The Sun.
London, England, 1844-10-01 00:00:00

_
MAGAZINE DAY.

BLACK WOOHTS' MAGAZINE.
The recently published "Diaries and Correspondence
of the first Earl of Malmesbury" form the subject of
an enlightened notice in the present Number of this
Magazine. The Earl, it is well known, was for
many years British Ambassador at the Court of St.
Petersburgh, in which situation he had frequent op-
portunities of acquainting himself with the public and
private character of the reigning Empress, Catherine
the Second. The Reviewer, alluding to this portion
of the Ambassador's diaries, takes occasion to speak
of Catherine in terms far too eulogistic, extolling her
to the skies as a Queen, and making no further men-
tion of her crimes as a woman than by just stating
that " the unhappy transactions of her private life
are matters of painful record." Now, when we bear
in mind that the Russian Sovereign—to say nothing
of her being the most criminally vicious potentate of
her age—was a murderess, an adulteress, a rank
atheist, and a woman who laughed at everything like
political honour, and who broke the most binding
treaties just as often as it suited her convenience;
witness her conduct to Poland, and to Turkey, pre-
vious to the siege of Ismail ;—when, we say, we bear
these things in mind, we are somewhat at a loss to
account for the exceedingly lenient manner in which
the Reviewer speaks of this most abandoned woman
and unprincipled Queen. In every other respect the
article is fairly and candidly written ; and the cur-
sory sketch of the notorious Prince Potemkin is in
strict accordance with the truth of history. The
"Great Drought" is a story that exhibits no inconsi-
derable powers of fancy, though the colouring and
the incidents are in places much too exaggerated.
" Thierry's History of the Gauls " is an elaborate
review of one of the most thoughtful and sagacious
historical works of the day. M. Thierry is not so
philosophical a writer as Guizot—who stands alone in
this respect among modern French authors—nor has
he the vivacity, the terseness, and the picturesque
power of narrative possessed by Thiers ; but he is
superior to them both in the art of sustaining a con-
tinuous interest throughout his work ; and when oc-
casion calls for the display—as in his sketches of the
wars of Cmsar—he can exhibit a high degree of elo-
quence and graphic spirit. "My Last Courtship, or
Life in Louisiana " is touched off in that careless,
dashing, off-hand manner, which formed so conspi-
cuous and agreeable a feature in " Tom Cringle's
Log "—a series of descriptive sketches that appeared
some years since in the pages of this periodical.
" Poems and Ballads of Goethe " are cleverly trans-
lated. We quote a specimen, entitled the " Artist's
Morning Song :"
My dwelling is the Muses' home—
What matters it how small ?
And here, within my heart, is set
The holiest place of all.
When, waken'd by the early sun,
I rise from slumbers sound,
I see the ever-living forms
In radiance group'd around.
I pray, and songs of thanks and praise
Are more than half my prayer,
With simple notes of music, tuned
To some harmonious air.
I bow before the altar then,
And read, as well I may,
From noble Homer's master-work,
The lesson for the day.
He takes me to the furious fight,
Where lion warriors throng ;
Where god-descended heroes whirl
In iron cars along..
And steeds go down before the cars ;
And round the cumber'd wheel,
Both friend and foe are rolling now,
All blood from head to heel !
Then comes the champion of them all,
Pelides' friend is he,
And crashes through the dense array,
Though thousands ten they be !
And ever smites that fiery sword
Through helmet, shield, and mail ;
Until he falls by craft divine,
Where might could not prevail.
Down from the glorious pile he rolls,
Which he himself had made,
And foemen trample on the limbs
From which they shrank. afraid.
Then start I up, with arms in hand,
• What arms the painter bears ;
And soon along my kindling wall
The fight at Troy appears.
• 'On ! on again ! The wrath is here
Of battle rolling red ;
Shield strikes on shield, and sword on helm,
And dead men fall on dead !
throng into the inner press,
Where loudest rings the din ;
For there around their hero's corpse,
Fight on his furious kin !
A rescue ! rescue ! bear him hence
Into the leaguer near ;
Pour balsam in his glorious wounds,
And weep above his bier.
And when from that hot trance I pass,
Great Love, I feel thy charm ;
There hangs my lady's picture near—
A picture yet so warm
How fair she was, reclining there.;
What languish in her look 1.
How thrill'd her glance through all my frame
The very pencil shook.

