The Sun.
London, England, 1846-06-08 00:00:00

THE CONNOISSEUR.

Though recently commenced, this journal of the fine
arts breathes a healthy tone ; it is independent in its
mode of thinking, and has no conventional enthusiasm.
We will quote one passage from a criticism on the
Royal Academy exhibition, which we think conveys a
very happily-worded definition of the style of literature
peculiar to our own generation. It is as follows :
The age we live in has gradually estranged itself from
what is called classical antiquity, in which the natural ac-
tions of mankind were disguised under the phraseology of
pompous diction. It has become exigeant for exactness. In
literature detail is the one thing needful. Modern readers
are deaf to nPre unauthenticated opinion in others; and de-
mand sufficiency of well-attested circumstance to enable the
construction of opinions for themselves. Theories are no
longer accepted. Facts, circumstances, details, features, pe-
culiarities, costumes and texture, have all relationship with
the necessary attributes of a work that shall be popular.
These desideratums make the charm of Dickens; and it is
these qualities that, in spite of the sneers and, manufactured
literateur—the compilation of Greek and Lslin—the true
alreadyrni_and:iboiNn-e tlAhreallt7eerrYS' Scott, who was himself
teeth of his scorn, has
1
so signal a departure from the beaten track of classical dul-
ness. Dickens's descriptive detail is always d9rived from
ve rs University
elevated him
m

actual observation, by an organisation peculiarly fitted for
detecting those delicate ,minutife that indicate the natural
characteristics of men and things; while that of Scott, is
often merely a transcript of the image raised in his mind by
the description of others, filled up—admirably filled up—by
invention or adaptation. The one, to our posterity, will
afford documentary evidence of the social condition of our
period. The other will, with few exceptions, and those re-
ferring to localities of confined interest, be merely clever and
ent:Ttaining productions of an uncommon mind.
These opinions we cordially believe to be just and
accurate. As a romancer Scott is unequalled ; as a
pa;r ter of the social life of his contemporaries, Charles
Dickens is immeasurably above Scott and ever other
man that ever existed. Sneer as we may at his man-
nerisms—scoff as we may at his false punctuation (and
such-like solar-spots)—that is his position as an author,
and will continue his position as an author centuries
after the malcontents are lapped in oblivion. The portrait
of Madame Castellan, which forms the frontispiece, is
life-like and characteristic of the songstress.

THE MUSICAL HERALD. Part
A weekly and monthly publication, very likely to
take a permanent stand amongst our periodicals. Our
opinion rests on two grounds—firstly, the excellence
and cheapness of the work; and, secondly, that it has
no precise rival. Glees, and duets, and cavatinas, and
waltzes, are printed clearly, with a choice interpolation
of literary pieces—such as critiques, biographies, musi-
cal anecdotes, and so forth. Among several rather
scarce pieces we may mention the famous French mili-
tary song of the age of Charlemagne, " The Song of '
Roland." What with the indubitable merit of the pub-
I irAtion and its extreme novelty, the price is ridiculously
small.

GEMS OF POETRY. No. 1.
The singularity of this republication of many almoLt
forgotten beauties of our olden poets engages our
pa,hy for its success. It is charmingly got up, though
we are inclined to object to the scanty allowance of
leaves to a single part, As a specimen of the materials
employed, we will transcribe an exquis%e poem by
James Shirley, entitled " Death's Final Conquest." We
are told in a foot-note that it was greatly admired by
Charles the Second ; a circumstance which, to our
thinking, speaks admirably for the poetical taste of the
"Jerry Monarch. The words run thus—
The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ;
But their strong nerves at last must yield ;
They tame but one another still.
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to Death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now,
See where the victor victim bleeds.
All heads must come
To the cold tomb :
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.
The verses are embellished with quaint devices.