The Sun.
London, England, 1834-07-01 00:00:00

FRASER'S MAGAZINE.

A full-length portrait of Mr. Ainsworth, the author
of " Rookwood," is the pictorial embellishment of this
number. Whether it be a likeness or no, we cannot say ;
at any rate, it is the representation of a very dandified,
Narcissus sort of a young gentleman, with a hunting-whip
and spurs, a gold chain hanging out of the waistcoat-
pocket—lucky man, if the proceeds of a flash romance
enable him to pay for such an expensive addittament to gen-
tility !—and a self-satisfied look that seems to say, " See,
what a fine handsome fellow I am !" Most probably the
picture is a caricature, for it is full of the pertest Cockney
conceit. The slight memoir affixed is not so smart or easy
as usual. It omits all mention, we see, of Mr. Ainsworth
having started in life as a bookseller, which singularly
enough he resigned for the vocation of an author, as being
the more lucrative of the two !" " Lay Sermons by the
Ettrick Shephent is a pleasant notice of a very quaint
and racy publication. We subjoin the opening paragraph :-
4, We once went a long journey to see James Hogg on the re-
penting-itool, and richly were we repaid for the pains we took on
that occasion. Twenty years have passed over oar heads since
then, but if we should see twenty more, which is improbable,
never could we forget the aspect of the poetical shepherd, as,
„,,,-o.hed on that bad eminence in the kirk of Ettrick, he underwent
r i• Ns own beautiful Doric, tholed) the awful castigation of
piritual nee,bloom-
t`h—e' Boanerges who in those days ministered to the
er,
'shies of that primitive population. The bonny,
whose charms
ihfeadsficyabuesnedeat
mg, little ewe-n.. -al rectitude, stood at his elbow, wrapped all
from the path of
over in her maud, but ti, -q was visible, now—when the :Ili-
what of her sweet countenark, '—deadly pale with terror—now,
James
o f
folds
lod
sd;e deflect
nister was spairging brimstone the particular character of
when the worthy saint was dwelling b.. ^v, indecorum, &c. &c.,
her offence, its undeniable blackness, indeliea,., -en the splendour
suffused with scarlet blushes, such as dimmed e,. :nal a stern,
of her accomplice's whiskers. He, meantime, maintap.... -4ened
dogged, sullen obduracy of aspect, which spoke him a ha.... -
and unrepentant sinner: he now'and then eyed the lecturer with a
glance of cool contempt, which seemed to renettrate like lava I

into the haughty bosom of the Calvinist ; and when all the horrors
of holy rhetoric were at length exhausted, and the diatribe must
needs come .to a conclusion, nimbly and gaily did Jamie hop
from his pedestal, and was received almost with plaudits among a
goodly company of brother-swains, who had congregated rather to
do him honour than to witness his humiliation. At the kirk door
Hogg drew the ewe-milker under his arm, and away the two
glided together, with apparently as much sang froid as if nothing
particular had happened."

" Men and manners" is a continuation of .a satirical poem
by a gentlethan who signs himself, and not inappropriately,
" Pierce Pungent." It contains some forcible lines. " Dean
Swift's Madness" is an attempt to account for the Dean's
insanity, which is attributed, evidently for the sake of giving
point and novelty to a periodical essay, to the loss of a fa-
vourite child by Stella. No reader of Swift's works need
be told that he-never was a father. We question, indeed,
whether he ever felt a spark of kindly feeling towards any
human being, male or female. llawkesworth, to be sure,
tells a long story of his agony on hearing of the death of
Stella ; but that agony was the result of remorse, not affec-
tion. He professed to love Dr. Sheridan. He libelled him
when dead. He professed to love Mrs. Vanhomrigh. He
broke her heart. In a word, Swift was a sour, disap-
pointed man of the world—a misanthrope, in its most exten-
sive and disgusting form. Had he been otherwise he could
never have written as he has done. His works, though all
bear the stamp of wonderful acuteness, wit, knowledge,
and even invention, are distinguished by nothing so much as
the utter absence of all generous or social sentiment.
From first to last they are a libel on humanity. " Poetry,
the old Poets," is by Sir Egerton Brydges. It is slight
and superficial, but full of refined taste, and eloquently
expressed. Of " Sartor Resartus" we shall be able to give
a more decided opinion, when it is translated into good,
wholesome, idiomatic English. In its present state, it is a
mere tissue of metaphysical jargon. " Oxford and Lord
Brougham" is a clumsy, though an elaborate attempt to
turn the Chancellor into ridicule. It is a pity that the
writer should have taken so much pains to show himself a
mere driveller.