Her eyes, her cheeks, her- lovely
Were all the world to me ' • •
And in my breast a younger life
Rose wild and wantonly.
Oh ! turn again, aad bide thee here,
Nor fear such rude alarms ;
How could I think of battles more
With thee within my arms !
But thou shalt lend thy perfect form
To all I fashion best ;
I'll paint thee first Madonna-wise,
Tho infant on thy breast.
I'll paint thee as a startled nymph,
Myself a following fawn ;
And still pursue thy flying feet
Across the woodland lawn.
With helm on head, like Mars, Fll lie
By thee, the Queen of Love,
And draW, a net around us twain,
A And smile- on heaven above.
•I AL
Atid. every god that comes shall pour
Iris blessings on thy, lead,
And envious eyes be far away
From that dear marriage-bed !

BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.
We received this Magazine at so late an hour
yesterday, that we are compelled to be brief in our
notice of it. The Number seems to be a very fair
one, though we have but cursorily glanced at its
contents, and cannot therefore speak with positive-
ness. Mr. Smith resumes his " Fortunes of the
Scattergood Family," and furnishes us with a whim-
sical sketch of Mr. Glenalvon Fogg—a minor actor
of first-rate ability in his own opinion. " A Few
Pages from My Journal in Greece, Turkey," &c.,
are from the pen of Mr. Fynes Clinton. The author
gives a spirited description of his voyage down the
Danube, and alluding to the present Sultan, whom
he saw at Constantinople, pourtrays him " as a pale
and ill-looking youth, without a spark of intelligence
in his face." " Miss Pifkin's Benefit" is an agree-
able prose sketch by the author of "Richard Savage."
" Sketches of Legendary Cities" gives some legends
and historical reminiscences connected with the cu-
rious old city of Chester. The " Two Fortune
Hunters of Galway" contains one or two diverting
incidents ; but the story halts in places, and, as a
whole, is much too long. A little judicious abridg-
ment would have greatly improved it. " Smoking
Robin" is chiefly deserving of notice as forming the
subject of an excellent illustration from the pencil of
Leech, who has grouped his characters with singular
ease and freedom. In his " Physiology of London
Life" Mr. Murray gives several animated descrip-
tions of the various tea-gardens in the immediate
vicinity of the metropolis ; but we prefer quoting his
account of the death of a waggon horse in the streets,
and his conveyance to a knacker's yard :
" Crack—crack—crack—into his flanks goes the whip-
cord with right good will—he brinks up a bit—now he
stumbles again— crack—crack—he goes on his knees—
he is whipped on his feet—he falls over on his side—he
never gets up again. Crack—crack—Oh 1 very well—
whip away till you are black in the face—the poor ani-
mal s time is up—his slavery is over—he will never drag
wain more. The mob comes up, as usual, through the
chinks of the stones, or else drops down from the sky ;
but there it is, talking, shouting, giving advice, loosen-
ing the traces, dragging away the waggon shafts from
o.
poor old Dobbin, whose glazing eye, and short, heaving
breath, shows that his heart is broken. The whip—
that universal horse medicine, is applied to head,
lifts his
and flank ; but it won't do ; Dobbin merely
head, as he would say, let me die in peace, winces unuer
the lash, and lays himself down again.
" The knacker is sent for. Dobbin cannot be per-
mitted to die in peace—a dead horse and a hilted horse
are two different things in the cat s-meat market—the
knacker's cart arrives in double quick--thst mob admires
the cart, the royal arms, and the inscription, Knacku
to her Majesty. The royal knacker--a swell knacker
in cords and tops, with a bit of a butcher's apron, just as
big as a bishop's—merely to distinguish his profession--
pole-axe in had, descends from his vehicle ; the de•
lighted mob closes in, eager to witness the
scientific
operation. The pole-axe is driven at one blow through
the frontal bone of the expiring animal ; a willow wand,
finger thick, is pushed into the hole and twisted about'
in the brain-pan with great dexterity ; the animal is
fearfully convulsed, writhing in the most intense agony
—the mob is quite in raptures at every kick of one brute
and twist of the other—fainter and fainter become the
death-struggles of Debbin—another turn or two, as a
nnisher—he is dead. Now a chain is fastened to the
dead horse's neck, and made fast at the other end to a
windlass, with rack and pinion fixed between the shaft:,
of the knacker's vehicle ; this is tilted up, and Dobbin
slowly ascends, amid the facetious remarks and jocose
sallies of the gratified spectators. Sasseni ' exc; is

