The Sun.
London, England, 1846-03-02 00:00:00

THE. NEW MONTHLY.

Popular names, with their " lengthened sweetness
long drawn out," constitnte the chief attraction, as
usual, of Colburn ; for we are treated in this number
with additional " Echoes from the Backwoods," by Cap-
tain Levinge, good chattering echoes of their class—a
continuation of the " Privateer's-Man," by Captain
Marryat, forming a reminder of a bye-past style of
novel writing—more about " The Travels and Opinions
of Mr. Jolly Green," hodge-podge vagaries, half-
French half-Cockneyism, like a grisette in a Penstable
bonnet—another chapter of " Beauchamp," by the in-
exhaustable G. P. R. Tames, describing a struggle near
a river, and ending with true melodramatic effect,
" both plunged in together into a deep pool, and disap-
peared for an instant in the water "! 1 fresh " Lights
and Shades," by W. H. Maxwell, cleverly written and
sparkling.—new pen-and-ink sketches of Lords Stowell
and Eldon—but whew ! let us take breath after such
a long-winded catalogue. Of poetry there is no defi-
ciency, videlieet'a nondescript bit of comicality, b
Charles Hooton, entitled " The Raven," in which
moral aphorisms are deduced from a bird's bill, instead
Of a doctor's. If imitators may be taken as a criterion
of the originality or genius of the prototype, then was
Ai sop one of the most genuine originals, and one of
the loftiest intellects that ever inhaled oxygen, or
strutted forth upon the earth a—rational biped. Nor
can we regard this estimation of his character as
too eulogistic. We would back that helot, with
his hump-back and his ragged garments, against
the wisdom of any ten lexicographers that can be
picked out of any university in any generation ; we
would wear his effigy, graven upon a precious stone,
upon our finger, as about the noblest symbol of human
intelligence. His words were rugged and misshapen as
himself, but they contained thoughts of singular eleva-
tion ; they were jewels buried deeply in the mire, but
they were worth digging for any day out of the three
hundred and sixty-five. To return, however, to our
magazine lyrics, Edward Kenealy sings us "An Irish
Romance," and his hands stray among the strings with
no little felicity ; while J. E. Carpenter—(in reality the
sweetest ballad-writer of his day)—attempts something
very pretty indeed about a calm at sea, but fails most
signally in the effort. How such balderdash, in the
shape of metre, can ever' be claimed by a writer
of romaunts like Carpenter, we cannot conjecture.
We suspect Master Apollo is hoarse with carolling
overmuch, in which case , he should remain silent for the
nonce. Of Mrs. Butler's three poems we shall say no-
thingsince field flowers occasionally have their deficiency
thus are the corn-poppies brilliant but scentless. A
"Gallop to Gretna" is a reminiscence of a power, now like
Saturn's, extinct ; it gives a spirited description of one of
those boarding-school flights which, by a stern parliamen-
tary enactment are at the present moment little better
than " flights of imagination." One other contribu-
tion and our notice of the New Monthly will terminate.
Peter Priggins gives us a new adaption of the fable res-
pecting " Town and Country ;" somewhat inferior to
his ordinary gossip, though still animated with his
affection for fun and his loathing for the unprincipled.
The foregoing enumeration of articles will give some
indication of the variety and merit of the March number.