The Sun.
London, England, 1844-06-03 00:00:00

rHE SUN, LONDON, MONDAY MORNING, JUNE 3, 1844.

case of the Princess, when he led the conversation, not
unnaturally, to the subject of the new actor at Drury-
lane.

' It is true enough," said he, stirring up the flaming
forest which grew upon his pole. ' Dr. Drury brought
him to town. He talked with me on the subject—in
fact, we went together into Dorsetshire to see him act.
I shall never forget Kean's gratitude when we proposed
his appearance at Drury-lane.'
" Here Kean thrust himself forward like a ferret,
gazing at the speaker in perfect wonderment ; and the
bloid-red knight ' proceeded—

"' I saw him ti day in Cecil-street—he is in the very
ecstacy of triumph—and well he may. A nice child his
son ; but I am afraid my friend has something yet to
learn.'
How?.
once,

'—what is that?' demanled the whole tail at

" Why, he thrashes his wire; replied the oracle, with
the aspect of a red Indian; and he who raises his hand
on a woman, except in an act of kin3ness, it were base
flattery to call a coward.'

" Amurmur of applause followed thi3 dramatic scrap,
when Kean, having quickly passed from a ferret into a
tiger, was only withheld by the gripe of Hughes from
springing. on the carotty tobacconist. The dealer in
Virginia still went on:—' This was his,' said he, care-
lessly, as he pulled from his pocket a little chased snuff-
box,—' this was Kean's—a slight token of his obligation
to mP, as he was pleased to say. I carry it for his s►ke.'
" Do you, by the gods!' exclaimed Kean, and (hitting
from his corner, .he grasped the sight token from the
table, and hurled it through the window glass into the
street.

" Consternation seized the tobacconist, as though Cuba
itself had been suddenly swallowed by the sea; but up
rose his tail, like a water-spout, threatening annihilation
to the undaunted little actor, who stood with his arms
folded, like a stone terminus on a parapet. lam
Edmund Kean!' exclaimed he, . grinding his teeth.
slanderer! for the first time behold him! lam the
Kean!'
" The whole West Indies seemed now in a state of in-
surrection. The company rushed in a body towards the
sturdy tragedian, and verily believing him to be anim-
postor, notwithstanding the humiliation of the wholesale
dealer, assailed him with violence, and finally expelled
him the house. Little Hughes came in for his share of
the bounty, and with a shoe less than he entered the
apartment, accompanied his friend, to finish the evening,
and consult future proceedings, at No. 21, Cecil street."

