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

MAGAZINE DAY.

BLACKTVOOD'.S. 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 " i 3 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 Cresar—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
I throng into the inner press,
Where loudest rings the din ;
Fur 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 !
How thrill'd her glance through all my frame
The very pencil shook.
Her eyes, her cheeks, her lovely lips,
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,
The 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 bead, like Mars, I'll lie
By thee, the Queen of Love,
And draw a net around us twain,
And smile on heaven above.
And every god that comes shall pour
His blessings on thy head,
And envious eyes be far away
From that dear marriage-bed !