The Sun.
London, England, 1847-02-18 00:00:00

LITERATURE.
THE BATTLE OF IVIBLEY GREE=D'. 12!, J. B.

Kington
Since the publication of the "Reliques of Old English
Ballads," by Bishop Percy, the beauties of that noble
species of poetry has been more and more apprec:ated.
Not only have the lovers of ballad literature revelL,d in
the perusal of the ancient Saxon compositions, but a
number of imitators have appeared among theta—rnAt
who, gifted with a natural affection and adaiiration ;or
everything good and beautiful, have frequ,ntly evidenced
the possession of faculties worthy of emulating the
genius of their antique predecessors. Among th.?se may
almost be reckoned the present Paymaster of her Ma-
jesty's Forces, his "Lays of Ancient Rome" having
about them all the most admirable characteristics of the
most perfect ballad poems extant. He has fully trans-
ported his imagination to the woods of Algidus and the
streets of Tusculum, to the days when the valorous
lioratius " kept the bridge so well," to the merry bouts
and carousals of the Roman citizens—

"When the oldest cask was opened,
Aud the largest lamp was lit,
And the chestnuts glowed in the embers,
And the kid turned on the spit."
And ho has not only revived those days of heathen
greatness,"but he has embalmed them for ever and for
ever in poetry—" flies in amber." The" Oriana' Alfred
Tennyson, again, though fraught with more of the fanci-
ful than is usually found in the ballads of the olden
time, has about it all the vigour and pensiveness which is
so remarkable in those glorious originals. There is,
moreover, in those verses of Tennyson's the impassioned
Iteration and verve so peculiar in the master-pieces of
our Saxon bards: instance the lines—
" The bitter arrow glanced aside
Oriana,
The false, false arrow glanced a
aside,
Oria,
The damned arrow glanced aside,
And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride,
Oriana,
Thy heart, my love, my life, my bride,
Oriana!"

Happily we might go on adding to our instances of suc-
cessful imitators in this particular kind of metrical com-
position to the length of jenny columns. It were unne-
cessary, however. We should only be reviving the
recollections of the vast majority—not testifying to a fact
hitherto unrecognised. What we have here to do, is to
comment upon the appearance of a little volume with
pretensions of a like description. Mr. Kington displays
in this book a genial and spontaneous enthusiasui for
the manners, habits, and even the diction of our remote
ancestors. The principal poem in the collection is
modelled after a somewhat similar fashion with the
chivalric poems of Walter Scott—"Rekeby," " The
Lord of the Isles," and " Marmion." Excepting in the
descriptive line to the first portion, or canto, or what-
ever else it may be designated, there is nothing incon-
gruous to the original conception. That line would in-
cline us to anticipate a species of paraphrase upon Mac-
pherson—" The Earle sits in the gloom of the evening,
his thoughts amid the gloom of the past." If the anti-
cipation were formed, however, that the succeeding parts
were Ossianie, that anticipation would in no manner be
realised, for the " Battle of Igibley Green" is consistent
throughout. The story is English, the characters are
English, the language is English—and that is saying
much now-a-days. Sometimes in the hurried chaunting
of his song Mr. Kington, like his brethren of the lyre,
flings off from the strings a delicious snatch of melody,
as where ho says

-" the faint moon lit, with a silver flicker,
The ivy leaf that crept along the glass."
Clever, however, as the portraiture of the Lord of
Berkeley may be in the " Battle of Nibley Green," we
are more charmed with some of the smaller pieces
appended to the volume, especially with those dedicated
to the delineation of " Maid Marian.'' There is much
delicate and gentle beauty in these stanzas, a purer wor-
shipping of ideal excellence than that of Sacharissa, by
Wailer. And there is a pleasant variety in them which
renders them particularly palatable. " Marian and the
Water Party" is descriptive, for example, of "a summer
morn, a sunny morn," when

" The butterflies were all about,
The bees sang to the morning early ;
And Joy rose, clamouring, with the shout
That scared the bird among the barley."
Immediately before this is the following graceful de-
scription of " Marian at her Evening Prayers:"—
" Do not light the candles yet;
Close not out the Evening Star;
But leave rse quite alone ; and let
The door remain ajar.
" Bow thee down irreverent head,
For a sound comes down the stair ;
Marian, kneeling by her bed,
Saith the Evening Prayer :
" Praying—Evermore to Bless
Those that all about her be!
Flush : God give me worthiness .
Marian prays for mel—
Marian! kneeling by her bed,
Earnest, meek, absorb'd, and calm ;
Drooping forward her dear head ;
Pressing palm to palm."
Besides what we hare already enumerated, there are
various humorous, melancholy, and miscellaneous frag-
ments in the book, of different, and occasionally in-
different merit.

