The Sun.
London, England, 1834-04-28 00:00:00

LITERATURF.

EDINBURGH REVIEW, No. 119.
Edinburgh, 1834.

The first article in this number will, we fore-
see, excite much attention. It is a review of
a lately-published memoir of Sir John Moore,
by his brother, who is gravely and deliberately
charged with having suppressed facts material
to the general's reputation—with having sacri-
ficed him, in fact, to his own virulent political
prejudices. This is a serious accusation—in-
volving the character, not merely of the bio-
grapher, but the man—and such as Mr. Moore
will do well not to lose a moment in replying
to. The annexed passage will give an idea of
the spirit in which the review is written :

" We expected from Mr. Moore a dry, succinct,
meagre narrative of certain actions, the relation of
which.would in no manner commit the writer,—a few
bricks brought forward to show what the building was;
in fine, we expected nothing good, and we have not
been disappointed. He has produced what he calls the
Life of Sir John Moore,' but what is no more the
representation of the man, than the square block of
marble in Chantrey's yard is the statue which that
great artist will carve from it. We have a record in-
deed of the battles in which Ensign Moore, and Lieu-
tenant Moore, and Captain, and Colonel, and finally,
General Moore, was present; we have shown to us a
very well-drilled, obedient officer, who is never absent
from his guard, and never insults his commanders ;
who dislikes to see subaltern officers drunk on parade,
is brave in action, and receives the praise of his gene-
ral with due humility. But the man, the hero, we
have not. Moore's form is there,—we see his uniform,
we know that it was red,—that it covered a body which,
having life, performed certain functions. Sir John
Moore lived and died ! This is denoted by certain
words, very grammatically put together by his biogra-
pher, yet stripped of every grace and spirit-stirring
expression ; witnout taste or judgment ; without one
spark of genius, one luminous ray of illustration ; and
above all, and worse than all, without one throe of
sympathy with that proud and generous spirit, whose
workings he pretends to display. Every page proclaims
to those who have seen the original materials, not only
the utter incapacity of the author to think or feel like
his brother, but, if it were not too painful a thought,
would even lead us to imagine that he was secretly
chagrined that he was his brother. Kindred indeed
he claims with him, but it is the kindred which the
damp moss claims with the ancient temple ; it clings
to and covers it to its injury, soiling and hiding its no-
ble proportions. And, as if the dull faithlessness of
the book had extended its influence to the engraver,
the very portrait which accompanies it is repulsive to
those who remember the commanding countenance of
the man."

" Fanaticism" is an ably-argued, metaphy-
sical disquisition. 'We have been struck with
this remark—" Doubt is a situation of discon-

tent, uneasiness, privation, if not of actual pain.
Belief appears the more natural state of the
mental system—the fulfilment and satisfaction
of a physical want." Doubt is indeed a situ-
ation of pain—nay, of acute, intense agony.
It keeps the mind stretched upon a rack, com-
pared with which, that of the Inquisition was a
bed of down. " Cunningham's Lives of Bri-
tish Artists" is a passable notice of a very
agreeable production. Allan Cunningham is
more at home in the discussion of works of
art, than of literature. His late notices of
our modern authors in the columns of a weekly
periodical, were a shallow tissue of common-
places, in which trope and metaphor were every-
where substituted for thought and argument.
But when he comes to speak of art, he speaks
in a sound and discriminating spirit. We do
not at all hold with the Reviewer, that he has
canvassed the merits of Reynolds in a carping,
inimical spirit. He has certainly not larded
him with eulogy, but he has paid ample
homage- to his genius. The " Journal of a
West India Proprietor" speaks of Lewis's little
posthumous work, just published by Murray,
as it deserves. His " Journal" is indeed its
author's chef d (vivre. His romance of " The
Monk," though its pruriency, irreverence, and
startling accumulation of horrors, lifted it for a
season into notoriety, is long since forgotten,
and his " Castle Spectre"—a still more jejune
affair—lives only on the boards of minor the-
atres, chiefly by virtue of its female hobgoblin
in a white lace veil. But why does the re-
viewer call Lewis's " Bravo of Venice" a
tragedy ? It is a prose romance, in one vo,
lume, and must, in its day, have been a pro-
digious favourite, for we remember reading the
fourteenth edition I " Heeren's Researches
in the Asiatic and African Nations," is one of
those half-antiquarian, half-historical treatises
—an abstruse, elaborate mixture of hypothesis
and deduction—which is more apt to bewilder
than to edify. " Lyte's Poems," we mean the
Review, forms very pleasant reading, though
we could have dispensed with the passing sneer
at Gray, who, whatever may be thought of the
methodical phrenzy of his Pindarics, is the
author 'of " The Elegy" and the " Ode on
Eton College"—two poems which ought to be
held in lasting remembrance. We say this,
despite the dictum of Wordsworth, that the
" Elegy" is a pack of nonsense, from one end
to the other. With many of the odd crotchets
and peculiarities of a somewhat priggish old
bachelor, Gray was a high-minded and-gentle-
natured man, whose genius turned an ever-
vigilant ear to " the still, sad music of huma-
nity." As such we reverence it. Of the ar-

tide entitled " Trade with France," we are in-
competent to give an opinion. It has, how-
ever, a very profound, imposing aspect, with
its columns, and squares, and battalions of
arithmetical figures, drawn up with a stern
noli-me-tangere look. " Patronage of the Uni-
versities" is seasonable and well-digested. The
cursory sketch of the continental universities
will be read with much interest. The notice of
Mrs. Somerville's work on " The Physical
Sciences," is so full of rare and various learn-

ing, that we are inclined to attribute it to the
pen of Lord Brougham.
But decidedly the ablest article in the num-
ber is that on Carey's translation of Pindar.

t is full of spirit, taste, and

no' of the resn—`