Igers,

;law

one fellow—(A laugh)—' Real Epping,' shouts another
—(Laughter) 'Polonics,' shrieks a third (Much
laughter)—' Small Germans, Leg of beef,' Kidney
puddins,' and a profusion of other allusions to the pro-
bable esculent qualities of the respected deceased. A
few extempore fights, got up by rival pot-boys, diversify
the entertainment ; the royal knacker disappears, the
mob maketh itself air, into which it vanisheth, and you
walk off, greatly pleased with the extreme sensibility
and innate dislike of anything like cruelty, which so emi-
nently distinguishes the true-born cockney."

NEW MONTHLY
We have here snore " Conversations with the late
Mr. Beckford." They exhibit that gentleman's social
qualities in a very amiable light, but they are far
from impressing us with any exalted notion of his
superior powers of intellect. Few of his observations
rise above common-place, and as for his passing criti-
cism on Byron, it is shallow to a degree that we
should scarcely have expected from the author of
" Vathek." " Social Piracy" is the continuation of a
series of lively sketches of every-day life in the
middle classes, that were commenced in the last
month's Number of the New Monthly Magazine.
The " Last of the Contrabbandieri" is a tale of deep
tragic interest, professing to be founded on truth.
It relates to the adventures of Paul Moro, a good-
hearted, bold, reckless Italian smuggler who, while
taking a walk one evening among the mountains with
a young girl to whom he is passionately attached, is
betrayed by her into the hands of the local military
authorities. The consequence is, his imprisonment
for life ; but after a protracted confinement, he con.)
trives to snake his escape, and by the merest acci-
(lent again encounters the girl who had betrayed
him, and who is so shocked and remorse-stricken liy
the sight of her credulous victim, that she falls dead
on the spot; and Paul, a prey from that moment to
hopeless grief and despair, joins the French in their
war against the African Arabs, where, after gal.
lantly distinguishing himself in many severe actions,"
he meets his death. The story is forcibly and un-
affectedly told. "Africa in ,France" is a sprightly
quiz on the Parisians fur their present fancy for wear-
ing long beards and moustachios. " When a party
of young Frenchmen approach," says the author, " it
is like the advance of a herd of goats, or the moving .
of a forest. If Macassar has done this, mighty is
Macassar. Bear's grease it can hardly be, unless.
Ursa Major himself has been immolated to manure
the moustaches of Monsieur." We quote the follow-
ing passage from the "Recollections of Beckford:"—
" The apartment in which we were now standing, was
a long room, well proportioned as to width and height,
with a deep red drugget running round the floor—a
splendid Persian carpet in the centre, extending itself
until it reached the drugget, and spreading its deep
rich purple fringe upon its surface. From the Rom
rising to about six feet in height, there was a range of
oaken bookcases all round, tilled with every kind of
work, handsomely bound, and of the finest editions--
travels, histories, biographies, in every European lan-
guage, with observations by the author of Vathek,'
written at the end in the same language. A little bit of
purple cloth, tipped with scarlet geranium, about two
inches in depth, was suspended from each shelf, so as to
exclude the dust, whilst the ever-subdued colour of the
oak was here and there relieved by a little gilding.
Above the bookcases, the wall was covered with a silk
damask of a red tone, richer and lighter than that of
the drugget, and upon this wall was hung portrait after
portrait, the likenesses of great and historical charac-
ters, painted by the most eminent old masters, Holbein.
Velasquez, Titian, Rembrandt, and Vandyke ; then
above these was a gold cornice which supported the
ceiling, with a slight blush of rouge in it. Opposite the
window stood a most costly Florentine table inlaid with
various marbles, and which were fashioned into flowers
and ornaments. On this table was set a splendid and
graceful enamelled vase by Jean Cousin, after designs
by Annibal Carracci. On the solid marble chimney.
piece of this room, were gold candlesticks, after designs
by Holhima, and finally, at the extreme end there was
an open doorway, apparently leading somewhere else.
but whether to Paradise or to the infernal regions, was
upon the first look doubtful, in consequence of the in-
tensely brilliant, and fiery-looking colour which the
atmosphere assumed. As this apartment, with its blue.
and purple, and scarlet, seemed to be the great hall of
literature, and the great tabernacle of learning, we
looked more at the books than at the other things sur-
rounding,. He pulled down many editions of different
works to illustrate his conversation—it really was some-
thing extraordinary to see with what facility he would
find any particular passage in an author. I asked him if
he had a catalogue of his endless collection ?
" Oh, gracious goodness 1 what do I want with a
eatalogue?—l know every book in my possession, and
where to put my fingers upon it.'
" This I afterwards proved to be correct. for I never
asked him if he had such or such a work in his posses-
sion, but that he instantly went and got it and placed it
in my hands. He inquired of me if I was fond of reading.
" I told him particularly so, and that I was at that
time studying Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy.'
" Strange work,' Mr. Beckford replied; 'it is filled
with deep reading—half your modern works are decanted
out of it.'

