The Sun.
London, England, 1834-03-01 00:00:00

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MAGAZINE DAY.

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

It is fortunate for the interests of this Maga-
zine,tysh
and those connected with it, that it has
auxiliaries,
but since.he no longer that strong political bias which tainted
it some months
ouPidolnitoictsbaeroesvteenrytatwioelulsalys
thrust forward—never be permitted to form the
leading feature of a literary periodical. Inde-
pendently of the fact that monthly political dia-
tribes, no matter how attractive otherwise, must
necessarily be hackneyed, in point of theme
they mar the harmony--the unity—the concord
that should pervade literary publications.
They
are like a false note struck in a fine piece of
instrumental music. The number before us has,
fortunately, no such harsh discrepancies. It is
uniform in its treatment of, and adherence to,
literary matters. We have little space to enter
into any analysis of the different articles ; but we
may just state, that we like the poetical ones
best, and that they are the compositions of the
most charming poetess of the day. Need we
say we allude to Mrs. Hernans ? The " Willow
Song" is exquisitely tender and graceful ; but
how is it we find this lady's " Rock of Cader-
Idris" inserted as an original poem ? It was one
of her earliest effusions, written many years
since, and we have read it and admired it our-
selves, not less than a dozen times in print.
In point of vigour, it :is the best thing she ever
wrote. " The Ideal in Prose" finds precisely
the same fault that we found with Mr. Bulwer's
" Pilgrims of the Rhine" in our late notice of
that graceful fiction, namely, that the introduc-
tion of the fairies was irrelevant, and disturbed
the sense of reality, which it was the author's
object to preserve. We subjoin Mrs. Heman's
willow song :

Willow! in thy breezy moan
I can hear a deeper tone ;
Thro' thy leaves come whispering low
Faint sweet sounds of long ago,—
Willow, sighing willow!
Many a mournful tale of old
Heart-sick love to thee bath told;
Gathering from thy golden bough
Leaves to cool his burning brow,—
Willow, sighing willow !

Many a swan-like song to thee
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree!
Many a lute its last lament
Down thy moonlit steam hath sent,—
Willow, sighing willow !

Therefore, wave and murmur on,
Sigh for sweet Affection gone,
And for tuneful voices fled,
And for Love, whose heart hath bled,
Ever, willow, willow

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

Our Magazine Notices must this month be
necessarily brief, and fortunately we find nothing
in any one of them that calls for particular
comment. Blackwood's as usual, is among the
best, though he is by no means transcendant in
his displays. " The Cruise of the Midge," is
of the same school as that admirable series of
papers, now brought to a conclusion, entitled
" Torn Cringle's Log," and we half suspect the
same bold, dashing pen has been at work upon
it. " The Trades' Unions" is an able, elabo-
rite article, though the spirit in which it is
written might be improved. Nebuchadnez-
zar" is a poem awful to look at for its length ;
it contains, however, some fine passages. The
" Irish Union" is a delightful article, containing
one rich and racy defence of rotten boroughs,
which we extract for its absurdity :

" Let the improvers of our age ask themselves how long
Henry Grattan might have gazed outside the gates of Par-
liament, if he had waited for the enlightened tailors or
cobblers of the land to let him in ; or if he had ventured
to appeal to their sense of the distinction between his ge-
nius and the brawling absurdity of some popular politician,
or gross dealer in bullocks, with what rapidity he must
have been routed from the field? The argument has been
repeated a hundred times, and still remains without an an-
swer. Was there one of the gifted names of English legis-
lation who ever entered the House of Commons in any
other way, or could have entered it in any other ? A country
squire may get in, carried on the shoulders of his tenantry,
and no one will object to the honest influence of old con-
nection and family kindness ; but no one will expect to
find the honest yeomanry pledges fur Parliamentary brains.
A rich manufacturer may be huzzaed in by his workmen ;
and of those there are fifty in-the reformed Parliament,
with what accession to the wit or wisdom of the house
the world has yet to learn. A thriving vintner, who has
&bandied the passions of the populace by the beer shop,
and exhibited his Parliamentary qualifications by the barrels
that he sells and the brutes he has made, may march tri-
umphantly into St. Stephen's, and blunder himself and
the house asleep; but by that door neither Chatham, nor
Pitt, nor Fox, nor Canning, nor Curran, nor Grattan,
could ever have set their tread on the floor of Parliament.
They must have longed and lingered outside—political
ghosts, waiting for the boat that was never to ferry them
over, and looking with astonislitnent at the train of low
and vulgar existence that passed on the simple merit of the
money in their hand. It is true that when those men
were once known by the multitude they often succeeded in
popular election ; but how were they to have been known
in the first instance? By the borough alone."