The Sun.
London, England, 1842-10-01 00:00:00

ERASER'S MAGAZINE.

In an introduction to a " Life of Sir Murray
Maxwell," which heads this Number, the Editor
expresses his gratification at having obtained
such a memoir, which, he adds, is " at once
original and authentic." We think he over-
rates the value of the biographical communica-
don he has secured, for the gallant Baronet,
however exemplary he might have been in his
private capacity, was, as a public character, of
little or no importance, and is already almost.
forgotten. He achieved no naval triumphs, dis-
played no striking talents for naval warfare, and
is only remarkable for having stood for the city
of Westminster, in opposition—if we remember
rightly—to Sir John Hobhouse. Here is an
anecdote of his infancy, which is the only enter-
taining one we can find in the present portion
of his biography :
Captain Maxwell had in his service a lad who had
often exhibited signs of a bad as well as of an idle
temper, but whom no one suspected of being imbued
with a disposition absolutely diabolical. One day this
youth committed some fault, for which his master
corrected him. He took his beating sulkily, as he
was apt to do, but no more was thought of the matter ;
and, by and by, Captain and Mrs. Maxwell, leaving
the children at home, went, according to a previous I
engagement, to spend a day or two with the Earl of 1
Galloway. That very night the groom set fire to
Penningham Manse, and so managed his horrible
scheme, that, but for the working of some remnant of
better feeling within his own breast, the whole of the
inmates must have perished. There was, it appears,
one of Captain Maxwell's children, we believe his
eldest son, to whom the lad was much attached. The
thought of giving him over to certain death was more
than even the incendiary could endure, so he rus'nea
through the smoke and flames into the apartment
where his favourite lay and called him by name to
rise. Happily, there were other occupants of that
chamber than one. The alarm was instantly given,
the cry ran from room to room, and without pausing
so much as to put on their apparel, the members of
the family ran into the open air, They met, but it
was to discover that two wore still missing, of whom
Murray was one. We have been given to understand
that of the horrors of that moment, when, awaking
suddenly out of sleep, he found his chamber filled
with smoke, Sir Murray Maxwell retained, to the
last day of his life, a distinct recollection. Neither
could he tell, except from the reports of others, how
he and his younger brother escaped. " A strong
arm," he used to say, "seized us. I was three and
my little brother a year and a-half old, and being
wrapped up in the coverlid, we neither saw nor heard
more, till we found ourselves in the midst of a crowd
of people, all of wham were shouting lustily." The
fact was, that a blacksmith, who used to work for the
family, not finding the two boys beside the residue
at the muster, eagerly inquired for them. It was then
ascertained, and not before, that they had not been
removed from their chamber; and in their chamber
they would have doubtless perished, had not the
promptitude of the blacksmith been as conspicuous in
action as it had first shown itself to be in deliberation.
The gallant 'fellow dashed through the blazing lobby,
tightly in the coverlid, and
ran up-stairs, burst open the children's door,
theru up
helew to receive his burden.Heuncorn.seciousebosz,inatnodtheyavinunswt.. called to, wrapthe "mob
t3/4" dr:opped the
_ s soutstretched
the garden. _self by leaping into
My Life and
brought to re . 'Times" by Nimrod is here
. close. We have read the memoir
we, ..erest, and have been particularly amused
the biographer's account of his early
studies, and the classical criticisms in which he
freely indulges. He tells us that " Tom Jones"
was the first work that ever called forth in him
a decided love of reading; and that the next
which made a deep and lasting impression on
his mind was " Roderick Random." He adds,
that he tried hard to get through Richardson's
novels, but could not succeed—and no wonder,
for despite the interested eulogiums of Doctor
Johnson, the author of " Clarissa Harlowe"
was a prolix and insipid writer, who, in-
stead of taxing the sensibilities of his
readers, taxed only their patience. Yet it must
be confessed there are some fine things in
Richardson. The spirit, and grace, and wit of
Lovelace's letters will not easily be surpassed;
and the morning scene at the notable White-
house in Soho-square is one of the most forcible
bits of painting in the language,
_ as minute, as
vigorous, and as matter-of-fact, as Hogarth's
" Gin-lane." But these rare excellences will
not compensate for whole pages of trite and
firm
but
tame prolixity. Quitting English authors, Nim-
rod proceeds to speak of the Latin ones, and
says of Virgil's pet hero, that he is " wise, just,
n and
that
characters,
a a
ctcearsnt,inag egotist,sentime
al
seducer. His mean, tricky conduct to
ptoiouisii,svapluiaripito,sge., ood-nFaitnue red,patien and
epithets
these,
wholly unmerited by the " Pius ./Eneas," who
w asammo setthh
(e) da
sttl ice::
Dido
whom lie deserted, as he pretended, at
h
mand of Apollo, is not to be for o t
ttep e Com-
,
ffiyen. Having seduced her cart& • or
Ma-
jesty under promise of marriage, s.gentan
—as Winifred Jenkins wo.ald- le was bound
an honest woman Of
der ;" say.(c to snake
Dido's advisers, We should and had we been
commended I,er bringing certainly have re-
ef pron.ase,,, which would,
action for "breach
brought lEneas to his senses, for he had a won-
derful care for his own personal respectability,
and was never so well pleased as when
complimented on his
morals and his piety.
Referring to Terence, Nimrod observes,
f
" he has no charms
or me." Nor for us either,
for we think him
an elegant, but insipid dra-
matist, whose best scenes scarcely ever excite
more than a languidsmile. though
Plautus,
so elmiee or l h
Po ed in his language, is worth a
dozen Terences. His " Arnphitryon"abounds in