" Perceiving a fine copy of *Junius's Letters,' I asked
him if he thought those forcible productions were from
the pen of Lord Chatham?
" Most decidedly not—none of us (for he always
spoke of the Pitt family as if he were one of them)
ever for a moment thought that they were,',and if they
had been we should have certainly knoWn it: There is
much in them which resembles the :Peculiarities of
Burke, and many of liis. adinirers entertained the
opinion so positively, that;'. Burke felt 'll,:tmself called
upon solemnly to dischtitn'The imputatiOn..' My. opinion
is, Dr. Wilmot was the.andiOr.t."-
" Dr. Wilmot !' I reiterated, With surprise.
" 'Ay, Dr.:Wilmot ; no man had better `oppoitimi-
ties ;he was a-good scholar, a sincere Whig, and a moot
intimate friencl,of Lord Chatham's. lie had oppor-
tunities of being:fully acquainted with everything, from
his enjoying such an exclusive confidence of George, 111.,
which arose from the following singular affair :
George 111., when Prince George, fell in love with a
beautiful Quakeress of the name of Hannah Lightfoot.
She resided at a linendraper's shop, at the corner of
Market-street, St. James's-market. The name of that
linendraper was Wheeler. As the Prince could not ob-
tain her affections. exactly in the way he most desired,
he persuaded Dr. Wilmot to marry them, which he did
at Kew Chapel, 1759—William Pitt, afterwards
Lord Chatham, and'Ann Taylor, being the parties wit-
nessing ; and, for aught .1 know, that document is still
in existence.' "

