The Sun.
London, England, 1846-01-07 00:00:00

MAGAZINES.- (CONTINUED.)
AINSWORTH'S MAGAZINE.
George Cruilishank has again joined the Ains-
worth corps, and has given us a sketch illustrative
of the opening article, entitled " Sir Lionel Flam-
stead and his Friends," such as only George Cruick-
shank can produce. The room is a snug, cosy
parlour, ornamented with pictures, maps, and illus-
trated screens, all connected with the history
of old London. Books there are, too,
scattered about--Stripe and Hollinshed, and Fabian
and Stowe, and bits of tesselated pavement and frag-
ments of Roman brick displayed on the chimney
piece, all declare that the owner of the mansion, if
not an F.S.A., at least ought to be one. But how
shall we describe Sir Lionel and his friends ? We
cannot do justice to the picture, therefore we must
call Mr. Ainsworth to our assistance, and let him de-
scribe the occupants of the apartment
These were five in number—jolly fellows all—seated
round a circular dining-table covered with glasses and
decanters, amidst which a portly magnum of claret, and
a deep and capacious china punch-bowl must not pass
unmentioned. They were in the full flow of fun and
conviviality ; enjoying themselves as good fellows always
enjoy themselves at the season of the year.' The
port was delectable—old as Saint Paul's, I was going to
say,—net quite, however—butt just old enough ;' the
claret was nectar, or, what is better, it was Lafitte ;—the
punch was drink for the gods. The jokes of this
party would have split your sides—their laughter
would have had the same effect on your ears.
Never were heard peals of merriment so hearty and pro-
longed. You only wondered how they found time to
drink, so quick did each roar follow on the heels of its
predecessor. That they did drink, however, was clear;
that they had drunk was equally certain; and that they
intended to continue drinking seemed to come within
the limits of probability.
"Sir Lionel Flamstead was a retired merchant—one of
those high-souled, high-principled traders, of which our
city was one so justly proud, anc. of which so few, in
these days of railway bubbles, and other hair-brained
speculations, can be found. His word was his bond—
once passed it was sufficient : his acceptances were ac-
counted safe as the Bank of England. Had Sir Thomas
Gresham descended from his niche he could not have
been treated with greater consideration than attended
Sir Lionel's appearance on 'Change. All eyes followed
the movements of his tall and stately figure—all hats
were raised to his courteous but ceremonious salutation.
Affable, yet precise, and tinctured with something of the
punctiliousness of the old school, his manners won him
universal respect and regard, even from those unknown
to him. By his intimates he was revered. His habits
were as regular as clock-work, and the glass of cold
punch at Tom's or the basin of soup at Birch's, wound
him up for the day. His attire was as formal as his
manners, being a slight modification of the prevalent
costume of some five-and-thirty years ago. He had
consented, not without extreme reluctance, to clothe his
nether limbs in the unmentionable garment of recent in-
troduction ; but he resolutely adhered to the pigtail.
There is something, by-the-bye, in a pigtail, to which
old gentlemen cling in spite of all remonstrance, with
lover-like pertinacity. Only hint the propriety f cut-
ting it off to your great uncle or your grandfather, and
you may rely on being cut toff with a shilling yourself.
Be this as it may, Sir Lionel gathered his locks, once
sable as the ribbon that bound them, but now thickly
strewn with the silver ' blossoms of the grave,' into a
knot, and suffered them to dangle a few inches below his
collar. His shoes shone with a lustre beyond French
polish, and his hat was brushed till not a wind dared to
approach it. Sir Lionel wore a white, unstarched
cravat with a thick pad in it, sported a frill over his waist-
coat, carried a black ebony cane in his hand, and was
generally followed by a pet pug-dog, one of the most
sagacious and disagreeable specimens of his species.
Sir Lionel Flamstead, I have said, was tall—l might
have said he was very tall—somewhat narrower across
the shoulders than about the hips—a circumstance which
did not materially conduce to his symmetry—with grey,
benevolent eyes, shaded by bushy, intelligent brows—a
lofty, expansive forehead, in which, in the jargon of
phrenology, the organs of locality and ideality were
strongly developed, and which was rendered the more
remarkable from the flesh having fallen in on either
side of the temples—with a nose which had been
considered handsome and well-proportioned in his
youth, but to which goad living had imparted
a bottle form and a bottle tint—and cheeks from
which all encroachment of whiskers was sedulously
removed, in order, we conclude, that his rosy complexion
might be traced from its point of concentration, upon
the prominent feature before-mentioned to its final dis-
appearance behind his ears. Such was Sir Lionel Flam-
stead."
The story of the " Count of Monte Christo" is con-
tinued, and the author of " Flandly Cross" gives us
some pleasant reminiscences of Nimrod. We are
glad to see that he does ample justice to the
merits of that most enterprising of editors
and most worthy of men, the late Mr. Pittman, who
made the Sporting Magazine and made " Nimrod,"
and by so doing originated a new class of literature in
this country, which, as the author observes, may not
inappropriately be called the sporting personal. In
the course of six years Nimrod drew nine thousand
pounds from the magazine, and Cooper, the artist,
and Scott and Webb, the engravers, were
liberally paid by the magazine for their services.
After all, the public is the best of patrons, although it
is a difficult matter to persuade the professors of the
arts, literary, pictorial, and musical, of the fact.
Where is the aristocratical patron who would, or who
could have supplied Nimrod with 9,0001. in six years ?
and yet Mr. Pittman was enabled to, to his own as well
as to Nimrod's profit, because,he relied solely on the
public. " The Miseries of a Prize" is a most " Boz"-
like sketch, by George Raymond, of the miseries
of an unfortunate toy-shop keeper, Mr. Daniel
Fogg, who resembles Job Caudle, not only in his
trade, but in his domestic establishment also, seeing
that Mrs. Fogg bath a tongue which she is perpetually
wagging. Fogg gets a prize in the lottery, which is
his ruin. The story is very quaintly told. The
other papers are all amusing. This is an excellent
number of Ainsworth.