HOOD'S MAGAZINE,
We are sorry to learn from a notice affixed to this
number, that the editor, Mr. Hood, has lately had a
severe attack of hemorrhage from the lungs, " brought
on by the wearing excitement of ceaseless and exces-
sive literary toil." The writer of the notice, how-
ever, adds that "he is now gradually recovering
strength, and there is every reason to expect that he
will be able, in the next number, to give the promised
new chapter and illustrations of his novel, which are
at present of necessity. deferred." The author of the
admirable " Song of a Shirt"—a poem that has
touched the hearts of thousands—is a man whom the
literary world can ill afford to lose, and we do most
sincerely hope that he will be shortly restored to
health, and delight and instruct his readers for many
a year to come, with his sprightly fancies and subtle
sketches of character, few of which but exhibit the
germs of shrewd, and sometimes even deep thought.
The "Laboratory" is a quaint poem by Robert
Browning. There are some impressive ideas scat-
tered carelessly through it, but the subject-matter is
not rendered sufficiently obvious to the generality of
readers—a fault of frequent occurrence in this gen-
tletnan's writings, who conceives with far more force,
skill, and distinctness, than he executes. "An Inci-
dent at Pisa" we should have guessed to have been
the composition of_Mr. Monckton Milnes, even with-
out his signature; for it betrays all that peculiar man-
nerism which he owes to a careful study of the works
of Wordsworth. The "Nice Young Man" is a
slight, sketchy story, whose redeeming features are
its liveliness and good nature. " Recollections of
Gideon Shaddoe" is a passable collection of ghost
stories, which should, however, have been kept for
the long winter evenings, when the cold, and gloom,
and blighting fogs of the season tend greatly to
assist the effect of such wild, mysterious narratives.
We quote one of the best of them :
" A venerable manor-house in the west of England,
with its terraced walks, noble hollies. and quaint yew
hedges, had sunk into the usual condition of such ancient
places, and had become a farm-house of the better class.
The former possessors had been of elevated rank, and
the last of their descendants, a widow lady of title, had
retired there, still retaining the remains of loveliness,
with a-handsome nephew in the prime of manly beauty,
about the middle of last century. They lived in strict
privacy, were never seen out of tire grounds, and never
received any visitors, with one exception. At the ex-
piration of every three months an old• fashioned coach
rolled up the avenue shaded by the sun-proof elms,
stopped at the entrance, and out stepped a
man of advanced age, dressed in a dark-
brown ;suit, with a plain cocked hat and grey
stockings. In about ten minutes he again made
.his appearance, entered the carriage, which rolled down
the avenue, and was seen no more till the next quarter
of a year had passed away. This had gone on for some
time, add afforded subject for comment to all the country
round.. The neighbours shook their heads, and whis-
pered light tales of the dame ; but all attempts to pene-
trate the cloud that shrouded their history failed..
" One fine August evening, six weeks at least before
its appearance was due, according to its usual periods of
arrival, the light of the harvest moon shone on the well-
known-coach till it was lost to view under the melancholy
boughs .of the avenue trees. Some reapers, on their way
home, saw it return, and, as it passed out of the avenue
gates, beheld, sitting by the side of the old gentleman,
the handsome nephew, pale and motionless as a corpse.
The same night a carriage and four drove furiously up
to the house, and, at the end of the week, a hearse and
six received at midnight a coffin covered with black
velvet, and went—none of the neighbours knew where.
The place was shut up for years, and had only been
lately fitted up for the reception of a new tenant—a sub-
stantial man who had bought the land about the house
and farmed it himself—at the commencement of the pre-
sentcentury.

"In its desolate state, it was haunted of course ; and
the wicked lady,' as she was called, had often been seen
gliding in the moonlight about the terraces by those who
had been hardy enough to take a short cut across the
grounds in their way home from the village club.
" The two sons of the new tenant were young men
just at the end of their teens. They had heard all the
ghost stories connected with the place, and laughed at
them. They had also heard strange noises, especially
from one particular chamber, in which the lady had
died, and the door of which had not been unlocked for
years, and had satisfied themselves that they had traced
some of the sounds to a colony of jackdaws that had es-
tablished themselves in the unused chimneys with which
the spacious old house—a world too wide for the present
occupants—abounded.
" These two brothers lay upon a grassy headland
enjoying the noon of a lovely day outside one of the
garden walls. They were shaded from the sun by the
overhanging laburnums and guelder-roses, which, tired
of their confinement within, had, truant-like, broken
bounds to mingle their blossoms with the wild flowers
on the field-side of the half-ruined wall. The young
men listened to the humming in the air, and lazily
watched the tremulous haze that rose from the ridges
of the fallow which lay parallel to them.
" Lying thus, with half-shut eyes, they saw upon the
ridges before them the figure of a lady dressed in the
costume of the middle of the eighteenth century. They
both started up together, and advanced rapidly to the
form, which receded without appearing to move a limb
across the furrows, with its face still towards them as
they had first seen it, till it reached the closed gate,
through the bars of which it seemed to pass as the
brothers arrived at the barrier—and then was lost to
their view. Beyond was a bare common, where no per-
son could, have been hid; and the, only beings in sight
besides themselves were a party of gnats dancing in the
sun, and the swallows that ever and anon cut a lane
through them, leaving the survivors to continue their
dance."