AIMS TV 0 R TH' S MAGAZINE.
Mr. Ainsworth opens the present Number with a
new romance entitled the " Revelations of London,"
of which, as the two first chapters only are yet before
us, we can give no ether opinion than that it promises
fairly enough. The " Prologue," as the author quaintly
calls his introductory chapter—gives an account of
the sayings and doings of a notorious conjuror who,
while looking out of his balcony on London-bridge
one fine night in the year 1599, finds, to his infinite
astonishment and disgust, a sack thrown in at
the window containing the heads of his son
and grandson ; and presently afterwards in walks
his great grandson, who has been wounded by the
warder of the bridge in attempting to take down his
kinsmen's sconces from the poles on which they have
been stuck. This may be justly styled a family
meeting, under " very peculiar circumstances." Pass-
ing the absurdity of the incident, however, we must,
in justice, observe that the descriptions of the con-
juror's den, and of his own St. Leon-like raptures,
when he fancies he has at length succeeded in con-
cocting the Elixir of Life, which his own great grand-
son with infinite effrontery and ingratitude drinks oft
before his face,—these descriptions are replete with
vigour and even fancy, and of their kind, are superior
to anything Mr. Ainsworth has lately attempted.
The " Notice of the Collected Works of James," a
brother novelist, is also, we presume, from the pen of
the editor, and is penned in a very generous spirit.
The " Gipsies' Tragedy" is by Mr. Downes ; it is
a Welsh story, and though it contains more than one
passage characterised by strong earnest feeling and
strength of expression, yet it is little to our taste, for
the incidents are of the most painful and repulsive na-
ture, and horrors are heaped on horrors with a harsh
munificence that at length becomes quite wearisome.
" A Leaf from my Theatrical Recollections" is a di-
verting series of professional anecdotes by Meadows,
who has told them with great unction. A " Story
of the Gentilities" is a lively little tale, worked, up
gracefully out of the slenderest. possible materials.
" A Few Passages on Dreams" is an ingenious...
and night-noises which have at times_ perplexed even
at-
tempt to account for many of those fantastic visions
the soundest and wisest heads. We quote a ghost..
" In 1807, a Baronet, now living, was summoned from
story, together with its explanation. :
hool to a town on the. coast, where his father had died
school
suddenly. Haying
.arrived late at night, after a fatiguing
journey, and his spirits being exhausted with the unex-
pected loss he had. sustained,, the young heir requested
to be shown to his bed-room,
minds.' whore his sorrow and agi-
tation
Betwewere soon I:dh j, ailed b--
hurt
sleep, the balm of
;41 one and two o'clock in the morning,
he was awa.liNied by a low, wailing sound, dirge-like (so
it seemed.. to half-slumbering senses) ; he lifted himself
fro.-41 iris pillow and listened. It was no dream. The
moaning noise continued, and grew louder and louder.
While our youth looked about, by the gleam of a night-
lamp in his chamber, the two leaves of a folding-door
opposite him swung open as if to give space for the
entrance of a ghastly pageant. It was as startling an
announcement as that which in Spenser's Faery
Queene' was made to Britomart when, in chearelesse
night,

the yron wicket open flow,
As it with mighty levers had been tore ;
And forth yssewd, as on the ready fore
Of some theatre, a grave personage.'
" Having remained awhile fixed with dismal appre•
pension, the young Baronet crept out of bed, and stole
breathlessly into the adjoining room. The first object
that met his view was a figure in white drapery, and with
a visage of the same colour as its robes. It seemed ad-
vancing towards him, face to face. Being for a moment
terrified, the youth dared not proceed ; and as he stopped,
the spectre became immoveable. But this was not all
that encountered his gaze in that grim apartment. A
coffin was there ; and on it were plumes of black fea-
thers, waving anti bending as if supernaturally forced to
take part in some dreary ceremony. The lamenting
sound—the sudden swinging open of folding-doors, seem..
inniv by their own imnnlse....-the white fiffurs--theeoSta.

'I

and bowing plumet—were all °sionista to impress him
who beheld them with a belief that ghostly influence was
at work ; and had he yielded to his fear and rushed from
the place, he would have given another phantom-story
to the already existing veritable stock. But, though only
sixteen years of age, the youthful Baronet was one of
those few persons whose presence of mind rarely deserts
them. Summoning his faculties, and coolly investigating
what he saw, he ascertained that the pale spectre was a
reflection in a pier-glass (till then unperceived) of him-
self in his night-gear, which, as he moved, would of course
seem to be moving towards him ; the wailing noise was
produced by win through partially-opened windows,
near which the corpse lay ; this wind, increasing in
strength during a gusty night, had forced open the fold-
ing-doors that had been only imperfectly and hastily se-
cured (perhaps in trepidation) when a bed was prepared
for the youth ; and the strong breeze had also given a
waving motion to the black plumes placed on his father's
coffin. Having fully ascertained these points, the young
mourner retired to his inner apartment, deliberately
bolted the folding-doors, offered up a prayer to his Maker,
sad was again blessed by sleep."

