The Sun.
London, England, 1833-07-01 00:00:00

FRAZER'S MAGAZINE.

" The whole West Indian Question !" What a
frightful announcement to a reader who has been
dosed with tle Parliamentary debates on the
subject for the last four weeks! The very title
induces a yawn, like Hogarth's print of the
sleepy congregation. Has Mr. John Galt, the
perpetrator of this narcotic nostrum, no bowels ?
Have the reading public offended him beyond
forgiveness ? Surely the popularity of his last
novel deserved some better return ! Had he
announced only " half " the West Indian Ques-
tion, we might have borne with him ; but the
" whole"—it is really beyond endurance. Yet
we have perused the infliction, and when we say
that it commences with the history of the sugar-
cane as " used in Arabia, nine hundred years
before its introduction into Europe," we have
said enough, we conceive, to sicken our readers
of sugar for at least a year to come. " Sir
Walter Raleigh and Sir R. Cecil" is a very
skilful historiette, whose avowed object is to
expose the cx.tc.-ger.lted cologiums of Mr. Tytkr,
in his late memoirs of Raleigh. " Count Ca-
gliostro" is an article that seems to have been
put together for the express purpose of showing
how, by ingenuity little short of miraculous, an
ra;..l of nonsense may be packed up in a' nut-
1--
shell. " Your true rneaMtig puzalea n-wie than
wit.' Will any one undertake to explain the fol-
lowing ?

" So magnificent a thing is Will (incarnated in a crew-
ture of like fashion with ourselves), we run to witness all
manifestations thereof: what man soever has marked out
a peculiar path of life for himself (let it lead this way or
that way), and successfully travelled the same, of him we
specially inquire, How he travelled; What befel him on
the journey ? Though the man were a knave of the first
water, this hinders not the question, How he man iged his
knaveiy ? Nay, it rather encourages such question ; far
nothing properly is wholly despicable, at once detestable
and forgettable, but your half-knave, he who is ,neither
true nor false ; who never in his existence once spoke or
did any true thing (for indeed his mind lives in twilight,
with cat-vision, incapable of discerning truth); and yet
had not the manfulness to speak or act any decided lie ; but
spent his who'e life in plastering together the True and the
False, and therefrom manufacturing the Plausible. Such
a one our Transeendentals have defined as a moral H)lnid
and chimera; therefore, under the moral point of view,
as
an Impossibility, and mere deceptive Nonentity,—put to-
gether for commercial purposes. Of which sort, never-
theless, how many millions, through all manner of grada-
tions, from the wielder of king's sceptres to the vender of
brimstone matches, at tea-tables, council-tables, behind
shop. counters, in priests' pulpits, incessantly and every-
where, do now, in this world of ours, in this isle of ours,
offer themselves to view ! From such, at least from this
intolerable over-proportion of such, might the merciful
Heavens one ehty deliver us. Glorious, heroic, fruitful for
his own Time, and for ail Time (and all Eternity) is the
constant Speaker and Doer of Truth ! If no such again,
in the present generation, is to be vouchsafed us, let us
have at least the melancholy pleasure of beholding a de-
cided Liar. Wretched mortal, that with a single eye to
be `respectable,' for ever sittrst cobbling together two In-
consistencies, which stick not for an hour, but require
ever new gluten and labour,—will it, by no length of ex-
perience, no bounty of Time or Chance, be revealed to thee
that Truth is of Heaven, and Falsehood is of Hell ; that
if thou cast not from thee the one or the other, thy exist-
ence is wholly an Llusion and optical and tutu,' Phan.
tasm ; that properly thou existest not at all ?"
This must surely be a specimen of Cbeskian

or Magyar prose. I Perhaps Dr. Bowring, who
can speak and digest all languages, written or
unwritten, past, present, or to come; or Mr. Irving,

who is an adept at " unknown tongues," will

help us to a translation of it. The words,
we perceive, are English, but the construction is
unquestionably foreign. " The voice is the
voice of Jacob, but the hands are those of Esau."
Pope has aptly defined this sort of metaphysical
torn-foolery :
" Ah, think not, mistress, more true dullness lies
" 'Neath folly's cap, than wisdom's grave disguise."