sterling humour, and contains one or two serious
and impassioned passages that rise almost to
I poetry. Of the ineffable beauties of the Greek
language—the fitting dialect of Gods—Nimrod
speaks with the generous fervour of a scholar.
" Motion and music," he remarks, " are in every
tone; enthusiasm and enchantment possess the
mind. The powers of the language set transla-
tion at defiance." This is strictly true, for what
version—no matter how skilfully executed—can
give an adequate idea of the fullness and gran-
deur of Homer's melody; or of the incomparable
majesty of one of Sophocles' dramas ? " I was
al
rweaeyks
iso of opinion,"at
We think so. too, though the general impression,
tcult liannugesuaNgehntlrioadn, Latin."
we are aware, is otherwise. At any rate for all
purposes of intellectual enjoyment, Greek,
though not so useful perhaps, is infinitely better
worth studying than Latin. " Irish Dragoons
and English Guardsmen' is a lively, rattling,
off-band notice of Mr. Lever's lately published
tales cf " Harry Lorrequer" and ' Charles
O'Malley." The notice is penned in a friendly
and discriminating spirit. In "Some of the Pic.
ture Galleries in England," we find a judicious
criticism on Sebastian del Piombo's magnificent
painting of the " Raising of Lazarus," which it
will delight—and perhaps surprise—some of' our
readers to know may be seen for the small sum
of Nothing in Trafalgar-square. The " Last of
the Homeric Ballads" is by the late Dr. Maginti,
As it was written within a week of his death, and
under circumstances most unfavourable to coma
position, we feel that we are precluded from
speaking, of it otherwise than in a kindly spirit.
We subjoin the Editor's in troductory observations:
This ballad was finished in the golden sunlight of a
summer's eve. On the following Sabbath, about
same hour that I had penned the concluding stanz,
and
mthe dictation
ntaetioffinnoed, awaiting h
of the authort, Ie
lastb beheld him cold
dead, an
Ceremony
of interment. The lips that but a short week be_
fore had flashed forth choice and beautiful wit were
closed and colourless ; the spirit that shone within his
eyes had vanished away, and, let us hope, had winged
its flight to some sphere of peace. All that was moz,
tal of William Maginn lay before me—my eyes
filled with tears. And I thought within myself,
whither had sped that grand eccentric genius whose
learning had been the luminary of his age, and whose
wit had charmed thousands. .All was silent! The
only sound was the soughing of the cold and melan-
choly wind as it swept amid the branches of the trees
that surrounded the cottage, and passed onward.
moaning as it went. On the Sunday before he dical,
Maginn had been remarkably cheerful, eloquent, a.n?,
witty. These qualities, indeed, he possessed to t'ae
last ; but I had often seen him in health, when be was
not so brilliant as now in his setting, and wi,:hin a
brief space of the twilight of death. During the day
he had related innumerable stories of an t'ae great
writers with whom be had lived in intimacy; had
talked about books and men with that mingled vein of
humour and philosophy which was the great orna-
ment of his conversation ; and had amused hikn-
self in detailing one of those literary proj-tets
in which his mind was always running, but
which, alas ! were never fated to be ful-
-1 filled. Death had not, at any time entered into
his discourse ; apparently he sought to keep it altoge-
ther out of his thoughts. Though so weak as to re-
quire to be lifted in my arms across the room, he
seemed to think dissolution by no means near ; or, if
he knew that he was dying, he certainly bore it with
a philosophy that would have immortalised his name
in the days of Socrates or Cato. About four o'clock
I left him for an hour or two, when he slept, and re-
turned to him in the evening. He was then up,
propped by pillows in an arm-chair, and us gay and
intelligent as if he had never been ill. After we had
talked a short while, " K—," said he, " shall I take
some work out of you ?" I, of course, assented ; andi
having got some paper and ink, I sat down oppositx,
to him. He then took Homer in his hand ; and, af'Wr
a brief interval of thought, dictated the latter pare of
the following ballad, evidently with no mental labour,
but with au ease that could have resulted only from
his intimacy with the Greek, and his extraordinary
power of versification. When he had finished, I read
for him the entire translation, and marked out the
Greek for the printer. He desired me to correct the;
proofs. I have done so, but I scarcely anticipated
when we sat together that it was to be the last of Li,
compositions.

