The Sun.
London, England, 1833-11-01 00:00:00

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

The article on " Edmund Burke," in this
number, contains, as usual, much eloquence
mixed up with more absurdity. One theory
which the writer starts, has struck us with pro-
found astonishment. He declares the French
Revolution to have been indirectly brought about
by the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, under
Louis the Fourteenth As well might he have
attributed it to the wars of the Roses, or the
intrigues of Warwick, the " King-maker."
Every one knows that the seeds of the French
revolution were sown by Voltaire and the Ency-
clopaedists, and that the immediate cause of it
was the rupture of the Duke of Orleans with
the Court, owing to some slight passed on him
by Marie Antoinette. Hence originated the
Jacobin clubs of the provinces, which the Duke's
wealth and Murat's journal caused to be trans-
ferred to Paris. Hence, too, the intrigues of
the " Mountain," the fall of the Girondists,
and the inevitable hurrying on of the Reign of
Terror. Voltaire " rocked the cradle" of the
French revolution ; Egalite acted as its man-
hood's tutor—tutor, worthy of such a pupil! The
author might have spared the sneer at Dr. Price,
who, he strenuously insists, as if delighted with
the fact, was killed by Burke's Reflections. But
Toryism is not famous for humanity. We re-
member the loud shout of derision it set up,
when young Keates was represented as having
been rendered broken-hearted by the assaults of
the Quarterly. Yet, when the case is re-
versed, when a Tory happens to be killed by a
Radical, bless us, what an uproar—what a bray-
ing—what a pricking up of ears ! We shall never
forget the Tory tribulation, when it was rumoured
that LordEllenborough had fallen a victim toH on e.
From the peer in his palace to the cook in his
kitchen, the whole Tory squad, like Rachel weep-
ing for her children, was overpowered by its
exceeding sensibilities, and, like her, " refused to
be comforted," because its great legal Corypha us
" was not." Such is the cant of party—the
great blighter of all generous sensibilities ! The
" Sketcher" abounds in animated descriptions
of nature. The writer feels, as well as under-
stands, the Fine Arts. The subjoined passage
s written as Salvator Rosa would have painted

:-

" Now, then, take your palette in hand, and sketch in
boldly such a subj.ct—w here tie sea shall be subservient
to the sky ; take plenty of colour, and no small brush.
Here you have one long uninterrupted horizon of water
from one end of the canvass to the other—so far Omnia
pontus erant. Let it be mid ocean, a thousand miles at
least from land on every side, a thousand miles from
" brown furze"—colour, a dark green, inclining to
blue, and occasionally falling into the purple, with sweeps
of black shadow across, running into the deep hollows of
the waves ; and let the waves be edged with a cold blue
tint, and not curled, transparent, and of a depth unfa-
thomable. To account for these shadows and colours, you
will first have dashed in some masses in your sky ; you
will now give them more shape. The time is evening--
towards the " close of parting day," and approach of
night; leaving thereby the expectation of something more
horrible, when darkness shall be no longer visible, but all
shall be given up to sound, to roar, and to howling—to
this expectation the picture must lead the imagination.
There must be large and gathering masses of clouds, a red
and lurid light much pervading them. Over them, fre-
quent cold and watery vapours shall be hastening and
collecting as if called in from their outposts on more im-
portant duty. For the dare conflict is not yet, but in
dreadful preparation. The elemental war is not yet be-
gun, but the monstrous genii are entering the arena of
combat over the everlasting gulf. Towards the horizon,
break the masses of the clouds, and flake an opening for
the distant light of the setting sun in lurid streaks, and
one line of deep red. Let cold grey mountain shaped
clouds rise up and be the boundary, behind which this
lurid light shall be spread. On the right, let the clouds
drop heavy and almost black upon the purple line of the
sea. Amid the clouds, there are shapes of horror, of dark-
ness, of obscurity, of evil omen, of death—funereal hue,
and pomp, and gathering. And behind, a purple mass,