FRASER'S MAGAZINE.
In a temperately written article on the " General
Policy of the Government," wherein Fraser seems to
be doubtful whether he ought to praise or blame Mi-
nisters for the conduct they pursued during the last
sesstirn of Parliament, he insists on the expediency of
the Premier's putting a final stop to the conciliation-
system, as regards Ireland. " Let him only appear
to waver," says our monthly Contemporary, let him
take but one step further in the way of conciliation,
towards those whom no concessions will mollify, nor any
reasoning convince, and there is an end to his Govern-
ment at once, perhaps to the monarchy." On the con-
trary,there is an end to Sir R. Peel's Government if he
does not attempt to conciliate Ireland, for recent ex-
perience must have convinced him, as it has con-
vinced many other Conservatives, that a coercive
system of policy will never be productive of
any other result than that of increasing the exas-
peration, already quite bitter enough, in the sister
country, and placing additional power in the hands
of the repeal agitators. Fraser next proceeds to eu-
logise the honesty of Government, and instances Lord
Lyndhurst and Sir James Graham as patrons of
spotless integrity. The selection is an unfortunate
one, and, to our thinking, wears an aspect of the most
refined irony. " Courses of English Reading"
ontains some pleasant literary criticism and gos-
sip. The Reviewer, however, in accordance with
the taste of the day—a taste more remark•
able for its eccentricity than its soundness—is
over-rigid in his strictures on " Johnson's Lives of
the Poets," which is a work replete with mascu-
line sense atkd judgment, though it may be, perhaps,
deg-cient in that quick and impassioned sensi-
bility which is so conspicuous a feature in the
poetical criticisms of Hazlitt, Coleridge, and.
Wilson. Speaking incidentally of Dryden 'a trans-
lation of Virgil, the Reviewer tells us that
"it is remarkable for its occasional splendour,
but it is not happily accomplished !" This is a just
observation ; the version has passages of exceeding
excellence, but, as a whole, is anything but Virgilian
in its tone. The sixth book of the " 2Eneid"
is nobly rendered ; in places, indeed, the
translator equals, if he do not surpass, his
original ; but we miss the touching pathos of the
fourth book, to which Dryden knew not how to give
effect, for he had nothing of the pathetic in his na-
ture. In reference to Pope's "Eloisa to Abelard,"
the Reviewer maintains that it is an immoral
and impious poem. This is sheer cant. The
poem is neither one nor the other, but is
unexceptional in both respects. Even John-
son, the most fastidious of moralists, says of it :
" ' The Epistle of Eloisa to Abelard' is one of the
most happy productions of human wit; the subject
is so judiciously chosen that it would be diffi-
cult to find another which so many circumstances
concur to recommend. The heart naturally loves
truth. The adventures and misfortunes of this
illustriou3 pair are known from undisputed history.
Their fate does not leave the mind in hopeless
dejection, for they both found quiet and
consolation in retirement and piety. The story thus
skilfully adapted has been diligently improved by
Pope." The State Murder" is 'a striking tale, trans-
lated—or rather adapted--from the French of George
Sand. " ClaSsics of the Table" is an amusing article
on the subject of after-dinner wines. In " Roadside
Sketches" the writer explains the causes—which are
anything but flattering to our national vanity—why
he English are so generally unpopular on the
Continent. En voici _ _ _