the communication between the wdrici ive live in and
these unknown regions. Moreoventmils diave heard, on
good authority, that a certain adventurous steam-boat,
containing a pleasure party from Dundee, did actually
bring-to at the pier of St. Andrews, much to the sur-
prise of the denizens, who, theretofore, had no more
practical knowledge of " smoke ships with chariot
wheels," than the Chinese ; but whether this attempt
has been repeated, our authority saith not. At all
events, however, it is clear, that the adventurous spirit
of modern discovery, bids fair to re-open the communi-
• Cation between St. Andrews and the civilised world.
Our pilgrimages to St. Andrews have been winter
excursions. The natural scenery around if is naught ;
and it is at that season that it receives its most charac-
teristic elms of inhabitants—the remnant of those who
linger aliout its fvepyrable university. In the summer
season we are told;thatt sundry red-faced, quick-walking
Dund4eFitizens,:with first-rate 'appetites, squat their tine
farnilies..akeig-the borders of the links, for the benefit of
sea-bathing, and the fine bracing air. To find St. An-
dreWs with such occupants, is as incongruous as the ren-
counter of the French traveller, who, when be had pene-
trated to a distant, and, as he believed, hitherto unknown
temple on the Indus, found a party of English ladies, with
pink parasols, picnicking at the gateway. In winter,
these migratory birds are gone, and the city is left in the
peaceful possession of its native rookery. Looking
through the vista of a long and wide street, you will see,
perhaps, no other human being than a professor, in his
Geneva gown, stalking along with measured step, and
with ,a countenance on which-you find deeply impressed
the fact how very difficult it would be to beat into the
head behind it any notion which is not fully a hundred
years old. Perhaps the scene is a little more lively—five
or six red specks- are seen advancing in the distance, and
as their bulk enlarges in the retina of the eye, you per-
ceive that they are so ninny students in their- scarlet
cloaks, each with his Collectanea or his Euclid under his
arm, and looking,' as Fox said of Thurlow, ' wiser
than any mortal man actually is.' A staid sedateness,
a 4 of Sleepy-hollow, marks their walks, and shows the
influence of the place—the power of the genius loci in
subduing to its solemn tone the natural buoyancy of
youth. What a new world there is to open on their-
spirits when they are removed from among the lumber
of old tottering opinions, and set down in the busy whirl
of modern useful active existence r.

FI?ASER'S MAGAZINE.
Like every one else who has ever bestowed a
thought on the subject, Fraser—Tory as he is—ex-
presses, in no measured terms, his astonishment at
the grossly inconsistent conduct recently pursued by
the House of Commons on the Factory question.
" Something is required," he says, " to preserve for
the House any share, however small, of public respect
and public confidence. A few more such exhibitions
of pliability to the Minister's will, as have lately
come before us, cannot fail of bringing the repre-
sentative system into contempt. Unless it be Sir
Robert Peel's intention, not merely to lord it over the
House of Commons, but to show to the whole world
that he does so, it will be advisable not to repeat the
Comedy of Errors, on which the whole world has
recently gazed with wonder." It will be advisable
certainly that such a comedy should not be repeated
in St. Stephen's, but it will be so, just as often as the
Premier may choose to issue his despotic mandate to
that effect. Should he, for instance, insist on the
Conservative party stultifying itself on the subject of
the Corn-laws, no doubt that obsequious squad will
obey him, without so much as a whisper of remon-
strance, and support the very measures to which it
has so long been inveterately opposed. There is
nothing too difficult of digestion for a Conservative.
He can swallow any nostrum, no matter how unpa-
latable, provided it be presented to him by the hands
of the Prime Minister. "An Episode in the Times
of Phillip the Fifth of Spain," is a story told with
spirit, especially as respects the denouement, which is
very skilfully wrought out. "Animal Magnetism" de-
votes far too much space and attention to one of the most
notorious quackeries of the day. " The Picture-
Galleries" is a series of con amore criticisms by Tit-
marsh on the principal paintings in the Exhibition,
and the Suffolk-street Gallery. The critic scarcely
does justice to Mr. Haydon's picture of Napoleon
musing at St. Helena, which is a very striking pro-
duction, and remarkable for its extreme simplicity.
In the course of some comments on the " Oxford
Professors of Poetry," the author mentions some
severe strictures of Southey on Dryden, to the effect
that he was among the second-rate poets, and that in-
stead of ",ending ages to come, he was the pimp
and paitigarrof his own. Dryden was certainly far
from imaaiatulate in his public conduct, but his faults
were chiefly those of the age in which he lived, which
more or less has a direct influence on us all. It should
be botne.in mind, too, that if he was a servile flat-
terer in his dedications, it was poverty only that
made him so—that gaunt, malignant fiend which
tames the boldest spirits, and bows to earth the most
soaring natures. As a poet, so far is Dryden from
being, as Southey would intimate—among the second
rates, that he is foremost among the great geniuses of
his country, nor can our language show two produc-
tions more perfect of their kind than his " Absalom
and Achitophil," and his " Theodore and Honoria."
We subjoin the opening passage of an article on the
" Red Indians "—who are still, we believe, resident
in the metropolis—chiefly for the sake of the diverting
anecdote with which it is introduced :

