The Sun.
London, England, 1842-02-01 00:00:00

MAGAZINE DAY.

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.
in an article under the head of "Ten Years of
the Whigs," which is continued from last month,
and here brought to a close, the writergives vent to
all that reckless party spirit, so characteristic of
this high Tory periodical. He tells us, for in-
stance, that the Whigs, as a body, are wholly
extinct—an absurd idea, as the events of the
next month will show. "Whiogisrn did not ne-
cessarily expire with Lord Melbourne's Cabinet,
but still lives, associated with the great prin-
ciples of free trade, national education, and
liberty of conscience. These are reforms which
it has yet to carry, and will most assuredly carry
in the long run, notwithstanding all the oppo-
sition that Toryism may bring to bear against
them. The Whigs can only seriously injure
themselves by coalescing with the Tories. So
long as they keep aloof from these insidious
tempters, and boldly advocate such an enlight-
ened principle as that of unshackled commerce,
they need never dread extinction, for they will
be sure to rally round them a large and influen-
tial portion of the community. In another part
of this political diatribe, the writer observes of
Ireland, that "it must be Protestant, or it will
cease to be prosperous; religious error must be
swept from the soil, before it can be peaceable;
the jungle mustbe cleared, before the vapours of
the marsh can cease to poison the land." The
meaning of this is, that the Irish Catholics must
all be either converted or exterminated; other-
wise there will be no chalice of prosperity for the
country. It is a strange method of tranquil-
lising a nation, to make hypocrites of its
people, and, in case of their aversion
to this process, to massacre them ! Yet
such is the scheme for improving Ireland,
gravely propounded by a Tory in the nineteenth
century, when Catholicism is making inroads
even on the established Protestant religion
itself! "Things of the Day" contains some ju-
dicious remarks on the present Law of Libel,
which the author justly scouts as a most ridicu-
lous and unintelligible law, adding, " we are con-:
vinced that the Conservative Government could
not signalize its accession by, any act at once
wiser, more ratifying to the country, and more
essential to justice, than a revisal of the entire
system of libel." We cordially agree in these
observations; for, as the law now stands, it is
next to impossible for a Journalist, or indeed any
other writer, to know, whether, in speaking of
public characters, he is, or is not, perpetrating a
libel. The late Judge Bolland, who was perfectly
aware of the defects of the existing law, laid it
down as an axiom, that libel lurked in every co-
lumn, even in the advertising sheet of a news-
paper ! " Roadside Sketches" are just what they
purport to be, short, off-hand sketches collected
on the road-side. " Protestantism in Geneva" is
a dull, tedious article, whose very title will ope-
rate as a scare-crow to warn off the majority of
readers. The " World of London" is continued
with unabated spirit. The theme is a fertile and
comprehensive one, and it will be long ere the
writer exhausts it—if indeed it be not inexhaus-
tible. Perhaps the cursory observations on
" Club People" may amuse our readers. We
subjoin them accordingly :
It is truly astonishing how the contagion of fashion,
the ape-like imitation of our betters, swells the full tide
of the homeless in London : there is not a man who, with
or without pretensions to the title, calls himself a gen-
tleman, who would not be ashamed to confess himself,
by card or word of mouth, a tenant of Lambeth, Pad-
dington, Pimlico, or Pentonville : a gentleman must be
supposed, at least, to live at the West-end ; and as every
gentleman cannot possibly live in that enviable quarter,
gentlemen club together for a common presentable ad-
dress—hence the ;wise and benevolent institution of
clubs. In the centre of the most fashionable and expen-
sive part of the town, these societies of communists pur-
chase or erect a splendid palace, and establish themselves
en masse : here they lounge in the drawing-rooms, flatten
their noses against the windows, write their letters on
club paper, seal them with club wax, impressed with
the club seal ; dine, if they have the wherewithal, on
the one-and-ninepenny joint of the day, sip a pint of
port in solitary dignity, then, lighting their cigar, wend
their way home to a three-pair-back in some part of the
town never named to ears polite, where they can be
accommodated for seven shillings a-week, attendance
inclusive.

If you ask where they live ?—at the Club : how they
live ?—by the carte of the Club : what are their ow-
nions ?—the opinions of the Club : who are the best fel-
lows in the world?—Tom, Dick, and Roger, of the Club:
where is the best wine in London to be had ?—at the
Club: who have the whitest cravats and the reddest plush
breeches in town?—waiters at the Club: where is the

