The Sun.
London, England, 1842-09-01 00:00:00

COIIILT-FitSRIONABLE.

Col. Sir E. Curry, K.C.8., died on Saturday last,
near Bagshot, in his 64th year.
The 3d battalion of Foot Guards will return to
town in few days from Manchester.

The Marchioness of Douro is on a visit to the Duke
of Wellington at Walmer Castle.

A numerous attendance of the Nobility and Gentry
is expected at the forthcoming Norwich Festival.
_ _

NLISCELL.fi-NMOUS.

Lord Abercromby, Lord Lieutenant of Stirling-
shire, and the Noblemen at Linlithgow, have each
caused meetings to :.)e convened, to vote Addresses to
her Majesty on her progress.
The third annual general meeting of the Royal Bo-
tanic Society of London took place on Tuesday in the
Regent's Park. The total collection of plants was
reported to amount to 3,160 species. The number of
fellows was now 481, and the subscribers of the past
year were 149, being 42 more than the preceding ;
while the subscriptions were 2,4641. 75., exceeding
the previous year by 7101., by which means the Coun-
cil had been able to reduce the debt of the Society
from '2,1511. to 1,4071.

MA GA ZIP/1E DAY.
BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

Schiller's Poems and Ballads—a theme that has
been often discussed before—are, many of them,
translated with vigour and elegance, by a writer who
leads off the present Number with a prose criticism
on the genius of this celebrated German poet, who, he
tells us, has a command over all the resources of
his art, is manly in his sentiment, simple even in his
richness, and broad and large in his philosophy; adding,
" Schiller's minor poems 'are very rarely obscure,_ the
thought is not subtle and wire-drawn, the art which
conceives them is essentially warm and living. Though
veiled in a more ornate and learned dress, the man's
heart beats under them, as strongly and as loudly:as
in the
_verse of Burns." This is high praise, hut it is
not unmerited, as will be, seen by the subjoined ballad,
which is founded on an . old legend of the Rhine,
familiar to most tourists; and exhibits much unaffected
feeling. It is entitled " The Knight of Toggenburg :"
" Sir Knight ! the love that sisters feel,
• Could that content, is thine ;
The love thy heart would fain reveal,
Has only pain fur mine !
I calmly still would see thee go,
And calmly welcome thee !
The silent tears thine eyelids know,
Are language strange to me."
Ile heard her speak ; his lips supprest
The bitter thoughts that bleed ;
He rose—he clasp'd her to his breast,
And sprang upon his steed, •
" Up, liegemen, up !—thro' Swisserland !"
The word awakes the brave !
The cross abreast—the holy band
Shall seek the Saviour's grave.
High deeds for many a Christian knight '
chieved a hero's lame ;
As glittering thro' the foremost fight,
Their dancing plumage came.
Yet, most of all, one name of fear
Atpall'd the Moslem foe.
Alas, in fame the heart can ne'er
Its heaviness forego ! • •
One weary Tear he sought to bear,
What then he might no more,
Away from her—what rest was there ?
He left the holy shore.
He hair(' a ship on .hppa's strand,
Sails hoist and breezes fair ;
Away once more to that dear land
In which she breathes the air.
And now the pilgrim paused in fear
Before the castle gate,
Dark roll'd upon the pilgrim's ear
The thunder-words of fate.
" To her thou seek'st but yester-eve
The solemn veil was given,
Content the world for God to leave,
She lives—the bride of heaven 1"
So left he then for evermore
His father's proud abode,
And ne'er the knightly harness wore,
Nor knightly steed bestrode.
Below his castle-crowned height,
Unknown, he sate him down,
And, for the warrior's armour, dight
The hermit's hairy gown.
A lonely hut he built him there,
Her dwelling-place in view,
Where still the cloister glisten'd fair
The dusky lindens through.
From morn, in that unwitness'd place,
Till starry evening shone,
Mute, yet with hope upon his face,
The hermit sate alone.
And hour by hour, as magic-bound,
Her casement watch'd afar,
Until he heard, with feeble sound,
Her lattice-bolt unbar.
There upwards still his look was cast,
Until her image, pale
And angel-mild, the while it past,
Bow'd meekly towards the vale.
Then laid he down, the vigil o'er,
Consoled, perchance, awhile,
To greet, in quiet joy, once more
The morning's early smile.
He sate—the days, the seasons fly—
He sate, and gaz'd afar,
And tch'd—if sod, without a sigh—
To hear that lattice-bar.
There upward still the look was cast,
Until her image, pale
And angel-mild, the while it past, •
Bow'd meekly towards the vale.
So sate he on that lonely spot
The morn that-was kis last,
And still the look,_ where life was not,
Was towards the casement cast.
Campbell, as some of our readers may perhaps re-
member, has versified this legend, but his "Brave
Roland " is by no means one of his most felicitous
productions. The diction is polished enough; but
the sentiment wants depth and earnestness. "Re-
collections of Early Reading" is a strange concern,
whose exact meaning we do not profess to com-
prehend. So far as we can make out, it
Is intended as a quiz on the exaggerated
school of ;mantic fiction ; but if so, it is
too grave and formal to answer its purpose. The
ridicule that is not obvious at first sight, is little better
than a failure. The "Elopement" is a Spanish story,
founded on fact, and related in a very mercurial
spirit of enjoyment. A young soldier of fortune has
formed an attachment to a pretty Spanish girl. Her
father, a wealthy merchant, is opposed to the match,
and hurries off his reluctant daughter to the
solitude of the country. Her lover, of course, finds
her out in her retirement ; assumes, in concert with
a few friends, the disguise of a Carlist chief; surrounds
the house ; and while his companions are pretend-
ing to ransack it for the purpose of pillage, coolly
walks off with the girl. Once married, he returns
and explains the whole circumstances of the case
to his father-in-law, who forgives him, in con-
sideration of the incredible impudence and in-
genuity of his statagem. " Exhibitions " is
a notice—surely an unseasonable one !—of the paint-
ings in the British Institution, and other Picture-
galleries that are now closed. The critic is in
raptures with Titian's well-known " Bacchus and
Ariadne,"—a painting, the extraordinary excel-
lence of which, w• are ashamed to sty, we have never
yet been able to discover. " Ricardo and Adam
Smith"—as its title implies—is a treatise on that
liveliest and most imaginative of subjects, Politica
Economy. In the course of this captivating dis-
quisition, the author discusses the theory of rent, and
with a force and effect that has all but closed our
eye-lids. Next to mathematics, the object of our
most reverential abhorrence is political economy,
which the witty author of " Headlong Hall" has
shrewdly defined as being the art of " taking all
one can get, and paying no more than one can help."
" Dennis on Shakspeare," is an ingenious imitation of
the manner of this surly critic, who was Pope's great
bug-bear, and kept this sensitive poet in a constant
state of mental disquietude. Despite his caprices and
frequent violations of good taste, Dennis had much
critical sagacity, and more real feeling than the world
—taking the cue from his enemies—has given him
credit for. The great cause of his unpopularity with his
contemporaries, was his infirm temper, which he knew
not how to keep in subjection. He is now forgotten,
or lives only in the pages of Johnson, who has quoted
some of his criticisms in his excellent memoir of
Dryden. " Caleb Stukely" exhibits here and there
considerable vigour of description. " The Doom of
the Mirror" is a ballad from the pen of Mr. Sim-
mons' whose poems would be more effective, if they
were.less precise and elaborate in their versification.
This gentleman's Muse is never seen en dishabille, but
is always tricked out in a full Court suit.