The " Northern Political Union" is a tempting
subject thrown away. " New Edition of Re-
jected Addresses" is from the practised pen of
O'Doherty. There is no mistaking his Roman
hand. Yet, why should he wax so wroth with
Horace &ilia! ? Why strive so hard to under-
rate the merits of the cleverest .and most success-
ful jeu d'esprit ever published ? The close of the
illustrious Baronet's review is amusing. The last
sentence puts its paternity beyond a question :
" Justice to James Smith makes us add, that he has
been for some years converted to Toryism, chiefly by the
preaching of Theodore Hook, and the conipotations cf John
alairay. He is now a good, j vial, port-tubbing, gout-
beinartyred believer in the Tory faith ; and those who
think his present countenance and appearance any thing
like what they are in the frontispiece will be mistaken.
The link of the man is no doubt retained, and the likeness
once was good. Perhaps, however, to a book of parodies,
a parody on the author's face is the most appropriate title-
page. But why, in the name of all that is disgusting, why
not the ? It looks as if the Smiths were in the
habit of putting on rouge ; and we venture to i•ay, th
the only die used by James (of Horace we know nothing)
for colouring his cheeks has been applied from within.
If the bo,)1. reaches a nineteenth edition, James ought to
insist on having his face washed.'
" The Shepherd's Noctes is, a broad, quizzi-
cal account of some of Hogg 's late pranks and

adventures in London. The poet went, it seems,
one night to the Beef-Steak Club, and was hor-
rified at finding Campbell of Islay (a mighty
name in the Highlands), officiating " as Boots to
the Club"—electrified at hearing " a member fined
<ind rebuked for his face growing red ;" and
fairly thrown into convulsions when the Lord
Chancellor adjudged another, for some misde-
meanour, to " walk three times round the corn
pany with a white sheet about him, and helmeted
with a particular chamber utensil !" The lite-
rary sketch of " Coleridge" is neatly written ;
but the portrait is not that of an inspired poet,
but of an elderly gentleman under the influence
of a brisk cathartic. " The Triumph of Hum-
bug" is a broad, dashing extravaganza, that sets
fact at defiance, and holds truth at arm's-length.
It's ultra absurdity is it's one redeeming feature.

TAIT'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
Tait is full of spirit, meaning, and variety this
month. Politics are not unduly prominent, but

move sociably hand in hand with literature.
The first article, the " Crisis," is penned in the

stern, straight-forward spirit of Swift. The
allusion to the " haughty, unsocial insulation,"
_ _ __

of the House of Lords reminds us of the Eli-

citous and emphatic phraseology of the editor
of the Examiner, who has adopted St. Patrick's
Dean as his model. But we must give the
entire passage. It is too good to be lost :