best letter-paper to be had for the pocketing?—at the
Club: the best society?—at the Club! what is the most
probable mode of obtaining terrestrial felicity ?—become
a member of the Club ! All this, however, is to be taken
cam gruno: the Club is a very good place—no better for
members of the wine committee, the dinner committee,
the library committee, and the other committees these
people, who are usually old soldiers, in the economical
sense of the term, make their own of the Club : the
waiters understand them, the tradesmen understand them,
the secretary understands them ; they do whatever they
please, and no ordinary member can downy thing, eat any
thing, or drink any thing, but how and as they please.
To the committee the Club is a home—to all others it
is only a place where they are tolerated : the committee
are masters, the members guests : the committee are the
decemvirs, the rest the populace ; and although there
are in every club one or two brawling tribunes of the
people, we never could find out that they made anything
by. their grumbling agitation. There can be no greater
mistake than to suppose that, by being ballotted for and
admitted, you get into the society of a club; whatever
society there may be in the sparkling fights, the cheering
fire, and the waiters in red plush breeches and white cra-
vats, your subscription gives you the undoubted privilege
to enjoy; if you are friendless out of doors, you are
equally friendless in a club, where, in truth, you are re-
garded exactly in the ratio of the number of your friends;
there is no worse place for making up to or scraping ac-
quaintance with your fellow clubmen; there is a pride of
repulsion among gentlemen in these societies,. as if they
should tell you by their looks, " If you have no friends,
myl have--if you want acquaintance, I
du,
come
here to fasten yourself upon me, your
don't—if
goodif
y fellow,ou
membership is no letter of recommendation.

Alluding to what he calls " utterly homeless
people," the writer makes the following remarks,
in which, we fear, painful as they are, there is
too much truth :—" Nobody who has not lived
among the poor, has any idea of the extortions
and frauds practised on them by all classes of
little dealers. The poor man can afford but a
single room, and for this he pays two hundred
per cent. more than he who can pay for the rent
of a house. He gets in his coals in pounds
weight, and for these, the worst of their kind, he
pays a higher price than the Duke of Devon-
shire ! It is the same with his groceries—his
meat—everything. The poor man pays more
than the price charged to the rich, simply be-
cause he is poor." The " Northern Circuit"—
a promising title—is the commencement of a
series of personal sketches, apparently from life,
which, judging from the present specimens, bid
fair to be attractive. Here and there, however,
the author deals a little too much in exaggera-
tion, as in• his sketch of the exterior of Samuel
Hogginbuck. "De Cresci." is a poem by_ no
means deficient in vigour of thought, and grace
of ,imagery.

BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY
This Number opens spiritedly enough with
one of Ingoldby's amusing legends. The sub-
ject is the " Dead Drummer," who once upon a
time was seen by two benighted sailors beating
his drum on Salisbury Plain, at the foot of a
sign-post. One of the sailors, who saw the dead
man thus livelily engaged, unfortunately recog-
nised in him the ghost of a drummer whom he
had knocked on the head many years before;
and in an agony of remorse and apprehension at
the sight of such an unexpected apparition, he
makes a confession of the crime to his com-

panion, who, while .listening to the horrid tale,
frequently gives vent to his astonishment and
disgust by uttering "an exclamation that ended
in eyes,' "as the chronicler of the legend as-
sures us. Strange to say, the ablest portions of
this legend are the more serious and unimpas-
sioned, wherein Ingoldsby strikes a deep chord
of feeling quite unusual with him. The descrip-
tion of the murderer's remorse and horror after
the commission of the crime will not suffer, even
by comparison with Hood's " Dream of Eugene
Aram,' or Crabbe's " Sir Eustace Grey." The
" Sultan Mahmoud and the Georgian Slave," is
a love-story by Miss Isabella Romer, who dis-.
creetly halts on this side extravagance in her
glowing and impassioned narrative. Adile, the
heroine, is a Mahotnetan slave, who is secretly
beloved by a young Greek. On one occasion,
while attending on her mistress, Asme Sultana,
she is seen without a veil by Sultan Mahmoud,
who instantly falls in love with her, but, finding
that he can make no impression on her heart, he
appoints a spy to watch her conduct, and disco-
vering but too soon that he has a rival, he deter-
mines, after the most approved Turkish fashion,
to stitch them both up in a sack, and so consign
them to the tender mercies of the fish of the
Bosphorus. Before this can be accomplished,
however, the Imperial lover relents, and by par-
doning both parties, succeeds in winning the
gratitude, and ultimately the love, of Adile.
The " Redbreast of Aquitania" is a fanciful
poem by that quaint scholar, Father Prout—as
he delights to intitule himself. The versification
is smooth and sprightly enough, but we do not
ex ac
to
whomunderstand
it,
howi
ad itdr
ce d
ssapplies to Mr. Ains-
worth,. The "Philo-
sophy of Drinking" is chiefly amusing by reason
of the grotesque illustrations with which it is
embellished. The sketch of the shOit-gaitered
dustman, with his fly-away hat, his bell and