" There is a story told of the late Dick Martin, which
occurred forcibly to my mind when I paid my first visit
to the Ojibbeways. Dick, being at Greenwich fair, was
led by a very superfluous curiosity- upon the part of the
king in Connemara, to enter a booth, whose proprietor
professed to exhibit a wild man !' There, assuredly,
he saw a very wild-looking individual, with his head and
face covered with a profusion of red, shaggy hair, a
regular glib, nearly naked, and with a chain about his
waist. But Mr. Martin, upon observing that the savage
seemed to display towards him some uncouth and uneasy
signs of recognition, was induced to examine him more
closely, and the .result was that he recognised in the
wild_ man' one of his Own tenants, and shouted out,
with all the indignation becoming a legislator in favour
of animals, W hy, then, Flaherty, you blackguard of
the world, what is it you're about there, at all—at all ;
making a beast of yourself entirely—entirely ?" Earn-
ing the rent for your honour 1' was Mr. Flaherty's pro-
pitiatory and, to an Irish landlord, unanswerable reply.
Now, really, when I first gazed on these Indians, an im-
pression, almost amounting to conviction, took posses-
sion of my mind, to the effect that the chiefs, braves,
squaws, and child before me, were neither more nor less
than a party of the finest peasantry on the face of the
earth' (as Mr. O'Connell calls them), who were em-
ployed in earning the rent for some flinty-heared Sasbe-
nach landlord. As to the features of the strangers,
their resemblance to those of the Celtic Irish was most
exact, most perfect. Take half-a-dozen of the denizens
of St. Giles's, and a couple of Hibernian basket-Women
from Covent-garden market, paint them, and decorate
them with skins, and scalps, and claws, and feathers,
and, for all matters of appearance, to a casual observer,
they would be as good Indians as if they had been im-
ported hither from the eastern shores of Lake Huron.
And as to the dancing, singing, shouting, drum-beating,
tomahawk-twirling, and club-brandishing, they could
be taught it all in a week. On examining the Ojibbe-
ways more narrowly, however, I discovered certain
marks which distinguished them from the Celtic Irish,
and satisfied me they were not impostors, but real Red
Indians. First, they had those small furl delicately
moulded hands and feet which the Gel* N.Wlitude, in
Ireland, at least, can never generate ; anklecondly, the_
muscles of the arm were so slightly developed as to show
that they never had been, at any period of their lives,
engaged in the practice of manual labour. This clearly
proved that they were not the indigenous offspring of the
island of saints, though, if some antiquaries be correct,
they may boast a common origin, namely, from the
Jewish nation, and this would account for the precise
similarity in the cast and style of the features, and con-
tour of countenance. Having now dismissed all scruples
about the authenticity of the performers, I set shout con-
siderine- them curiously. Thu men were sufficiently clean
built, but not tall or muscular, nor, apparently, either,
very strong or very active. Strip them of their weapons,
and Deaf Burke would ' .double-up' the six of them in
Anglo-Irish
ithhiT ibiPl7;:thr t
.troy
minutes: Give them their war-cluhs only, and one
would make short work of
;n by
stick."
8?

