The Sun.
London, England, 1844-04-01 00:00:00

AINSWORTH'S MAGAZINE.

Mr. Home, the author of the " New Spirit of the
Age," a work just published, is most mercilessly
lashed by a critic in this Magazine for presuming to
sit in judgment on his contemporaries. He has, it
seems, been guilty of the crime of overrating some
living writ -rs and underrating others—a heinous
atrocity, for which he ought to have known that he
would be sure to bring a hornet's nest about his ears.
We have not yet read his work, and cannot therefore
undertake to say how far the present severe strictures
on it are just or otherwise; but if it be really true,
as Tait asserts, that he has placed Dickens as a no-
velist above Cervantes, Fielding, and Scott, he has
shown bow utterly unfitted he is for the task of dis-
criminating and dispassionate criticism. Boz is by
many degrees the first writer of fiction of the day ;
there is no one who even approaches him in the power
of delineating every-day life and character; but, to
compare him with the creator of the brave, self-
denying, high-minded Don Quixote, who even in his
wildest flights of eccentricity never once loses his hold
on our veneration with Fielding, whose quiet
strength and grace of style, various scholarship, and
constructive faculties are so remarkable—or with
Scott, that unrivalled master of the picturesque,
whose rare fancy, humour, invention, learning, are
only equalled by his banhommie, knowledge of the
world, and intimate acquaintance with those hidden
springs which set the puppet man in motion ;—to
compare Dickens with these consummate novelists,
for the purpose of setting him above them, is to push
the language of panegyric into downright absurdity.
Boz can depict all that lies on the surface of character
with infinite facility; he can unmask a common-
place hypocrite ; place before us with startling truth
a vulgar ruffian, or a pert Cockney coxcomb ; and
throw wonderful life and exactness into ordinary dia-
logue; but here his power stops. He cannot pourtray
man in the more elevated phases of his nature ; he be-
to the low Dutch school of art ; and
longs essentially
when he attempts a flight above this, he makes
as sorry an exhibition as Phaeton did, when he essayed
to drive the chariot of the sun. His archness, humour,
and worldliness, though limited in their range, are
admirable; he hits descriptive faculties, too, of no

ordinary excellence ; but we must protest against his
s-litiment, which is too apt to run into flowery mawk-
ishnes,s, as when he represents the idiot Smike dying
to soft mule, amid visions of angels and spring dai-
sies ; attributes to the gin-drinking Miss Nancy the
finest and purest sensibilities; and converts a kind-
hearted little girl into a paragon of impossible per-
fection.. The " Hermit of Cripplegate" is a tale by
Charles Oilier ; it is told with vigour and simplicity,
and turns upon the novel fact of a gentleman having
shut himself up in solitude for forty years, in conse-
quence of his life having been attempted by his own
brother. To make his seclusion more complete he se-
lected London as his residence ; and there was wis-
dom in his choice, for under circumstances of poverty
and affliction, there is no solitude so complete as that
of a crowded metropolis. In the present chapters of
" St. James's," the trial of political strength between
Marlborough and Harley is represented in Mr.
Ainsworth's most effective manner. In the amusing
" Elliston Papers," the editor places before us sundry
specimens of the poetical addresses that were written
for the purpose of being spoken on the opening of
Drury-lane in 1312. Among the unsuccessful corn-
petitors we find the name of " Joseph Hume."
Surely this cannot be the great financial oracle of St.
Stephen's ! We all know that he is a perfect master
of numbers, but we never yet' heard that they were
tuneful ones. The " Suppressed Comedy" gives a
pathetic account of Mr. Bell's sufferings and lamenta-
tions in consequence of the abrupt withdrawal of his
Mothers and Daughters. This play being highly
successful and much belauded by Mr. Bunn, that
high-minded manager, with a magnanimous disre-
gard to his own int,'rests, " above all Greek, above all
Roman fame," withdrew it from the stage after the
first night of representation, and it has never since
been permitted to tickle the midriffs of a Drury-lane
audience! This conduct on the part of the lessee is •
really most inexplicable, but we fear the mystery
will never be cleared up till that great day when the
secrets of ail hearts shall be revealed. A " Jar of
Honey from Mount Hybla," is one of Leigh Hunt's
light, graceful essays. Alluding incidentally to the
Sicilian fountain of Arethuse, be tells us that it is now
a public wash-tub ! "To what base uses may we not
return, Horatio!" Conceive a set of squat, red-armed
washerwomen ducking dirty shirts and collars in the
fount beloved of the Muses ! Of course, there is a
mangle close by. The subjoined sketch of the Rape
of Proserpine may perhaps amuse our readers
:
"We have kept the most beautiful of the Sicilian
mythic stories to conclude with—for such, doubtless, is
the Rape of Proserpine. It is full of the most striking
contrasts of grandeur and beauty; both heaven and hell
are in it—the freshest vernal airs, and the depths of
Tartarus; and the hearts of a mother and daughter beat
through all. It is a tale at once of the wildest preter
naturalism and the most familiar domestic tenderness.
The daughter of Ceres is gathering floWers, with other
damsels of her own age, in the Vale of Enna, intent
upon nothing but seeing who shall get the finest. Sud-
denly, in the midst of the violets and jonquils, a clang is
heard like the noise of a thousand caldrons—the earth
bursts open, and a rapid, majestic figure appears, like a
swarthy Jupiter, who, sweeping by Proserpine, whirls
her with him into his chariot, and prepares to rush down
through another opening. The nymph Cyane has alone
the courage to bid him stop, and ask him why he dares
to take away the daughter of Ceres. He makes no
answer, but, knitting his brows like thunderbolts, smites
the fountain over which she presided with an iron mace,
and dashes down through it with his prey. It is the
King of hell himself, tired of celibacy, and resolved to
have the fairest creature on earth for his wife. The
cries of Proserpine become fainter as the earth closes
over them—but they have been heard by Ceres, who
comes, with all the speed of a divine being, to see what
is the matter. She can discern nothing; the tranquillity
of the scene is restored—Cyane has melted away in
tears. The goddess seeks everywhere in vain—she
travels by day and by night, lit by two flaming pines
from Mount Atna. At length she learns who has got
her daughter, and, by the intervention of Jupiter,
Proserpine is allowed to come to earth and see her. The
mother and daughter are half drowned in tears, half
absorbed in delight, and Jupiter would prevent their
separation, but is not able—for Proserpine has eaten of
a fatal fruit, compulsory of her continuance with Pluto,
and all that can be done is to stipulate for her being
half a year with her mother, on condition of her being a
geod wife during the other half. Ceres makes a virtue
of the necessity, seeing that her daughter is married to
the brother of Jove—and Proserpine is content to
divide the throne of Tartarus, and walk in gardens of
her own, splendid, though underground. The ancient
poets made these gardens consist of all the flowers which
she had been accustomed to gather in Sicily."