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

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

We have here more " Conversations with the late
Mr. Beckford." They exhibit that gentleman's social
qualities in a very amiable light, but they are far
front 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- I
cism on Byron, it is shallow to a degree that we
should scarcely have expected from the author of
" Vathek." " Swial 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
'baking 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 make his escape, and by the merest acci-
dent again encounters the girl who had betrayed
him, and who is so shocked and remorse-stricken lv
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 storey is forcibly and un-
affectedly told. "Africa in Jh ranee" is a sprightly
quiz on the Parisians for 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 floor,
rising to about six feet in height, there was a range of
oaken bookcases all round, filled 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 ! what do I want with a
catalogue?—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 ha 3 such or such a work in his posses-
sion, but that he instantly went and got it and placed it
in my hands. Ile 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?

"I 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 his admirers entertained the
opinion so positively, that Burke felt himself called
upon solemnly to disclaim the imputation. My opinion
is, Dr. Wilmot was the author.'
" Dr. Wilmot !' I reiterated, with surprise.
" Ay, Dr. Wilmot ; no man had better opportuni-
ties ; he was a good scholar, a sincere Whig, and a most
intimate friend of Lord Chatham's. He 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, in 1759—William Pitt, afterwards
Lord Chatham, and Ann Taylor, being the parties wit-
nessing ; and, for aught I know, that document is still
in existence. "

AINSWORTH'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, vbho 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 off
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 at-
tempt to account for many of those fantastic visions
and night-noises which have at times perplexed even
the soundest and wisest heads. We quote a ghost.
story, together with its explanation :-
0 In 1807, a Baronet, now living, was summoned from
school to a town on the coast, where his father had died
suddenly. Having arrived late at night, after 4 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, where his sorrow and agi-
tation were soon lulled by sleep, the ' balm of hurt
minds.' Between one and two o clock in the morning,
he was awakened by a low, wailing sound. dirge-like (so
it seemed to half-slumbering senses) ; he lifted himself
from his 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 4 ghastly pageant. It was as startling an
announcement as that which in Spenser's Peery
Queene' was made to Britoniart when, in ' QhParelqse
night,

the yron wieket open flew,
As it with mighty levers had been tore ;
And forth yssewd, as on the ready flore
Of some theatre, a grave persona&e.'
" Having remained awhile fixed with dismal appre-
hension, 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. seemed ad-
vancing towards him, face to face. Being for a moment
terrified, the youth dared not proceed ; and as he stopped,
the spectre beoeme Immoveable. But this was not all
that encountered his gale in that grim apartment. A
coffin was there ; and on it were plumes" of black La•
thers, waving and bending as if supernaturally forced to
take part in some dreary .ceremony. The lamenting
sound—the sudden swinging open of folding-doors, seem •
ingly by their own impulse--the white figure—the coffin