The Sun.
London, England, 1844-09-06 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

THE FREE-LANCE. 3 Vols. Bentley, London, 1844.
The White Company of Free-Lances were a body
of English military adventurers well known on the
Continent, and more particularly throughout Italy, in
the fourteenth century, for their skill in war, their
bravery, their enterprise, their licentious conduct, and
the cruel excesses with which all their victories were
sullied. Owing allegiance to no one particular Power,
they freely gave their services to whatever potentate
would pay them highest; but at best they were
troublesome, not to say dangerous, allies, and their
friendship was almost as much to be deprecated as
their enmity. Of this once renowned company, and
the achievments of its enterprising but sanguinary
leader, Sir John Hawkewood, the volumes before us
profess to give an account ; the scenes for the most
part are laid in Italy, where the Free-Lances perpe-
trated some of their worst atrocities, and of course
their enterprising chief figures conspicuously among
the personages of the story. This character, indeed,
is drawn with evident care, and no ordinary ability,
and is by far the completest portrait which the
author has penned. The story throughout is alive
with bustle and incident ; it is, however, singularly
faulty in construction, and must depend for success
solely on its stirring melodramatic character and the
quick changes of its scenes. We have battles, sieges,
skirmishes, and massacres in profusion ; in fact, there
is no repose in the story, but a constant succession of
exciting incidents which at length almost fatigue the
reader. The love passages between Reginald, the
nominal hero of the ,tale, and Margherita, a young
Italian girl of humble birth and most changeful vi-
cissitudes of lot, serve to relieve by their softness the
sterner features of the narrative.

NEW ROYAL EXCHANGE.

(From the Times.)

TO RICHARD LAMBERT JONES, Esq.

POETICAL EPISTLE ON TIIE SCULPTURE IN THE PEDI•
DIENT OF THE ROYAL EXCHANGE.

Dear Jones, our tits are quite at sea,
Your pediment's a mystery—
'Tis something wonderful, no doubt,
Do tell us what it's all about.
I write to you, old friend, and not
To Trotman Tite or Westinacott-
In chiselling stone or cutting bricks,
Those fellows may play curious tricks ;
But you conceive, create, control,
They're but the body—you the soul.
So now, dear Jones, as you're the man
T' enlighten us (if any can),
Expound, we pray, the sculptur'd riddle—
Who is that lady in the middle,
Perch'd on a stool ? We see the words,
" The earth, et craters," are the Lord's ;
But what the lady has to do
With these, we can't divine—can you ?
Is she Britannia in undress,
The Queen, or Lady Mayoress ?
Perhaps a gentler name she owns—
Do tell us—is she Mistress Jones ?
Who'er she is, she seems to stand
With some queer gimcrack in her hand,
Quite unconcern'd, with vacant stare—
She can't have any business there.
Look at those worthies clothed in sacks
Who ungallantly turn their backs ;
'Tis clear they think it very strange
The lady should be seen on 'Change.
As for the gentlemen, we guess,
They're all engaged in business,
But why th' establishment's divided,
And cut in half, we're undecided.
Has our friend's genius here designed
Some grand division of mankind—
Two sorts of men, and only two—
Those who don't pay, and those who do ?
Or is this distribution meant
Two principles to represent—
Profit and loss, in civic tongue
Synonymous with right and wrong ?
To some of us who see display'd
The several branches of our trade,
Those gentlemen who sell and buy
Wholesale and retail typify,
And so the dame sans occupation
At home, may stand for exportation.
You've fairly puzzled us, that's certain ;
Give us one peep behind the curtain—
Give us, dear Jones, as Frenchmen say,
Your (if you have one) grandeidee.
If not, some wise interpretation
Or ex post facto explanation.
Give this—we've nothing more to ask.
And now remains the pleasing task,
To pray—may Providence protect
The painter, sculptor, architect—
The something more, for rumour tells
You set the clock and tune the bells—
May history, in future ages,
With Jones's name fill folio pages—
May mighty Wren himself make room,
(Barry, of course, we leave to Brougham),
And Inigo (Heaven rest his bones !)
Give place to Richard Lambert Jones.
J. SMITH