The Sun.
London, England, 1842-03-01 00:00:00

TAlrs MAGAZINE.

The " Peel Mystery" is an energetic, shrewd, pithy,
political article, suggested by the recent discussions
in Parliament, and exhibiting a sturdy spirit of libe-
ralism. The writer observes that the time for com-
promising or shilly-shallying with the Corn-law ques-
tion is past, and that " now it must be either total
repeal of the taxes on food, or something better still,
which shall include this among other gains." Ile
goes on to say, " a storm of wrath is meanwhile
bursting round the head of the unhappy Minister,
whose condition really moves compassion. How
could he avoid failure ? Finesse was of no use here.
Those who doubted of his statesmanlike capacity in
an era like the present, yet had faith in his sagacity
and tact as a party leader. And there he stands, con-
fessing himself in the predicament of the old man
and the ass in the fable, who, tiTing to please every
body
,pleased nobody, and lost his ass into the bar-
gain." is hard hitting, but our stern Radical
friend Tait seldom spares his political enemies.
" Abednego, the Money-Lender," is a graceful and
lively tale, from the pen of Mrs. Gore, one of the most
prolific novelists of the day. " Laing's Notes of a
Traveller " is an intelligent notice of a recent book of
travels. " Miss Burney's Diary and Letters " is
another review, but much too eulogistic. What the
succeeding volumes of the Diary may be, we know
not ; but the one just published—namely, the first—is
full of the most sickening egotism and self-conceit,
just as if the writer believed there was only one
subject worth talking about—and that one was her
own over-rated novel of " Evelina!" As a favour-
able specimen of Tait's poetry, we quote the "Song
of March :"
Hark ! hark !—A crash is in the woods ;
The gnarled oak bends like mountain-larch :
Who shakes the forest—whips the floods,
Like March, mad March !
I slid down the storm from the drifting cloud,
To frolic awhle in sour mansions proud.
While the usurer dreameth of thieves, in affright,
I will rattle his casements and blow out his light.
I will hurl on the head of the learned owl,
While he studies the stars, the huge chimney cowl ;
It shall cut his nose, and black his eye,
To test his sublime philosophy.
Thence, where hard Asthma hacks and houghs,
With purple face and vital sloughs,
Against the windows, I'll batter the rain,
And thrust the thick smoke down the flue again,
And just ere your dinner 'neath the cover is put,
I will dredge it defty with ashes and soot;
I will rend the furled sails as I ride on the bast,
Singing hurricane tones
Through the navy ;
And I'll fling the bold mariner down from the mast,
To Davy,
For gravy
To his marrow bones
I will bleach for the laundress, and blacken her starch,
Such a whimsical fellow is roaring mad March.
Look ! look !—Amidst yon Ocean's strie,
Feles fever brave men's lips d ;th parch ;
Shall mourning mother—widow'd wife,
Curse Merck, mad March ?
I am not to be bounded, nor curbed in my glee,
By the phantom of human sympathy.
I will search round your jaws for the carious teeth,
And fiddle away on the fibres beneath.
I will blast the old miller, and ruffle his dam,
And strip off his mill-top like the bladier from jam.
The dishelout dank from a beggar's mail,
I will o'er Patrician 'scutcheon trail_;
While crieth priest, " Lord I I have drouth,"
I'll whiff a cobweb in his mouth.
Wherever I find a nervous heart beats,
I will fashion the curtains like winding sheets.
While the grey sexton dreameth he hears his death-knell,
I will sweep out his mattock and toll the church-bell ;
I will shake down the mansion, the trees will uproot,
Decree'd, and confest
Yours eternal.
Then, Sir, how will you pay for the Chancery :tut?.
Infernal
Hard kernel
For man to digest !
I will droll with the gloomy, and growl at the arch,
Such a whimsical fellow is roaring mad March.