" Power without qualification is in any case objection-
able ; to leave the qualification to chance were a monstrous
folly ; Lut in the instance of the Lords it is worse than
trusting to the chance that the qualification may exist
where the authority devolves. The chances are many,
that where power is hereditary and irresponsible qualifica-
tion will not co-exist. The very idea of irresponsibility
seems to dispense with any necessity for qualification. A
man who is accountable in no quarter for the uses he may
make of his power, has no external inducements to train
himself for the just exercise of it. If his condition be
one of ease and luxury, if be be surrounded by flatterers
and sycophants, who tell him he is all-accomplished, while
the natural dispositions plead for the luxury at his com-
mand rather than study and the discipline of the under-
standing, and the world requires of him no other claim to
its homage and respect than his title, can we wonder, in
this posi,ion, if be be unfurnished with all the properties
of a legislator, except the power? An unqualified Member
of Parliament may to chosen ; but he has strong induce-
ments to make the best use of his capacities, and not to
disgrace himself in the opinion of those who have chosen
him, and to whom he is responsible for the discharge of
his trust, and upon whom he depends for his re-election.
No such motives act upon the Peer. Whether qualified
or unqualified, whether fool or sage, whether just or wil-
fully tyrannic, his power remains unalienable, unremove•
able, In all conditions there is such hardiness in human
virtue, that some will be found to rise superior to evil
seductions, and to flourish on the rock, or in the rankest
corruptions; but though the presence of these is to be
reckoned on, not so their preponderance. It is not snore
certain that some such honours to humanity will be found,
than that they will be found in a small minority. For the
whole body of the House of Peers, standing as it does in
haughty unsocial insulation,—accountable in no quarter
fur the use of its power,—unrestrained by any real check,
—and not reminded of fallibility by any nominal one, it
must, according to the nature of things, prefer its own
narrow interests, with an audacity anti contemptuous dis-
regard to the opinions of the nation, which can be hazard-
ed in no other branch of the state. How are these pro-
pensities, the natural fruit of the constitution of the he-
reditary Legislature, to be corrected ? We know not ;
for though temporarily subdued, they will be reproduced
if !ha some C.;',l'Ci b..: left free to operate ; and if not, the
House, losin4 its independence, becomes a mockery, a false
pretence, and nothing else—answering no purpose but that
of a deceit."

" Extract from the Diary of an M.P." is de-
sultory and anecdotical. The author is no

idolater of tho-manners of the Reformed House.
He entertains a notion—in which lie is far from
singular—that it is by no means full, to a ple-
thora, of Chesterfields. It is, indeed, a profi
cient in the art of braying, but, considering the
number of Ultras that still infest it, this peat-

liurity is not to be wondered at. There is a
smart hit in the " Diary," which we must not
omit to notice. The writer is alluding to the
presence of certain female intriguantes in the
House of Lords on the night when the Local
Courts Bill was expected to be thrown out :

" It was evi•lent that something remarkable was ex-
pected, from the remarkable collection of women. When
any ini.chief is brewing, they are always on the qui vive."

" The Wishing-Cap" is less amusing than
usual. It is too didactic and metaphysical. Mr.

Hunt makes an indifferent lecturer. He is more
at home by the fire-side in the quality of a social
companion. " Horace Walpole's Letters," by
the same hand, we suspect, is far superior,
both as regards style and matter. The author
of the " Mysterious Mother" is drawn with
a master-hand ; though Mr. Hunt insists
rather too much on his bon hommie. Ho-
race Walpole was smart—witty—brilliant—
sarcastic—a master of many, and a judge
of most, literary accomplishments, but he
had no more soul than a flint. His conduct to
Chatterton puts this beyond a question. " Ju-
nius Redivivus on the House of Commons" is
a grave, skilful, truth-telling essay. Alluding
to the politics of the day, the writer well observes,
Vaa dream of bruto for;: has vAM3l,ed I:kt.t a baselet,,-
shadow, the Irish Bill notwithstanding—but now comes
the contest of chicanery. The gate of freedom is open
before us, but there are many pit-falls in the pathway
to it."
True, there are pit-falls (Tory pit-falls), but
they are dug in the Whig cross-road, not in the
broad high-way, to freedom. If, therefore, the
people keep the open causeway, they need have
no fear of tumbling into them. It is for the
Whigs to be on the watch, who, instead of fill-
ling up the holes with solid earth, have merely
covered them over with loose leaves and
branches. " Spring Thoughts on Wooing" is
a graceful essay ; but how comes the author to
call it a " gentle science ?" Whoever yet kissed
on scientific principles—sighed by algebra—or
expostulated by hydrostatics ? Science may
build a steam-engine, but it will never make a
lover. " Alison's French Revolution" is- a
dispassionate, intelligent notice of a clever book,
and pays deserved homage to the public virtues
of the Girondists. The few remaining articles we
have left ourselves no space to particularize.