The Sun.
London, England, 1832-04-02 00:00:00

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

An admirable number, defective only in the
tone and bearing of its politics. Christopher
North belabours the poor Liberals as earnestly
as ever, though with a sort of reluctant acknow-
ledgement, that the chastisement is as useless as
Xerxes' flagellation of the Hellespont. The
" Prospects of Britain" is as sour and despond-
ing as an evident dyspessia on the part of the
writer can make it. " British Finances" is
practical and elaborate, but heavy enough to
sink a seventy-four. "The Poet's Dying Hymn"
is in Mrs. Hemans's best and most finished man-
ner. The " Wet Wooing" is a powerfully written
story well worked up, and containing a spirit-
stirring description of a storm at sea. " American
Poetry" is a masterly notice of the works of
Mr. W. C. Bryant, the popular transatlantic
Wordsworth. \Ve suspect it is by Professor
Wilson, as also the review of Miss Kemble's
tragedy, which has but one fault, that of being
too exclusively eulogistic. We extract from
this last an eloquent sketch of the Siddons.

We trust that we have too much good sense to at-
tempt painting a picture of Sarah Siddons. In her
youth, 'tis said, she was he iutiful, even lovely, and won
men's hearts as Rosalind. But beauty is a fading
ifiwer. It faded from her face, ere one wrinkle had
touched that fixed paleness which srldiun was tinged
with any colour, even in the whirlwind of passion. Light
iv.nt an came across those finest features at the coming
and going of each feeling or thought; but taint was the
Chang- of line ever visible on th it glorious marble. It
was the magnificent counter, ince of an animated statue—
in the stillness of its dealiziqi beauty instinct with all the
emotions of our mortal life. Idealiz-d beauty ! Did we
not say that beau y had laded from her face? Yes—but
it was overspead with a kindred expression, for which
we withhold the name, only because it seenied more di-
vine, inspiring awe that overpowered while it mingled
with delight,—more than regal,--ssy rather immortal.
Such an image surly had never b fore trode, nor ever
again will tread, the end anted fin ir. In all stat. hest
chews of waking woe she dwindled he wateliest into in-
sig ifirance ; lor majesty male others wean ; in her sun-
like light all stars paled their in ff ctual fires " But none
knew the troubled grindeur of guilt, till they saw her in
Lady Mactmth, walking in her sleep, ind, as she wrung
her hands, striving in pain to wash from t e u tl•e en-
grained mu' der. Not all ti e perfumes of A,ahia couln
sweeten this littrle hand !' The whisper ciimii as from 'he
hollow grave, amt more hideously Itaunt.4l than ever wis
the hollow grave. secured then ro be tie cell of her heart !
Sliakspe..re's self had learned something then from a siAt
of Soldons.”

The Art of Government Made Easy" is an
ironical essay in mutation of Swift. It has all
his assumed gravity, but not his dry, pungent
sarcasm. Nevertheless it is a clever paper. The
" Noctus" are of a higher order in point ut
mind than usual. They have little humour, but
much eloquent and imp visioned writing. ‘N e
have been struck with the following cursory obser-
vations on Hope :
" North—ln this view of human life, the nature of
Hope tnay he said to he this—that ma. is dependent for all
issue-, partly 1111 liiinsell, and partly on uneounnauiteil
evrnts; he has, therefore, in his own true and good ex
ertion a ground of 'rust, and in the uncertainty of all
',moan events a ground of fear; hence his always
fbietutitinv, yet still rising hope—like the flow of the tide,
where every wave that advances falls bark, and yet the
waters still swell on the store.
Young Gent ernan—Sometimes, sir, the soul seems
to itself like the sea-sand, bleak, and desolate; but
in a fe., hours it vet flows with joy, just as does that hay,
when the tide has again reartcarted the shell-wreaths on the
silvery shore, and on the merry music of the breaking bit

lows the sunny sails of lorg-absent ships are seen comic:,..
homewards from the main.

rth—Yes—just so, my young Poet. And as tho:t
art a young Poet, though I have seen none of thy verses,
what gayest thou of that Hope which is more airy an,`
illusive ; that visionary Hope which adorns the distant•;•
of life, filling the mind with bright imagery of unattain-
able good, promising gratification to desires which cannot
be re sliced ?

Young Gentleman—l fear to speak—l love to listen.
N.irth—And I, Hal, am on the verge—l know—l feel
it—ot garrulous old age.
Tickler—Which verge ?
North—The mind, my son, cannot rest, for it was not
made to rest, in realities. It lives on the future even more

than on the present. It lives. by hope more than enjo-
mem. How then shall reason confine that spirit which is
to live in the future, to the unknown realities even of the
future? It cannot—we ron.t hope beyond the truth."