The Sun.
London, England, 1841-05-01 00:00:00

BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.

The present chapters of " Guy Fawkes con-
tain a circumstantial description of the tortures
to which the hero was subjected in the Tower,
after the discovery of his plot for blowing up the
two Hour,... Mr. Aiw.,woch
here in hiN (11,1(,:4. /R Spare us a
single physical horror. He shows us the poor
wretch writhing on. the rack ; .half devoured by
myriads of rats in the dungeon below the river;

crushed and dislocated by the gauntlets; and
compressed, almost to suffocation, in the em-
braces of the iron hoop. Not a single spasm
cttn pesS aftoSs Guy Fawkes's ghastly counte-
nance, btit the author directs our special atten-
tion to it. Theft! is a sad want of taste here,
such as a novelist of a high order of genius
could never he guilty of. True imagination re-
volts from such minute, matter-of-fact de-
tails, which do not awe the reader, but simply
make him sick, like a Sunday newspaper's de-
scriptiOn of the last and fresuegemnrder. The
•' plump " is a caustic sketch of a femaie toad-
eater, who " made such careful minutes of the
respective hOurs of feeding-time of different faml.
lies, that she was infallibly in pudding-time ;
always made it a rule to pat the children on the
head, or, wanting them, the pet-dog or cat of
the family; and never forgot the names of any of
them." The " Old Woman clothed in Grey"
is a legend by Tom Trigoldsby. It is not, how-
ever, in his happiest manner, but flags in places,
as if the author were writing against the grain.
The best portion of it is the serious. We
quote a stanza or two, which will show that In-
goldsby is not merely a humourist, but can touch
the heart, as well as tickle the midriff, when he
pleases:—
Oh! sweet and beauiful is Night when the silver Moon is high,
And countless Stars, like clustering gems, hang sparkling in the
sky,
While the balmy breath of the summer breeze comes whisper-
ing (limn the glen,
And one fond voice alone is heard—oh ! Night is lovely then
But when that voice, in feeble moans of ,iekness and of pain,
i3ut mocks the anxious ear that strives to catch its sounds in
vain.—
When silently we watch the bed, by the taper's flickering light,
Where all we love is fading fast—how terrible is Night I I
" Ghost Gossips at Blakesley House" is a pi-
quant collection of hob-goblinisms from the pen
of the author of" Stephen Dugard." In " Plain
Advice to Ir. Gabriel Blackadder, a young
Country Attorney" the ironical is attempted
with success. The following remark is some-
thing in Swift's dry, sarcastic style :—" You
cannot be too loud against the Bench; too
brow-beating towards .witnesses; or too un-
flinching in the assertion of cases and pre-
cedents. Never mind your grammar—be gar-
rulous. Fat, aged, vain old gentlemen in powder
and the commission of the peace, like to have
law supplied to them by the ton, like coal, from
your wharf, and are not particular as to slatish-
ness in quality, provided you deliver them as law
coal." The " Old Ledger''' is heavy and common-
place. The " German-Student's Tale" is a spirited
piece of diablerie. -" Stanley Thorn" is neither
better tier worse than usual. " Merry England
in the Olden Time" is au amusing mixture of
anecdote and.description,, interspersed with hu-
morous songs. We subjoin a specimen of the
latter, entitled " The Inquisitive Farmer ; or
Harlequin Hangman :"
Harlequin, taking a journey to Bath,
Put up at an inn with his dagger of lath.

HP sujip'd like a lord—on a j;illow of down
He slept like a king, and he snored like a clown.

Ponitiee said, as he popp'd in his head,
In that little crib by the side of your bed,
As honest a fanner a: e'er stowd in shoes,

(My chambers are full) would be glad of a snooze."
Th 2 farmer began, as in clover he lay,
To tin, of his clover, his corn-rigs, and hay,
His bullocks, his heifers, his pigs, and his wife ;
Not a walk colld the Harlequin get for his life.
He.reekon'd his herds, and his flocks, and his fleece,

And d. ore twice to market hiA ducks and hi 3 geese
He babbled of training, and draining, and scythes,
And ir:eing, and sowing, and taxes, and tithes.

" To the fair do you carry a pack, or a bunch?
Are you mountebank doctor, or pedlar, or Punch?
What is your calling? and what is your name?,
Are you single, or married,—or coward, or game?"

Poor Harlequin, fretting, lay silent and still,
While the farmer's glib tongue went as fast as a mill.
" Where are you going ? and whence do you come ?
How long do you tarry f—The deuce ! are you dumb ?"

" I'm the hangman," said Harlequin, " sir, of the town ;
I cut in the morning a highwayman down;
And fix in the mrrket-place up, for a flag,
To-morrow his head, which I bear in mu bag !"
The talkative farmer jump'd up in a fright—
(" if you look for the bag, friend, it lies on your right !")
Ran out of the chamber, and roar'd for the host,
shrieking, and shaking, and pale as a ghost !

Floniface listen'd, bolt upright in bed,
To the cock-and-bull story of hangman and head ;
And then caught the mountebank, snug on his back,
Holding his sides, which were ready to crack !
Load liugh'd the landlord at Harlequin's trick,
" As soon," cried the fArrncr, " I'd sup with Old Nick,
As sleep in this room with that gibbetting wag,
With a head on his shoulders, and one in his bag!"