The Sun.
London, England, 1840-12-04 00:00:00

MAGAZINES-CONTINUED.

MONTHLY 611RO NICL E.
Though he artily tired of Italy, end all things relating
to it—for it is a subject with which the literary por-
tico of the public is bored on an average six times a
year—yet we will confess to having read the " Letters
from the Continent" with infinite pleasure ; and for this
reason, that there is no maudlin feeling—no elaborate
extacies in them. They speak to the point, and in a
spirit of earnest truth, which is the best eloquence.
We think, however, that in his account of Shelley, the
writer lays on the varnish rather too thickly, for though
a high-minded man, an' a poet of undoubted excellence,
Shelley was by no means one of the master-minds of his
day. He was too mystical—tao visionary—mistaking
mere crotchets for sound philosophical troths. IF'
all
his writings we trace the marks, of a powerful, but ill-
balanced intellect, that yearned to improve, instruct,
and elevate humanity, but knew not how to set about
the task. Much of his poetry is exquisite, but, alas,
there is much more that " passeth all human under-
standing." A " Christmas Gossip about Books," is a
good humoured series of brief, pertinent criticisms on
some recent publications in prose and verse. The
opening passage about rivers pots forth some lively
ideas, if not very profouud or original ; but why does
the Reviewer omit to speak of the Nile, which of all
streams in the world fills the largest space in the
imagination ? We cannot hold with him in
his panegyric on Izaak Walton, whom we have
always considered as little better than an an idle twadler,
notwithstanding his occasional pastoral prettinesses. The
essay on " Old English Dramatists," blends shrewd
criticism with ignorant assumption in a very strange
hodge-podge fashion. What does the writer mean by
saying that " the want of truth, and of reliance on truth
in Euripides has been the cause of his substitution of
cunning rhetoric for the language of poetry ?" Did he
ever read the Medea of this great dramatist in the ori-
ginal ? We greatly doubt it, or he would not have for-
gotten that touching passage where the half-mad mother
calls upon her children to kiss her for the last time,
which strikes as deep a chord of feeling as even Shake-
spear's Lear. The " Black Mail " is an old Irish
Legend told with considerable ability. The " Sea" is
a poem wherein the quaint and the affected are substi-
tuted for the imaginative. We cannot endure this in-
cessant straining after effect—this spasmodic endeavour
of the frog to swell himself to the dimensions of the ox.
The subjoined sonnet by the same author is infinitely
better, because more chaste iu style, and natural in
sentiment :

" Joy of my soul 1 I would that thought had power
To bring thee to me at this gentle hour;
Now while the moonlight streaming through the trees
Blends with the music of the evening breeze :
Shedding on Sound the loveliness of Light,
Breathing on Light the melody of Sound ;
Till a melodious moonlight floats around,
And music seemeth as a part of sight :
But dearer far the starlight of thine eyes,
And the fair music of thy gentle lips,
And 'neath thy gaze I look on fairer skies
Than those above: but absence flings eclipse
On all around, and earth and sky feel drear
Since thou art not, my gentle Fanny, here I"

MONTHLY MA GA ZINE.
There is here a curious translation ft ono one of
Goethe's elegies by Mr. John Bernays, which is in
the hexameter and pentameter metre—a metre ill-
suited to the genius of the English language, but which
the translator, nevertheless, has contrived to make
tolerably melodious. Southey, we believe, was the
first ivho attempted this perilous experiment ; and his
" Vision of Judgment" was certainly not bettered by
it in popular estimation. " Our Comic Writers" is
a review of Leigh Hunt's introduction to the works
of Congreve, Farquhar, Sze. It is penned in a cordial
spirit, but objects, justly enough, to the tone of some
of Mr. Hunt's critical remarks. We agree in the
pra • ise bestowed by the Reviewer, on Mr. Moxon who
may certainly be called "the poet's publisher ;" and
whose literary undertakings are, we trust, remunerating
him to the full extent of his deserts. " The Knave
and the Deuce" is a story in rhyme. It is of a very
mediocre character. " Alia, the Cat-fiend," is a tale
translated from the French. It had better have been
.•

left untranslated, for there is little or nothing vine it.
The " Green Room" has some just and pertinent ob-
servations on the subject of the drama. " Life," is an
eloquent—though in some places, mystical—lyric from
the pen of the Editor.