AINSWORTH'S MAGAZINE.
The "Miser's Daughter " is apparently - -draw_
ing to a conclusion—at least we judge yo from
the two marriages that are solemnised 411 the pre-
sent chapters ; for in most modern works of fic-
tion, the chief personages' are prstty sure to bee
matrimonially addicted towards the end of the
third volume; and we see no "just cause or im-
pediment" why, this rule should be violated in.
the tale before us. If not the best, the " Miser's
Daughter" is among the best, of Mr. Ainswortk%
fictions. If it have not all the vigour, and &Wil-
-1 nesS, and fancy of" Rookwood," it exhibits an
ease of manner utterly wanting in that rotnance
and is far more pleasing in its moral tone, and
more refined in its general character, than " Jack
Sheppard," with its eternal display of ruffianism
and flash vulgarity. As Mr. Ainsworth is not
very ramarkable for his powers of humour, and
therefore usually eschews the comic, we quo*,,P.
his description of the marriage of Beau Vli-
liers's valet, Cripps, with a widow, Mrs. Ne:ttle-
ship, who has accepted him on the supposition
that he is, the Beau himself, the shrewd valet
having passed himself off for his master, imi-
tated his manners, worn his clothes, and even
accepted bills in his name. Just as the marriage
service is commencing, the indignant Beau makes
his appearance, infinitely to the dismay and
tonishment of Cripps, when the following scone
ensues, which exhibits a sprightly vein of hu-
mour, quite unusual with Mr. Ainsworth, 'and
reads like a dialogue in one of Vanbrugh's or
Farquhar's comedies :
Mr. Cripps presented a very chop 'fallen appear-
ance. 'lrance deserted him. His hands
dro
ppedAtoll• hhisis asasles, and he scarcely dared to meet his,
master's angry gaze.
" I exclaimed Villiers, " I have at iast
fairly detected you. I'll teach you to put on my
clothes—to assume my name ---"
" What!" screamed Mrs. Nettleship, dropping a
bottle of salts, which she had placed to litre nose—
" isn't it really himself—isn't it Mt. Willars ?"
•
" No, mem,,, replied the beau—" I um Mr. Vil-
liers ; and thist rascal is only my valet, Cracken-
thorpe Cripps."
" Oh, the villain I,—the base deceiver l—the
postor !" cried Mrs. Nettleship, clenching her hands,
and regarding the valet as if she. would annihilate
him, rn tear his eyes out ! To deceive and ex-
pose me in this way--to—to—to—oh! I shall never
! survive it, Support me !" she added, falling into the
arms of' the fair Thomasine.