there rises, Is hue somewhat blending the red with the
grey, the monster cloud, with mysterious and visible
expression of living feature, of the Storm Demon, ordering
up, with projected arm, the spirits " that do his pleasure
in the vasty deep." Upon the swell of a huge wave, there
is dimly seen an object—it is so unobtruding on the eye
that you do not for some time see it; and now that you
do, you find it of deep interest. It is a poor wretch upon
a part of a wreck, part of a mast and plank ; he is with
his head between his knees, and beside him a dog crouching
by him and looking up to him. There is not even a sea-
bird to scream his dirge over the waters to his home far
away, of which, in his misery, be is thinking. The painter
cannot paint sound, but you can imagine you hear a howl
blended with the distant roar. The rest is left to the
imagination."
" The First Session of the Reformed Parlia-
ment" might have been written for, we are sure
it would have been inserted in, Tait's Magazine.
How true is the adage, " Extremes meet !" The
writer, as a matter of course, is an alarmist on the
subject of Russian influence ; but he may
ring the alarum as often as he pleases ; few will
think it worth their while to listen. Europe is
in no danger from " the Scythian Colossus."
To the Tories, who look at her with a sort of
imperfect, twilight eye, she may appear a giant
but to those who can bear to keep a fixed,
steady gaze on her, she is but a dwarf. " The
Spanish Succession" takes a Carlist view of the
question. The diatribe is a most unseasonable
one, for it predicts the triumph of Don Carlos,
at the very moment when his stanchest advocates
are falling away from him on all sides. " Lines
suggested by David's Picture of Napoleon Asleep'
have a stern, manly vigour about them worthy of,
Byron. We must give this splendid poem :
" Steal softly!—for the very room,
The stately chamber of His rest,
Imparts a gasping awe and gloom
Unto the rash intruder's breast—
Here, kneel and look !—but breathe not, lest
Thy gross material breath alone
Should wake that eye's immortal blaze,
That, like the Last Archangel's gaze,
Might scorch thee into stone !

" He sleeps!—while Earth around him reels,
And Mankind's million hosts combine
Against the seeptre.sword which seals
Their fate from Lapland to the Line—
While, like a giant roused from wine,
Grim Europe, starting, watches him,
The Warrior. Lord of Lodi's field—
O'er Jenna's rout who shook his shield—
Is hush'd in slumber dim 1

" He sleeps I—The Thunderer of the World
For once bath, wearied, dropt the bolt,
Whose strokes split empires up—and hurl'd
To dust each purple.mantled Dolt,
'Mid havoc, ruin, and revolt !
Lo, lull'd like baby by its nurse,
The Imperial Eagle folds that wing
Quiescent, whose awaking spring
Shall shake the universe!

" He sleeps ! and silence binds that tone
Which cleft the Alps' eternal walls,
And bridged his pathway to a throne
Above the Avalanche's halls :
Hark ! how that victor-voice appals
Pale Austria's battle-line, when first
He crash'd gaunt Nature's bars asunder,
And meteor-girt, inflame and wonder,
Upon Marengo burst!

" He sleeps and dreams—oh, for the sense
Of some sublimer sphere, to know
Where strays the fierce intelligence
Which scourged the nations here below
To the Empyrean doth it go ;
And would its wild Ambition strain
To grasp the balance of the skies,
And systems, suns, and stars comprise
In one tremendous reign

" He dreams and smiles I The Conqueror's brow
Gall'd with the Wreath's triumphal pride,
Looks grandly calm and placid now,
As Iff young Enghien never died!
As if—Victorious Homicide !
The rush of Borodino's stream,—
His bony legions' freezing groans,
And icy Russia's forest.moans,
Are heard not in that dream !

" The plan and pencil in his hand
Have dropp'd, as though their effort fail'd
To draught the crimson sketch he scaun'd
In Fate's vast volume seven-seal'd
But earth shall see the page reveal'd,
And hear its fiery purport too,
Until her curdling heart's .blood stops—
And, carnage-clogged, thy sickle drops
Outworn, red Waterloo !

"He dreams and smiles! Yon blue-sea prison
lineages Fortune's crowned bird :
And France, exulting France, has risen
Through all her borders, trumpet-stired
He heeds it not—some vision'd word
Hath shown him Ocean's distant wave
Thundering the moral of his story,
And rolling boundless as his glory,
Round St. Helena's grave.

" Away, bright Painter 1 tell thy frere,
Self-satisfied Philosophy,
Whose ready, reasoning tongue would swear,
That brow of Despot cannot be
From crested Care one moment free,—
Tell him thy Life-imparting eye,
Napoleon's sleeping hour survey'd,
And with one deathless glance hath made
Immortal now the Lie! "
The lines marked in italics are full of expres-
sion ; especially the idea—
" Look grandly calm, and placid now,
As if young Enghien never died."
" Spenser" is a worthy criticism on one of
England's most genuine, but most dreamy,
visionary poets. On the whole, the number is
a good one, though we have seen better, and
that within the last few months.