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

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

In Mr. Cyrus Redding's entertaining recollections
of the author of " Vathek," which lead off the Num-
ber before us, occurs the following characteristic
anecdote of the late George the Third :—" lie was not
' only capable of the grossest• duplicity," said Mr.
lieckford, " but he was destitute of feeling too. I
went to the levee aftef -Lard George Gordon's riot,
the military had just fired on the mob, a necessary step
to put a stop to lawless plunder and violence. I
entered as the King had come out of his closet, the
Officer who commanded the troops being immediately
before me. As soon as the King saw him, he said
You peppered them Well, I hope—peppered them'
well—peppered them well!' in his loud way. Every
body stared, the 'levity of the remark struck the
•officer. . Firing even upon lawless mobs was then
considered to be justified only by self-evident neces-
sity. I hope your Majesty's troops will always do
their duty,' was the answer drily returned, with a
significant gravity which feelings less obtuse than the
King's :must have felt to be
.a tacit reproof, as many
were killed." The Monarch-who thus exulted in the
carnage of his own subjects, is the same who for so
many years was called the "good old King," and
whom hundreds of old,
.Tory twaddlers and veteran
placemen still maintain to have been a pattern for all
sovereigns! But History,
.which sifts the true from
the false, and whose first sacred duty is an impartial
-and discriminating estimate of character, has of late
shown the world the utter heartlessness, selfishness,
brute obstinacy, and incurable bigotry of this long-
overrated Monarch., He is now seen exactly in his
true colours, stripped of the falSe halo that for years
surrounded him ; and a more remarkable portrait was
never yet exhibited for
,public reprobation. Nor was
his son—the vaunted and showy George the Fourth
—much better... He, too, was- incurably selfish, and
never on any one occasion allowed the interests of his
subjects to interfere with.his own personal gratifica-
tion. "Lights and Shades" contains some cleverish
sketches of indigenous Irish character. " Arabella"
isa delightful portrait of a gentle, kindly, affectionate
woman, - who, like Fielding's " Amelia," sacrifices
health, hope, and -happiness -unhesitatingly to the- man
she loves, but who is every way unworthy of such a
disinterested, high-minded creature. • "Finishing with
a Dinner" is a narrative of the ludicrous mishaps
that befel a country Surgeon -Mr. Raymond Fowler,
in the course of a professional visit which he paid to
the 'metropolis. --In the first place he got drunk,
which is bad—seCondly, he got robbed, which is worse
-and thirdly, he got his-head broken, and was com-
pelled to take to an ugly scratch wig, which is worst
'of all. And all these afflictions originated in his visit-
ing Vauxhall one disastrona evening, and becoming
too passionately enamoured of its Once-celebrated
Arrack-punch! " How to ma,iie a Long Day" is
one of those sprightly, off-hand, hvelligent essays,
''wended on a.close observation of real life, which have
so often enriched the pages of this Magazine. The
"Winds." is ,a graeeful e.lYkieTroni the pen of Mr.
Josiah Minty. We quote it accordingly for our
readers' gratification :--

" What voice is in the4inas
There is a feeling in their lightest tone,
The soft gales sigh the storm-blast's hollow moan,
Each to the soul in language of its own

•Speaks and an echo'-finds.
" How light upon the ear
Bra.thes the soft murniur.of tbe evening gale,
Wringing from' memory full many a tale
Ofhonie, and youth; and-love;ahl visions frail,
As they were
,passing dear.
;"fThe whirlwind in its might,
That vanquisher of earth, the hoarse, the loud
Scourger of ocean, ruler of. the cloud,
What is the whirlwind?—what hut passion's crowd
Of feelings as they smite,.
" How o'er the ravaged earth
Are strewn the fragments of her summer prime,
Lille blighted joys that lie in after time
Upon die aching heart, whose only crime
Was to give passion birth.
" The night wind sweeps along,
With fitful cadence sighing on its way,
As if the spirits of.the.bright, the gay,
The loved, the lost, were in its mournful play,
A melanCholy throng,
•
" How soft its gentle kiss—
Andcan it be that spirits from above,

Thus on the pinions of the night-wind rove,
Fanning the leveed cheeks of those they love,
And whispering of bliss ?
" But now the morning breeze
Steals o'er the earth with fragrance on its wings,
Filling the soul with bright imaginings ;
The flow'ret opes its bud, the wild bird sings—
' There's music in the trees.

" What says the breeze of morn ?
That gentle hope within the human breast,
May thus breathe sweetly, calming it to rest,
Thus sing of happiness and regions blest,
To comfort the forlorn.

" Then have not winds a voice ?
Is there not language in each magic sound ?
Are they not eloquent as on they bound
O'er earth and sea ? When are they silenit found ?
When cease they to rejoice ?
" Among the snows untrod,
Along the vale and o'er the grassy hill,
Through trees, 'mid flow'rets boisterous or still,
By night, by day, the universe they fill :
Their's is the voice of. God.'