ILLIIMINATED MAGAZINE.
Mr. Jerrold's " Chronicles of Clovernook." which,
though somewhat too vague and desultory in their
character, abound in point and brilliancy, and exhibit
here and there thoughts pregnant with meaning, will
be more attractive to the generality of readers this
month than they have yet been, for they detail the
history of a young man of genius, who is visited
one evening in his lonely garret by no less
distinguished a . personage than the Devil, dressed,
of course, in a full suit of mourning, which
gives the author an opportunity of venting
divers apt sarcasms against the hypocritical cant
of those who, when they fall into sin, attribute
their backslidings to the instigations of the Devil, in-
stead of to the promptings of their own evil nature.
The object of Satan's visit to the youth of ge-
nius, is to request him to write his memoirs in
a kindly and forbearing spirit, which, however, the
young man declines doing, partly from conscientious
motives, and partly because the Evil One has been
fool enough to pay him for the task beforehand. The
conversation that takes place between this amiable
couple is of the most pungent and diverting charac-
ter possible, especially in those places where it glances
at the Conventional notions and practices of; what
is called, respectable society. " A Defence for Poets"
is contained in five small poems, gracefully versified,
and in 'which occurs this just and impressive thought :
" The heart's religion is its poesy." In the article en-
titled " Bowie-knives," the author describes the particu-
lars of a most murderous single combat that took place a
year or two since in America between a Georgian doctor
and a Missouri farmer, in consequence of a political
dispute, which ended in the death of the latter, under
circumstances of inconceivable atrocity. "A Parting
Glimpse of St. Giles's" is a graphic sketch of the in-
terior of this distinguished locality, which, it seems,
will soon he numbered among the things that
once were—Tr/0 fuit! The illustration prefixed
to this article is full of spirit, but indeed all the plates
in the number are of a superior character. We quote
"Chronicles of Clovernook"
from the the yqung
geritilsVabcOnnt of the earlier portion of his career:—
" My parents let me follow my own will, which, at a
very early age, developed itself towards doing nothing.

And, indeed, throughout my life, that, my first bent, has
ever directed me. My brothers, who were so very
stupid, and therefore fit for nothing, were early placed in
the,world, and indicated the truth of the parental opinion,
by making their fortunes. They were dull blockheads,
according to my father, and so became men of wealth
and influence by the very force of their insensibility.
NOW T, who was brimfull of genius, was to do every-
thing by some extraordinary hocus pocus dreamt of by
my parents; but of which I, indeed, had not the remotest
knowledge. • Leave Jack alone,' would still be my
fafher's cry, he'll make his way in the world—how can
it be otherwise ?he has such wit Well, after spend-
ing my little patrimony—and in its happy mode of but-
. layl may be permitted to observe I showed a genius for
teYthousdnd a ear—and after losing some twelvemonth
or'itsv.6"rif bo-peep with bailiffs, you will judge of my
• dstit.inti when I tell you that I found myself reduced
to pen an'd ink. Oh, my friends! there is a condition
fur the
.human animal. Consider the outcast. The
maker 4- matches has a business ; nay, he is the pos-
sessor of alnystery. When he has made his matches.
there they are—tangible wood and brimstone ; their
merits open: to the eye of cook and housemaid. Con-
seiont' of the excellence of his ware, the matchmaker
may higgle gallantly for his price ; matches are things
Wernfed rn the commerce of life ; it is no difficult task to
rdeoniroend:their utility to the world, alive as it is to the
wotth of firelight. But books! their wordi is a matter
of faucy, say of weakness, to the weaker part of man-
kind ; they have no standard value, none, at their births
Hence, the unknown maker of a book—l speak
ally of the time when I first siune.l in ink—is a sort of
gipsy in the'social scale ; a picturesque vagabond, who
ssiifilehiliS'or' the other contrives to live on the sunny
side of the statutes, but is nevertheless vehemently sus-
pe'cted df all sorts of larceny by.respec:ahle householders.
ShMl"I ever, forget the uneasiness, the look of distrust
frotn'iny,ratidlady, when first the alarming truth fell.
upon her, that her three-pair room sheltered an author
—or rather, an author in the shell, for as then I had
hatched nothing, but was only sitting upon foolscap ?
Gbod soul!. in 'a flutter of concern, she told me that that
very room had been tenanted, for three long years, by an
honest joritirOyman tailor, whose rent was regular as the
Saturday's" sh6'looked at me from head to heel, and said
she' idped that all was right; though I could perceive
that'ilie:Spoke in ;he very forlornness of the feeling.
And, after alkthe woman had truth upcin her side. Her
tenant tailor had an allowed business; was a recognised
necessity by fallen man; was moreover one of a worship-
ful guild; an artificer whose cunning administered to
hunsuril pride; 'whose handiwork was all-in -all to worldly
triumphs.' .For Instance, what would be a coronation
withotit a taller? What would be man, left to nothing
more than sheepskins'and parrots' plumes? Hence, the
woman, rin her -strong sense of she decencies of life, ac-
lcilowreliedthe vital use of the labourer of the needle;
hence, 'when she learned that I only dealt in pen and
ink, she lOoked upon me as a sort of vagabond conjuror;
a white 'wizard, whose very money—if ever she saw it—
:night be of. doubtful origin. Shillings got out of an
inkstand, she could hardly look upon as good mint, coin:
and for this reason she could not comprehend how any
man, by' mere pen, ink, and paper, could give value re-
ceived for the ready cash. Now the tailor's work was
plain: a :pair of breeches was a tangible thing; and
•
spoke as it were common sense to the common sense of
man and womankind. But authorship! Alas! how small
to the breeches was tis tale in verse!"