" How they hate us, these foreigners, in Belgium as
much as in France ! What lies they tell of us, how
gladly they would see us humiliated ! Honest folks at
home over their port wine say, Ay, ay (and very good
reason they have too), national vanity, Sir, wounded—we
have beaten them so often.' My dear Sir, there is not a
greater error in the world than this. They hate you
because you are stupid, hard to please, and intolerably
insolent and air-giving. I walked with an Englishman
yesterday, who asked the way to a street, of which he
pronounced the name very badly to a little Flemish boy;
the Flemish boy did not answer, and there wss my Eng-
lishman quite in a rage, shrieking in the child's ear as if
he must answer. He seemed to think that it was the
duty of the snob,' as he called him, to obey the gentle-
man. This is why we Ee hated—for pride. In our free
country a tradesman, a lacquey, or a waiter, will submit
to almost any given insult from a gentleman—in these
benighted lands one man is as good as another ; and pray
God it may soon be so with us 1 Of all European people,
which is the nation that has the most haughtiness, the
strongest prejudices, the greatest reserve, the greatest
dulness 2 I say an Englishman of the genteel classes.
An honest groom jokes and hob-nobs, and makes his way
with the kitchen-maids, for there is good social nature
in the man ; his master dare not unbend. Look at him,
how ho scowls at you on entering an inn-room ; think
how you scowl yourself to meet his scowl. To-day, as
we were walking and staring about the place, a worthy
old trentleman in a carriage, seeing a pair of strangers,
took off his hat and bowed very gravely with his old
powdered head out of the window: lam sorry to say
that our first impulse was to burst out laughing—it
seemed so supremely ridiculous that a stranger should
notice and welcome another.

" As for the notion that foreigners hate ns because we
have beaten them so often, my dear Sir, this is the
greatest error in the world : well-educated Frenchmen
do not believe that we have beaten them. A man was once
ready to call me out in Paris because I said that we had
beaten the French in Spain ; and here, before mo, is a
French paper, with a London correspondent discoursing
about Louis Buonaparte and his jackass expedition to
Boulogne. 'He was received at Eglintoun, it is true,'
says the correspondent, but what do you think was the
reason ? Because the English nobility were anxious
to revenge upon his person (with some coups de lance) the
cherhs which the grande howl:. his uncle had inflicted on us
in Spain.'.
" This opinion is so general among the French, that
they would laugh at you with scornful incredulity if you
ventured to assert any other. Foy's history of the
Spanish War does not, unluckily, go far enough. I have
read a French history which hardly mentions the war in
Spain, and calla the battle of Salamanca a French victory.
You know how, the other day, and in the teeth of all
evidence, the French swore to their victory of Toulouse
—and so it is with the rest ; and you may set it down
as pretty certain, lst. That only a few people know the
real state of thin.'s in France, as to the matter in dispute
between us ; 2d. That those who do keep the truth to
themselves, and so it is as if it had never been. These
Belgians have caught up, sad quite naturally, the French
tone. We are perfide Albion with them still. Hero is
the Gbent paper, which declares that it is beyond a doubt
that Louis Napoleon was sent by the English and Lord
Palmerston ; and though it states in another part of the
journal (from English authority) that the Prince had
never seen Lord Palmerston, yet the lie will remain up-
permost—the people and the editor will believe it to the
mad of time."