THE NORTH BRITISH REVIEW. No. XII.
In this sensible and superior periodical there is an
agreeable diversity of subjects—one being a copious
synopsis of " Morell's Modern Philosophy.;., another;
about the afflictions of " Deafness and Blindness, as
illustrated by the writings of Dr. Kitts ; another com-
memorative of " Abraham Cowley," one of the most
undeservedly neglected of our poets ; another upon art,
as visible in the pictures of " Modern Painters;" another
about the " An 10-Normans ;" another about " Watt
and Cavendish," especially as to the manner in which
those eminent men were implicated hi the researches
made as to the composition of water ; and a concluding
article—would that it could be a concluding article in
more senses than one—upon the " State of Ireland." A
merely superficial glance at the contents for this quar-
ter's number of the North British Review will be suffi-
cient to render at once manifest the variety and discri-
mination of talents possessed by the contributors and
editor. We are especially gratified to observe the tribute
of praise paid to the Oxford Graduate who penned the
two volumes upon " Modern Painters." Dissenting in
Coto, as we do, from the opinions of that eloquent writer,
in the comparison drawn between the old landscape
painters and the modern landscape painters, it would be
ungenerous to deny the extraordinary powers of the
anonymous author. Reverencing the memory of Claude
Lorraine as we do—not from an idle accordance with
any fashionable admiration, but simply because we re-
cognise in him a matchless interpreter of the divine
glories of God's creation—we cannot refrain from
applauding the impassioned panegyrist of Mr. Turner.
The Oxford Graduate is among the most eloquent
writers that have appeared for many years past ; his
pen is immeasurably superior, in the portraiture of na-
ture, to the pencil of that great master whose genius
appears to be the incessant object of his wor-
ship, and the perpetual theme of his eulogiums.
We remember reading the first volume of
the Oxford Graduate's work on "Modern Painters,"

almost immediately after its first publication ;
the remembrance of it is not effaced in any one particu-
lar, nor can it be speedily obliterated. As a specimen
of the author's powers of painting in words, and as a
specimen too of how the most gorgeous diction may be
employed even in profusion, without degenerating into
bombast and hyperbole, we cannot resist transcribing
the following magnificent description of the Slave
Ship a—

"But, I think, the noblest sea that Turner has ever
painted, and, if so, the noblest certainly ever painted by
man. is that of the Slave Ship, the chief Academy picture of
the Exhibition of 1840. It is a sunset on the Atlantic, after
prolonged storm ; but the storm is partially lulled, and the
torn and streaming rain-clouds are moving in scarlet lines to
lose themselves in the hollow of the night. The whole sur-
face of sea included in the picture is divided into two ridges
of enormous swell, not high, nor local, but a low, broad
heaving of the whole ocean, like the lifting of its bosom by
deep drawn breath after the torture of the storm. Between
these two ridges the fire of the sunset falls along the trough
of the sea, dyeing it with an awful but glorious light, the in-
tense and lurid splendour which burns like gold, and bathes
like blood. Along this fiery path and valley, the tossing
waves by which the swell of the sea is restlessly divided, lilt
themselves in dark, indefinite, fantastic forms, each casting
a faint and ghastly shadow behind it along the illumined
foam They do not rise everywhere, but three or four to-
gether in wild groups, fitfully and furiously, as the under
strength of the swell compels or permits them ; leaving be-
tween them treacherous spaees of level and whirling water,
now lighted with green and lamp•like fire, now filtshing
back the gold of the declining sun, now fearfully dyed from
above with the indistinguishable images of the Writing
clouds, which fall upon them in flakes of crimson and scarlet,
and give to the reckless waves the added motion of their
own fiery flying. Purple and blue, the lurid shadows of the
hollow breakers are cast upon the mist of the night, which
gathers cold and low, advancing like the shadow of death
upon the guilty ship as it labours amidst the lightning of
the sea, its thin masts written upon the sky in lines of blood,
girded with condemnatio❑ in that fearful hue which signs
the sky with horror, and mixes its flaming flood with the
sunlight—and cast far along the desolate heave of the sepul-
chral waves, incarnadines the multitudinous sea."
In many respects the last number of the North
British Review ii superior to its predecessors.

SOIREE OF TIIE WHITTINGTON CLUB.—The foun-
dation of the Whittington Club was celebrated last evening,
by a gathering of the members and their friends, at the
London Tavern. The room was so full that many could
not gain admission. The chair was occupied by buuglas
Jerrold, Esq., the president and founder of the club, round
wham were congregated on the platform a large number
of distinguished individuals, including ladies. Mr. Jerrold
opened the proceedings in a pithy address, which was
received with enthusiasm. He adverted to the intellectual
progress of the people, which an institution like the
present would encourage ; and dwelt especially on the
necessity for union of purpose in carrying out its objects.
He then described the objects of the club, and the advan-
tage which would be enjoyed by its members in reading,
conversation, Sec. Mr. Jerrold concluded by prophesying.
the highest and most beneficial results from the institution,
both in our own, and in times to come.—Addresses were
then delivered by Dr. Mullinger, Mr. Dawson, Dr. Bowring,
and other gentlemen, the entertainment being further sup-
ported by distinguished vocalists, among whom were Miss
Rainforth, Miss Bassano, Miss Messent, and Mr. Wetherbee.
A new song, written and composed for the occasion, was
warmly applauded.—Mr. William llowitt proposed a vote of
thanks to the chairman, which was seconded by Mr Nash.—
Mr. Jerrold briefly returned thanks ; after which a large
pro-
portion of the party dispersed, the remainder staying to
of various amusements, of which dancing was the prin-
cipal feature. _ _

THE PERPETUAL MOTION.—We hare not heard
anything of the " Perpetual Motion" this year. We mean
the motion which Mr. Brotherton brings forward every ses-
sion of adjourning the noun at twelve o'clock.—Putich,