THE ,SCOTT MONUMENT.
TO TH$
.EDITOR OF THE. SUN
" Exegit monumentum tere perennius."
SIRS I regret to, learn from the Committee that there is
still a deficit, in the.sum required to finish Sir Walter Scott's
monument, of something less than 1,000/. This ought not
to be. The structure has been for a considerable time in
progress, but its completion is delayed for want of sufficient
funds. It is a sad reflection that, after a lapse of nearly
twelve years from the decease of this illustrious man, the
structure is still unfinished. Without wishing to cast any
reflections on the nobility and gentry of the " Modern
Athens," I really think they have been somewhat dilatory,
and have meted him out but tardy justice in offering up their
tribute of admiration at the shrine of his genius. They
ought most decidedly to have led the van. Let it be remem-
bered that it was his birth-place, where the first dawning
of his genius displayed itself as a tale-teller, when the ap-
plause of his companions was his recompense for disgrace and
punishment. It was his chief residence during his life for a
certain part of the year, where he underwent the toil and
drudgery of the law, and where he frequently
" Penn'd a stanza, when he should engross."
It was the place where many of his poetical pieces were
written, and not a few of that splendid file of historical fic-
tions that have conferred on all the monuments of his coun-
try a more than classic immortality. He has celebrated their
city in more than one of his poems and romances, and has
made it the chief scene of one of the finest of his fictions in
the " Tales of my Landlord—The Heart of Mid-Lothian."
He also designates it the " Queen of the North ;" and in that
beautiffil apostrophe, in canto iv., stanza 30, of " Marmion,"
he exclaims with enthusiasm—
" Mine own romantic town !"

From these associations alone, the " Modern Athenians "
owe him a deep debt of gra: itude, which, as I before observed,
they have been rather tardy in acknowledging, and I should
have thought that a much larger sum might have been sub-
scribed con amore in a much shorter space of time. The
capital of the West exhibited a promptitude worthy of a
great commercial city, a statue having been erected to his
memory many years ago in Glasgow, which he has for ever
celebrated in his " Rob Roy." It is not my intention to
enter into,-Pi dissertation on the merits of the author of
" Waverley," either as a poet or a novelist; but as one who is
sensible of the great benefits which his works have conferred
on Scotland at large, I cannot refrain from offering my
humble tribute of admiration to the Northern Magician. I
earnestly hope that the admirers of Scott, now in Edina, who
have not vet contributed, will exonerate themselves from the
stigma of tardiness by immediately subscribing towards the
completion of this National Monument to his memory.
Your most obedient servant,
C. P. J.
5, Westmoreland-street, Portland-place, May 29.