done, Ain worth possesses talent of
no ordinary calibre ; he can construct with skill ; look
carefully to details, especially when he ventures on de-
scription ; and if he will but refrain from laying on cha-
racter and incident more than th;.y will !;nr, we l:now

CO novel-writer of tile day likely to produce a series of

E vFAIN irNG p 7i/0.4.w
4 .

cleverer works. " Jack Sheppard' is brought to a clog
this month ; and we are not sorry for it. We hope we have
now done with thieves, and murderers, and vagabonds ;
and that " Jack" is the last of his race to be apotheosised
in three volumes. " Moral Economy of Large Towns"
is an essay penned in a sound and enlightened spirit.
Tire author is a just thinker, and his cursory remarks
on the relief of the poor pierce below the surface. " Mr.
Nibble" is a smart, brief sketch of a usurious bill-
broker. "A Rambling Cruise along the Coast of
Balm" is a smooth piece of versification, bearing about
the same relation to sterling poetry that Swift's " Ca-
denus and Vanes a" does. " The Lay of St. Odille" is
clever—for what does Tom Ingoldsby write that is not
so ?—but it is not in his freshest and liveliest manner.
The constant recurrence of the same rhymes, while
they show ingenuity, do so at the expense of that ease
and airiness of manner which should always characterise
humorous verse. " The Huntsman's Story" is told
tersely and spiritedly. " Stanley Thorn" contains.
among other diverting incidents, a piquant account of a
love-sick young spinster's elopement with her sweet-
heart. " The Portfolio" is an amusing collection of
anecdotes, from which we select the two following :

MATH WS AND TIIE SILVER SPOON.

Amongst Mathews's pranks of younger days. that is to
say, when he first came from York to the Haymarket
Theatre. he was invited with F— and some other per-
formers to dine with Mr. A—, now an eminent silver-
smith, but who at that period foiiowcd the business of a
pawnbroker. It so happened that A-- was called oat of
the parlour at the back of the shop during dinner.
Mathews, with wonderful celerity altering his hair, coun-
tenance, hat, Sce., took a large g-ravy-spoon off the dinner-
table, ran instantly into the street, entered one of the little
dark doors leading to the pawnbroker's counter, and ac-
tually pledged to the unconscious A--- his own gravy-
spoon. Math2ws contrived with equal rapidity to return
and seat himself (having left the street-door open) before
A-- re-appeared at the dinner-table. As a matter of
course, this was made the subject of a wager. An
eclaircissement took place before the party broke up, to the
infinite astonishment of Rabelais never accom-
plished a neater practical joke than this.

LUDICROUS MISTAKE OF MATHEWS

During the height of the popularity of his celebrated
entertainment " At Honste," Mathews, walking down the
Strand, observed, or thought he observed, his old ac-
quaintance, Lee the actor, looking into the windows of a
print shop. Mathews came behind Lee, and putting one
hand on each side of his head, blindf&ded him, arid con-
cluded by rubbing his ears heartily, and beating his hat
over his head. The person so treated struggled, and
turned very indignantly, when, to the inexpressible horror
of Mathews, he saw in an instant that it was not Mr. Lee,
but an utter stranger, with whom he had taken this fa-
miliar liberty. " What do you mean, you scoundrel ?"
said the old gentleman. Mathews attempted an apology
and explanation, but nothing would satisfy the affront. A
crowd gathered round ; most of the spectators knew
Mathews by sight, and were laughing at the untoward
event. 03 hearing the name of Mathews mentioned, the
old gentleman became doubly incensed, and would not be
convinced that he had not been grossly and wantonly in-
sulted. He commenced such a torrent of abuse, that
Mathews was at last obliged to walk off, Any one ac-
quainted with the nervous temperament of Mathews, will
imagine the ludicrous distress of the scene.

FRASER'S MAGAZINE,
This is an excellent number—barring its politics
which, as usual, aro reckless and truculent, as if in-
spired by the spirit of desperation. " Mrs. Hemans, and
the Picturesque School," assesses the poetical talents
of this lady just at their fitting worth ; the theme, how-
ever, is hacknied ; but not so the sketch of the cha-
racter and progress of the English picturesque school
of poetry, which exhibits true critical discrimination,
and possesses in some degree, the merit of novelty.
Characteristics in the Nineteenth Century" has
too strong a political bias, and is besides penned
in too envenomed a spirit to suit Nur taste. But
your Tory out-and-outer will read it with avidity, and
discover excellencies even in its worst defects. " The
Star of the Fountain" is a pleasing tale. " Literary criti
cism in England" trips along lightly and good-humouredly
The article is somewhat desultory in its character,
but contains much shrewd and just observation. We have
wiled away an agreeable half hour in its perusal.
" Catherine ; a Story," is concluded this month. The
remarks, at the close, on " Oliver Twist" and " Jack
Sheppard" are capital. "Of Rabelais," is the continu-
ation of an Essay that has already appeared on this
tempting subjeet. We like the article much. It is
learned, spirited, . and shows a hearty love of its
theme. The observation that " Maitre Alcofaribas ap-
pears to us in many aspects, but all benign," is true to
the letter. Rabelais had not a drop of gall in his com-
position. His humour has a keen edge, but it ss
never moody or ill-natured. We can imagine him
to have been a man universally beloved—the staunchest
of friends, the most delightful of companions. The
writer hints that he may possibly continue his essay on
Rabelais. We hope he will ; and in enumerating his
other merits, not forget the headings of his different
chapters, which are full of quaint and original drollery.
We conclude our brief notice with this amusing ex•
tract :