TAIT' S MAGAZINE.
In his monthly political article Tail, as might be
expected, rejoices in the liberation of O'Connell,
which he calla the " reversal of a series of injustices,"
and adds, " never surely was a Government so dis-
graced i They have done the thing at last which they
were eternally twitting wiser and warier men with
cowardice for not doing—measured their strength
with the Agitator ; and they have Fot a most tre-
Anendous fall. They have been exulting for many a
month put with rude unmannerly insolence over
convicted conspirators ; and it turns out that they
are the convicts, false imprisonment the crime. They
have taken all sorts of knavish advantages, and they
have taken nothing by them but defeat and scorn.'"
This is strong language, but we are not at all pre-
pared to-lay that it is stronger than the circum-
stances of the case warrant. Ministers have played
'unfair game as.regards the Irish State Prosecu-
tScns,aud kis but fit that they should pay the pe-
nalty of their unscrupulousness. " Our Hearth and
Homestead" is the continuation of a domestio tale by
\lr. Dials. The descriptive portions are full of fresh-
ness and vivacity ; and the character of Mike, a good-
hearted hut somewhat scampish fellow, half labourer,
half poacher, whose notions of meum and tuurn are
exceedingly vague and indefinite, bear,. every appear-
ance of having been drawn direct from the Itfe. The
•• Carpenter and theCapuchin Monk" is a wild legend,
translated from the Swedish of Nicander. There is
such tenth., vividly expressed, in the parallel between
• Burns and Byron ;" and we agree with the critic
that the forrnees thoughtless follies have been too often
harped upon. tlundreds, we might add thousands, of
men infinitely worse than ever poor Burns was, and
without a tithe of his redeeming qualities, have
pa,Ased through life.esteemed and loved, and been ho-
"lived after death with an epitaph commemorating
virtues, merely because they possessed more
a. orldly wisdom and hypocrisy than fell to the share
of the ofty-minded.
peasant bard. We subjoin a por-
-1
t:on of the parallel, previously observing that the critic
presses rather Coo
.severely on Lord Byron:—
" There is little of the effeminacy of poetry about
1' urns ; and, 'much, as has been said about it, there is
tittle licentiousness, properly so called. It is true he is
often coarse, indelicate, unscrupulous in his phrases ; but
to is so, purely for the sake of the humour or the satire
...--rtot for the sake of indelicacy. There is no gloating
0 eir vice a s in 'Juvenal—no painting of it for its own
~-
make.. ' Holy Willie's Prayer' and The Jolly Beg-
gars' may be too strong for refined tastes ; but the one

is a richly-deserved castigation of a class too numerous
in this country, and the other is life, real life, though it
be the dregs of it. But his highest efforts are his purest,
and they show the natural bent of his mind, which was
virtuous and honourable. The Cottar's Saturday
Night' is a picture of piety, benevolence, love, affection,
and contentment, which, we believe, could only come
from a pious and benevolent mind. No radically vicious
man could have so ardently delighted in the description.
It came fresh from an honest unsophisticated heart. His
thoughtless follies' have been rather too often harped
upon. With kis festive soul—his adoring companions—
it is wonderful they were so few. But he has himself
immortalized them by his touching confession. There
was at least no hypocrisy in his character. He would
have pleaded guilt), at once at any bar of morality. He
would have given judge and counsel no trouble in search-
ing for evidence. They and the world were welcome
both to the full knowledge of his sins, and his manly
repentance of them. His works have toned and improved
the feelings of his class.
" Byron's weakness was, to be thought strong. This
desire shines through the most of his poetry. He wished
to appear above prejudices, and opinions, and rules. He
was too high to be guided by them. He despised the
vulgar elements of human composition, and looked upon
himself half dirt, half deity. Byron was a weak
man, and the weakness of his nature was the strength of
his poetry. His works were the diction of his passions.
He was their intellectual bondsman. It was his slavery
to their mandates—his entire devotion to their gratifica-
tion—his intimacy with their operations—his intense
concentrated experience in their indulgence and contem-
plation—his long obedience to their slightest impulse—
that enabled him to paint and shadow, and compare and
contrast them so vividly. He was a poetical gladiator,
exhibiting for fame and gold the nakedness of a mind
diseased.' His feelings were passions, and his passions
crimes. Under their command the voyage of his life
was made with a false compass, and a false chart. He
read history and used it, not for healthful instruction in
the ways of man—not for great, or correct, or useful
views of legislation—not for philosophical analysis—not
for the sake of tracing to its source any art, or any sci-
ence, or any profession : he read it to illustrate his pas-
sions—his own passions—pride, revenge, love, fear, ha-
tred, jealousy. Often ho lauds highly and enthusiasti-
cally, the wise, the brave, the virtuous, the patriot, of a
past era ; but it is to gratify his scorn of the fool, the
coward, the libertine, the traitor, of a later time. He
draws an angel of light ; but it is to contrast the angel
with a demon. He looks into the grave of a father for a
scourge wherewith to lash the son. He raises the dead,
to mock the living."