The Sun.
London, England, 1850-01-05 00:00:00

MAGAZINES, &c.—(CONTINUED.)

NEW MONTHLY.

The contents of the New Monthly for January are
of a lighter and more diversified character than usual.
'• The Arctic Voyages" is the subject of the most
serious and interesting article, and "➢fr. Jolly
Green's Ideas on some of the Leading Questions of
the Day" form the topic of the most entertaining.
" Christmas in Italy," by Mariotti, is not to our taste;
religious ceremonies, however mistaken we may deem
them, are never a fit theme for flippancy and derision.
Nicholas Michell has commenced a serial tale "Hester
Somerset," which promises to be interesting. Horace
Smith's contributions continue to grace the pages of
the New Monthly—that which appears in the present
number is entitled Love at First Sight," which
appellation is somewhat of a misnomer, seeing that
the interest of the tale turns, not upon " love at first
sight," but upon a very tragic incidsnt. The unfor-
tunate hero had erected an observatory, brilliantly
illuminated, upon some cliffs overhanging the sea
shore; it was mistaken for a light-house, and a
shipwreck was the consequence—a shipwreck in-
volving the death of a lady passenger, the betrothed
of the unfortunate author of the accident.

ECLECTIC REVIEW.
The Eclectic Review begins the new year under
is new editor, whose opening address promises well.
The present number contains (as usual) some inte-
resting and well-written articles, among which is one
on " England and Hungary." Yet, excellent as the
nine articles in this number may be individually, we
cannot but think the interest of the whole collectively
would be augmented by the introduction of more than
one ,literary criticism, such as the very delightful
paper on Dr. Southey. This article is the only one of
an otherwise than religious or political character. In
itse.W it is excellent, but it should not stand alone of
its kind. The article in question opens with the fol-
lowing gracefully sketched group :
" A little after the commencement of this century there
was one remote spot in Britain, ,which almost divided
the intellectual interest of the community with London
itself. This was the vicinity of the Lakes. Beautiful
exceedingly as the region was, it had acquired a charm
which no combination of the elements of material love-
liness could bestow. Round it had clustered some of the
wisest and finest spirits then breathing. A very coustel-
lation of genius shone around the mountains of Cumber-
land, as it reflecting that great Plough which turns up
for ever the fields of the Northern sky. There wandered
Wordsworth—his eye ' seeing more in nature than other
men,' and his deep voice murmuring to the running
brooks a music sweeter than their own.' There, like a
dreaming flower, reposed the wizard Coleridge—not yet
arrived at the darkest hour of his chequered story.
There sate in his study, with its windows looking toward
Skiddaw, the indomitable Southey—passing at the sound
of a clock from the wildest poetry to the calmest prose.
There Bishop Watson gave good dinners, sauced, it is
said, with not a little of what Lord Jeffrey calls excep-
tionable talk.' There, a wild Norland meteor, with
floating hair and flashing eyes, fluctuated to and fro—
young Christopher North. There, poor Charles Lloyd,
not yet a lunatic, speculated and poetised for a season.
And there was to be seen, walking with Wordsworth be-
side the tarns, or reclining with Christopher North
under the Elleray woods, or starting with offended feel-
ing, as Bishop Watson, at the first interview, slapping
him on the shoulder, exclaimed, ' What little fellow is
this you have brought to-day, Wilson?' a small, thin,
pale faced being, with sharp features, and eye profound
as death--De Quincey, the gifted and unhappy English
opium eater. And there, for a few weeks, sojourned a
tall, shadowy form, w ith a hectic flush on his cheek, a
wild, shy fire, like that of a solitary bird, in his eye,
with dress neglected, and hasty, impatient step—it was
poor Shelley, spending some of his last days of hap-
piness, with his first wife, by the brink of the peaceful
Cumberland Lakes.
" This brilliant cluster has bees entirely dissolved.
Coleridge died far from the murmur of Grasmere
springs, and the rustle of the heath of Helvellyn.
Southey's mind, alas! departed before his body. Wat-
son (fame, works, and all) is long since buried. Lloyd
too is dead. Professor Wilson lives—but his noble form is
seldom now seen on the banks of Windermere. De Quincey,
one of the most learned and highly endowed men of the
age, has nowhere to lay his head. Shelley slumbers in
the Eternal City. A year has nearly revolved since
Hartley Coleridge, partaker of much of his father's
genius, and •f more than his father's frailties—' his
coffin as light as that of a child,' was carried to his last
resting-place. And now it is a solitary star which shines
over the classic region—solitary but immortal—the star,
so beautiful and large,' of Wordsworth. We turn
somemhat pensively to our task of estimating the
genius, and reviewing the life, of Robert Southey."
The following paragraph is eminently truthful:—
" Finally, Southey was virtuous, but perhaps it had
been better if his virtues had hung about him in softer
and easier folds; if they had not been gathered in
around him with such austere ands Roman precision;
and if they had rendered him more tolerant of the fail-
ings of others. His was a virtue—the type of which
we cannot say we have much desire to see perpetuated.
Like his genius, it was sufficient for himself, but has
had few followers. We want, now, not a man to fold
his arms, to go apart from the crowd, to say, Stand
by, lam holier than thou;' to stoop, when stoop he
does, like a fancied god rather than an exalted man;
we want one who shall willingly merge the Demi• god in
the Brother, and seek rather to circulate than simply to
preserve his character. We want not a sanctimonious
Southey—but a sanctified, a Christian Shelley."