The Sun.
London, England, 1834-05-01 00:00:00

LO DON, THU SDAY f..7'NEXINI.-,. 31 ,Y 1, 1834.

MAGAZINE DAY.

BLACKWOOD' S MAGAZINE.-.-Part I.
The " Memoirs of M. de chateaubriand," of
which a few desultory sketches are given in this
number, will be read with much interest. The
Viscount's preface is giver', entire. It: is a highly
'characteristic performance, eloquent, shaded with
melancholy, and overflowing with egotism... There is
hOWever, such a good-nature in the old man's gossip,
such a: sustained elevation of sentiment, and such a
perfect absence of all mean, selfish querulousness
about him, that •it is impoSsible, to feel other Wise
than amused with his*constant reiteration of self.
In truth, the very magnificence of his egotism re-
deems it. Thus, if he commits a political blunder
he assures us it is not his fault, but destiny's. c‘
I have often failed in my designs, it was a failure of
destiny !" Mark, too, the diverting self-compla-
cency of this passage :

" Of all contemporary modern French authors, I am the
only one whose life resembles his works ; traveller, soldier,
poet, legist, it is in the woods that, I have sung of woods,
in vessels that I have described the sea, in camps that I
have spoken of armies, in exile that I have learnt of exile,
and in courts, in, affairs, in assembles, that I have studied
princes, politics, laws, and history. .Tsorators of Giecce
and Rome were involved in the public caus4AvelNrißok
orits fate. In Idly and 'SPA', toikirffs. th-e—close of the
middle age, the first genius of letters and the arts partici-
pated in the social movement. What stormy and splendid
lives are those of Dante, of Tasso, of Camoens, of Ercilla,
and Cervantes!"

How slily and archly the Viscount here insinu-
ates a comparison between himself and the great
Italian and Spanish writers—to say nothing of the
celebrated names of Greece and Rome. It is a
modest touch worthy of O'Doherty! The following
remark is full of pathos :
" I have had no repose but during the nine months that
I slept in the bosom of my mother."
The Viscount tells us that he has written much
at sea. He is the only author, we believe, who
ever penned a line in that predicament. Sea-sick-
ness and sentiment pair but badly as yoke-fellows.
One qualm—but one little qualm—is quite enough
to • drive a whole legion of tropes and meta-
phors from a man's brain. Our head spins round
like a top at the very thought of such a diabolical
visitation. We must make one more extract
from these memoirs, for it is quite a picture painted
by the hand of a master :
" His father was a man of tall stature, of a physiognomy
sombre and severe, imposing in all his manners, his step
heavy, his voice solemn, his look stern. During the day,
young Francois de Chateaubriand would rather make a
long circuit than meet his father ; but on the fall of night
the whole family assembled together in the half-deserted
chateau, situated in the midst of woods, and far from all
other habitation. In a vast hall they spent their evenings;
the mother and the two youngest children sitting within
the embrasure of the immense chimney, and the father,
enveloped in his cloak, pacing the apartment backwards
and forwards in silence. As this lord and master got more
distant from the chimney corner, the conversation between
the mother and the children became more animated ; as
his footsteps sounded more distant, the children's voices
became louder, but as the old Count returned from the
door to the chimney, the conversation lowered ; and the
more he advanced, the more the voices sank. Sometimes
he would stop before therichimney, and not a whisper was
heard ; but if by chance there were, his stern voice de-
manding " who speaks ?" produced again the most pro-
found stillness. Thus were the evenings spent in alternate
chatter and silence. At eleven o'clock the old seigneur
retired to his chamber ; then the mother and children would
listen till they heard him walking above ; his footstep
made the old floor groan ; as soon as all was silent, the
mother, son, and daughter, uttered a cry of joy, and the
two children began to play a thousand frolics, or amused
themselves in telling ghost stories."
" Cousin Nicholas" is agreeable in point of
but somewhat tame and wordy in style. The anecdote
of the gents in the pit of Drury-lane dragging out a
pick-pocket to the nearest pump, is not true to life.
No Pittite would ever make such a sacrifice to an
abstract love of justice. He would have too much
regard for his three shillings and sixpence. " Mi-
rabeau" is vigorously written, but we cannot agree
with the writer's estimate of the great French de-
mocrat. If ever there was a scamp--a trimmer,
faithless in all the social relations of life—a traitor
to all parties who trusted him—false to his God—
false to his King—false to the very faction which
made him what he was—Mirabeau was that man.
His eloquence has been most absurdly overrated.
At the very best, it is but tinsel and clap-
trap, and as to his sagacity, where was it
when he spent the last four months of his
life in endeavouring to make atonement for
what he had done the few months previously ?
Then mark his utter absence of all dignity—of all
real, unaffected magnanimity on his death-bed. Like
a true frantic modern philosopher, he must needs
call for voluptuous essences and perfumes, and die
to the sound of soft music, like a melodramatist at
the Coburg! Imagine our Fox, and Pitt, and Can-
ning indulging in such mean, shallow affectations
at such a moment !—Playing the coxcomb on the
brink of eternity ! Yielding up their mighty spirits,
tickled and consoled in their last convulsive agonies
by the tol-de-rol of " Maulbrooke" or the " Mar-
seilleise !" The very name of a tricky apostate
like Mirabeau, should stink in the nostrils of every
honest man. He was that most detestable of all
creeping things—a dandy atheist. As to his elo-
quence, he has left no specimen of it superior to
Sheridan's clap-traps, in Pizarro. Of the re-
maining articles we have merely space to say, that
they are all of average merit.

water between the. two antagonist powers of demo-
cracy and aristocracy. The " Palace of the Ma-
remma" is a charming poem, penned in the most
polished, ivory style-of Mrs. Hemans. " Recol-
lections of Kean are amusing reading. We give an
anecdote :

Poor Kean, probably imagining that, with the multi-
tude, it might favour the fiction of his Etonian education,
was prone to the quotation of classical commonplaces ; and
a story told of H. Phillips (his secretary) shows how much
this weakness was remarked by his associates. Kean was
at some nocturnal vigil, and Phillips waiting for him, when
this colloquy arose :
Time, two in the morning.
_ _ . .

Phillips-4 Waiter, what was Mr. Kean doing when you
left the room?'
Waiter-.--. 4 Playing the piano, sir, and singing.'
Phillips—' Oh, come, he's all right, then.'
.Quarter past two. -
Phillips—' What's Mr. Kean dOing now ?'
Waiter--4 Making a speech, sir, about Shakspeare.' -
Phillips-L-4 He's gettintfirunk ; you'd better order the
carriage.'
Half-past two.
Phillips -' Whati4e at now?'
Waiter—' He's Whips Latin, Sir.'
Phillips.--4 Then he' rs drunk. I must get him away.'"
•

FR4SER' S MAGAZINE. - •
" Father Prisut" continues his amusing gossip in
this nunrer. lie:furnishes us with minute ,Ileft*lS
or a %is4aid by 'alter Scott •i-.the 4iailAtas
to; the famous Blarney stone in the neighbourhood
of Cork, and prefaces his account by some acute,
critical remarks on the genius of the author of
Waverley. The " Judgment of the FlOod" is a
laudatory review of a powerful, and in parts, sub-
lime, but uniformly cumbrous and elaborate poem
of that name. The " Fraser Papers for May" are
as sprightly and flippant as usual. The " Gallery
of Literary Characters" contains a portrait of the
Editor of the Age—one of the most faithful like-
nesses we ever met with.