DON, TUESDAY,' 'I4::I6RIJARY 1, 1842

shovel, and the glass of gin in his hand, is ca-
pital. 'We must have seen the original in the
street, standing beside his cart at the door of
a public.house, a hundred times. The wooden-
legged street-sweeper, too, is not amiss; his hat
is just what it should be, passing all description
—like an Irish hodman's castor—but his counte-
nance is too grave and thoughtful, as if he were
revolving some great truth in political economy,
instead of devising by what means he might
raise the wind for a supper in St. Giles's. The
" February Saint" is a lively lyric in honour of
St. Valentine—the most sentimental saint in the
Calendar, but who, despite his sanctity, is uni-
versally detested by postmen. In the " Standard
Footmen" we have one of Albany Poyntz's
amusing sketches of character. He thus de-
scribes the fashionable London Footman :—" The
appropriate place for footmen is the pavement,
whence they meet in parliament on the coach-
box, over the opposite corners of whose ham-
mercloth the twin Mercuries swing their legs
and canes on either side of Coachee, like genii
perched on the marble angles of a monument in
Westminster Abbey. There they talk of the
state of the nation, the state of their lords and
ladies, the state of ladies who love their lords,
and of lords who love their ladies. They know
everything—they say everything. With them
no delicate hints—no slight insinuations—no
shirking a question, or diplomatizing an answer.
They are in everybody's secrets. My lady can
only surmise the mysteries of my lord, or my
lord those of my lady. Their footmen are at the
bottom of both." " Richard Savage," gives an
account of the hero's first introduction to literary
life, and of his acquaintance with a broken-down
author. Some of the ..dialogues are cleverly
dashed off. From the " Legend of the Dead
Drummer," we quote the sailor's confession of
his murder, and his rude, blunt companion's com-
ments on his narrative :
" 'Twas done !—the deed that damns me—done
I know not how—l never knew ;
And Here I stood—but not alone,—
The prostrate Boy my madness slew,
Was by my side—limb, feature, name,
'Twas HE I—a no ther—y e t the same.

" Away ! away ! in frantic haste
Throughout that live-long night I flew—
Away ! away ! acro3s the waste,—
I know not how—l never knew,—
My mind was one wild blank—and I
Had but one thought,— one hope—to fly.
" And still the lightning ploughed the ground,
The thunder roared—and there would come
Amid its loudest bursts a sound
Familiar onee—it was—a drum !
Then came the morn,—and light,—and then
Streets, houses, spires—the hum of men.
" And Ocean rolled before• me—fain

Would I have whelm'd me in its tide,
At once beneath the billowy main
My shame, my guilt, my crime to hide ;
But HE was there !—HE crossed my track,—
I dared not pass—HE .waved me back !
" And then rude hands detained me—sure
Justice had grasp'd her victim—no !
Though powerless, hopeless, bound, secure,
A captive thrall, it was not so ;
They cry, The Frenchman's on the wave !'
The press was hot—and I a slave.
" They dragg'd me o'er the vessel's side ;
The world of waters roll'd below ;
The gallant ship, in all her pride
Of dreadful beauty, sought her foe ;
Thou saw'st me, William in the strife—
Alack ! I bore a charmed life ;
" In vain the bullets round me fly,
In vain mine eager breast I bare ;
Death shuns the wretch who longs to die,
And every sword falls edgeless there !
Still HE is near, and seems to cry,
Not here, nor thus, may Mateham die
Thou saw'st me on that fearful day,
When, fruitless all attempts to save,
Our pinnace foundering in the bay,
The boat's-crew met a watery grave,—
All, all save ONE—the ravenous sea
That swallows all rejected ME
" And now, when fifteen suns have each
Fulfilled in turn its circling year,
Thrown back again on England's beach,
Our barque paid off— HE drives me Here !
I could not die in flood or fight—
HE drives me HERE ! !"

" And sarve you right
" What! bilk your Commander!—desart—and then rob?
And go scuttling a poor little Drummer-boys nob !
Why, my precious eyes ! what a bloodthirsty, swab I
Thefe's old Davy Jones, . •
Who cracks Sailors' bones
For his jaw-work, would never, I'm sure, s'elp me Bob,
Have come for to go for to do sich a job !

Hark 3e, Waters, or Matehom,—wiiiehever's your pur-

ser-name,
—T'other, your own, is, I'm sartain, the worser name,—
Twelve years have we lived on like brother and brother !
Now your course lays one way, and mine lays another !"

" Yes, for six more months," answered the giant.
" Well, then, I have a most liberal offer to make you.
Never mind the engagement—break it—a giant like you
can break anything—and I offer you five pounds a week,
with unlimited length and breadth of bed, and—"
" Stop," cried the giant ; " I believe Mr. Noah, the
gentleman as is now calling on the steps, returned you
your twopence."
" I can't deny it—he did," answered Duckweed.
" And yet for all that, you'd come and basely inveigle
away the crack article of the van. Here, Mr. Noah,"
roared the giant, " stand aside !"
Bajazet Gag, fearing from the "fine frenzy" of the
giant's eye that he meditated some sudden act of violence,
made his escape into the street.
It was well he did so ; for in a second, Duckweed was
fluty, in a very ball from the van, and descended upon an
apple-woman's barrow. Never did the giant at once
more triumphantly illustrate the strength of his arms
and the integrity of his principles.
The apple-woman screamed as Duckweed, descend-
ing, demolished her paper-lantern, and scattered her pip-
pins in the road.
" Are you hurt—are you hurt ?" cried Gag to his
man of business.

" The savage ! My back's broken ! Hadn't we better
call the police ?" said Duckweed.
" I'll call something much better," answered the ma-
nager. He called a cab.