" This is really too bad of you, Sir," said Mr.
erkps, who began to recover himself a little. " You've
deceived me. I Thought you were at Newmarket."
" I received information of your practices, rascal,"
replied the beau, " and determined to see to what ex-,
madeou carried them. And a pretty discovery I'vt
! My house filled with company—my servants
turned into your servants—a dinner, supper, covien.
tionary, wine, fruit, musicians, and the devil knows
what, ordered at my expense.
Sir;'
" Well, away, ell, they are not thrown , replied
Mr. Cripps. " You can marry the lady yourzi; if
you think proper. I've no doubt she'll consent to the
exchange, and she bas fifty thousand pounds:,
" Oh, the impudence 1" exclaimed :Mrs..
second
Nettle-
ship, jumping up. "I'll not be taken in a
reven !
oed on all the sex"
time. I'll be
" You are not av‘ are, Mr. 'Pillars, of the, extensive
frauds this reseal has practised upon
Rathbone. "He has actually signed
you said Mr'
a bond for is
thousand pounds in your name, which five
whi
pocket." I have n my
~ The devil he has !' exclaimed Villiers.
~ But it is of no effect sincethemarriage Las not
taken place," said Mr. C • r , " and if Mr, Villiers
chooses to take the lady,
rims, •
lie will of
himself."course pay you
In spite of himself, the beau could not )lelp
"Bad as Mr . Cripps ill he is not -worse ltahuagnhinthge.
other party," said Truss ell, stepping he was duping them, the tried. he dufpeorwharimd.; "Iline
derstand from Mr. Tukeesy, Rho has it on unquestion-
able authority, that Mrs. N4l ettleship, so far from being
a wealthy widow, is
heott„ greatly
toin debt,k fihveer friendth
there, Mr. Rathbone,twhthilee
sand pounds secured by itte bonpcl:.lche has mentionedo.u"-
an escape
" After all, then, it seems I've had 1"
cried Mr. Cripps.
44 You have, replied Trussell ; "and your uncle
would have told you all this before, if you had not
kept him at a distance."
" I won't stay here to be laughed at !" cried the
widow, looking defiance at the jeering countenances
around her ; " Mr. Rathbone, your arm.

" You had better go away by the back stairs," said
Trussell, stopping them ; for there are a coupleof
bailiffs in the ball, waiting to arrest you!"
" Curse on it ! I sent them myself," said Mr. Rath-
bone, "to compel the rascal I supposed to be Mr.
Willars to pay your debts."
And hurrying out of the room, he actrA upon True-
sell 's suggestion.
"And now, rascal," said the beau to the valet,
you are no longer in my service-4 discharge you.
And you may thank your stars that I let you off 5°
easily., '
" I was about to discharge you, sir," rejoine4,,the
valet, impertinently. " I don't desire to live wilieel
gentleman who takes his servants by surprise* 11
as bad as a jealous husband."
" Stay !" cried the beau—"you don't leave me in
that way. Antoine stand by him. Now, sir, take on
that peruke—take it off carefully—now the sword.,

The orders were obeyed, and the wig and sword
delivered to the French valet.

"Now take o'if the coat."
Mr. Cripps complied, with a sigh
"IN"ow the waistcoat."
The order was obeyed.
" Now the cravat."

And it yas taken off.
" Now/the diamond buckles."
" Anything else ?" inquired Mr. Cripps, as he gave
up the buckles. " Recollect there are ladies in the
room, sir."
"Yes ; take yourself off," rejoined the beau.
Even thus shorn of his splendour, Mr. Cripps main-
tained his customary assurance. He bowed profoundly
and gracefully round, and quitted the room, amid the
laughter of the company.
" The Garden" is a defence of the old stately
style of English gardening, and does credit to
Mr. Oilier's taste. The " Franciscan's Cure" is
a poem that would be witty if it could, but no-
where rises above smartness. Some of the lines
halt and limp, like an old man on crutches.
" The One Thing Needful" is an illustration of
i.he well-known fact, that nothing is to be done
u England without a dinner. A good dinner—
. 3 :Lord Stowell used wittily to remark—" labri•
rates business," mellows the temper, and
triooths down all the rough edges of character.
ill our most popular and successful writers are
dinner-givers, and this we conceive -to be one of
the chief secrets of their success. The sour,
vinegar, hatchet face of criticism relaxes won-
derfully over a smoking haunch; and assumes
the sweetest and blandest expression possible,
when placed in close contiguity with the Cham-
pagne and Burgundy. Let him who wishes to
stand well with society—to get fees from pa-
tients--briefs from attorneys—soft words from
reviewers—and smiles' and civilities from all
classes—keep a good cook, and never grudge
three courses to his guests?. We protest we
know of nu other way to get on, except by a
judicious :system of swindling, earned on under
the , plausible semblance of business. The
" Clare Fox-hunter" is an amusing description
—free from the besetting vice of most Irish
sketches of character—of a fine, jovial, intelli-
gent, sporting Patlander. " The Picture-hunter"
is one of the raciest portraits its author has yet
drawn. The humour is rich, yet delicate, just
hovering on the borders of the fantastic, without
overstepping propriety. " Windsor Castle" shows
a very fair acquaintance with the domestic his-
tory of the period of which it treats ; and is ably
illustrated by Tony Johannot.