My first familiar acquaintance was made with him at
the university, %hen I was a hard student. To allay the
fever of my brain, after a long day's toil, I used to prepare
myself for repose with a chapter or two of Rabelais. I
was as well acquainted with his tongue as an introduction
made in early childhood could render a foreigner; and I
found him the safest sedative, as well as the pleasantest
o; companions. He soon turned the current of my ideas :
formulae that I had scared into my brain, by the day's
study, lost the touch of pain. He stimulated me gently
with his quaint drollery—care and ambition were forgot.
ten—l was revelling with the Pantagruellists in Utopia—
one hearty laugh followed fast upon another, until, by an
easy and natural transition, I passed from Utopia to the
land of dream. I have retained to this hour my fondness
for Rabelais. His works are of that small class of books
the pleasantest that ever were written. These, in my
mind, are Rabelais's " Chronicles," Burton's " Anatomy
of Melarcholy," Moliere's " Comedies," " Don Quixote,"
" Tristram Shandy," and Shakspeare'a two parts of
" Henry the Fourth." The peculiarity of these works
appears to me to be this : They may be taken up at all
times and in all seasons, in all conditions and moods of
mind. Open one of these volumes where you please, it
will have a spell to detain you amongst its pages. Be you
never so weary of spirit, instead of fatiguing you still
more, it will soothe and elate you with its genial mirth,
and surprise you into hearty laughter, that best medicine
of the sore mind. The humour is so rich and varied, that
it seems ever new.

TAIT'S MAGAZINE.
Our Radical friend Tait leads off this month with
an article entitled " Rights of the Christian People,"
which is well reasoned and forcibly expressed. The
sentiments too, speaking generally of them, are
such as we can coincide in, though we dissent
from the writer's notions of a State religion.
Let the Establishment stand on its own footing'
and not rely for support on its connexion with the
State. The " Story of Ango" is from the practised
pen of Mrs. Gore. The scene is laid at .Dieppe in
Normandy, in that stirring period, the reign of Francis
the First, after his disastrous defeat at Pavia. Like
all Mrs. Gore's stories, it is wealthy in incident'
and spirited in dialogue. " Continuation of Car
tain Marryat's Diary in America" is a review,
accompanied with numerous lively extracts, of one of
most entertaining books of travels that the season
has produced. We do not agree with the Reviewer
that the gallant author's description of the great river
Mississippi is " swelling and ambitious." On the con-
trary, we think it a very natural and graphic sketch--
tar superior to Miss Martinean's account of the same
gigantic stream. " A Slow Coach," is a smart, readable,
sketch of character, drawn, to all appearance, from die
life. " Carlyle's Chartism" is another of' those spirited
and intelligent critical notices for which this periodical
has ever been remarkable. From Ebenezer Elliott
Poem " On Burns," we quote these energetic stanzas
Few were his da3s, his fortunes foul ;
Bravely he struggled, though not long;
And, with a poet's glowing soul,
Drew near to God in song ;
For Conscience to thy poet said,
"13urnl I be a martyr!" " For the truth,
I will!" he cried—and bow'd his head,
And died, gray-hair'd in youth.
With little men he might not stay,
Rut basted from a world unkind.
Oh, guess the worth he threw away,
By what he left behind -
And what a wreath our Burns had worn,
Amid that world's immortal tears,
Had his strong mind, like Milton's, borne
The fruit of sixty years 1
But, shall it of our sires be told,
That they their brother poor forsook ?
No for they gave him more than gold;
'I'ZrEY READ THE BRAVE MAN'S BCOK.
Scotland! thy sons—and not unearned
This hour of pleasing tears returns—.
Are met to mourn thy trampled, srturn'd,
Poor, broken-hearted Burns.
And oft again the kind. the brave,
Who Sorrow's feast, like him, have shar'd,
Will meet to honour in his grave
Thy glorious rustic Bard.
O spare his frailties !write them not
On mute Misfortune's coffin lid
E'cn Bacon err'd, and, greater, Scott,
Not always greatly did."

MONTHLY CHRONICLE.
We perfectly agree with the writer of an article
beaded " Chartism," in this Number, in his assertion
``a solemn problem is visibly in course of solution,
although
no man can accurately state what it is, °r
aedticate its issue. The soil of England seems destined
to be the scene of the next great social struggle, as the
soil of France was of the last." No person who regard°
the signs of the times with the attention that their 13°,3'
mount importance demands, can fail to come to tirc
same conclusion. Chartism is no superficial nove:
merit, arising from the pressure of temporary distress'
it has little or nothing in common with the agitator;
etcited by Hunt and the mob leaders of old ;hn
has its roots deep in the foundation of socie-Y;
It is not a mere clamour for cheap bread
high wages ; but a stern, solemn demand for sow'