The Sun. — 1839-09-02 (London, England)

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.  Mr. Theodore Hook's tale of the " Planter's Birthday," which stands first in the Number before us, is of a stern, tragic character, in which he but seldom indulges. It turns upon the suicide of a negro slave in Jamaica, occasioned by the insults heaped on him by his master, to whom he was once ardently attached. The story is of the narrative class, and has little or nothing of dramatic dialogue in it. " Isaac Moss, a Story for some Christians," is a terse and satirical poem by Mr. Douglas Jerrold. It is written in a manly, vigorous spirit, and blurts out some useful truths, calculated to rub the conceit off smooth-tongued hypocrites. Mr. Jerrold is one of the most improving writers of the day. There is no lack of thought or energy in what he does, and his manner, though just now somewhat rough and cynical, will become mellowed by experience, which alone is wanting to make him popular. We read by accident the other day a sketch by him, entitled the " Young Lord," which greatly struck us by its fertility of idea and the racy quality of its satire. " Sketches of Elyria, Italy, and the Tyrol," hacknied as is the theme, teem with fresh descriptions of the sublitnest landscape scenery in Europe. A storm, in particular, and a night journey towards Trieste, are pourtrayed with more graphic energy than Mr. Gleig, the author, has yet exhibited. " The gusts of wind," says he, " roared down the long straight streets, like blasts from a thousand gigantic furnaces." This :s an illustration that at once fixes attention by its force and appositeness. " A Stir among the Letter-writers," is a diverting little essay, suggested by the Penny-postage project. The " Widow Married," keeps up its interest unimpaired. In the present chapters, we are introduced again to our favourite old maid, Miss Martha Compton—the shrewdest, and most satirical, yet most benevolent of spinsters—who quizzes the unconscious Widow Barnaby, in the most irresistible style of drollery. In common-sense, worldly sketches like these, where sentiment is out of the question, Mrs. Trollope is quite at home. But she never attempts the lachrymose, the picturesque, or the elevated in thought and feeling, without failing in a deplorable degree. " The Fuegians" gives some lively, and, doubtless, faithful details of the inhabitants of this inclement quarter of tie globe. " Snuff and Snuff-takers," is agreeable gossip, and just of the fitting length. The most relishing part of it, however, is the motto, which is by Leigh Hunt. " The Life and Titnes of Peter Priggins," describe Oxford habits with singular fidelity. The portrait of Mr. Chops, the barber, looks as if drawn from thelifequot.Fe a romth the " Stir among the Letter-writers," we passage which may amuse our readers : " The great point though, connected with this subject, on which we have the saddest misgivings, is certainly a most material one—that is, the due provision of the physical elements for all this letter-writing. Whence is the paper to come from, or the sealing-wax, or the pens and the ink ? No imaginable impregnation of plaster of Paris, will enable the makers to work up their rags into sufficient surfaces to meet the demand. No hundred-Perry power will fabricate steel pens to supply a moderately-peopled parish. Birmingham itself, if it ever gives up rioting, and takes to trade again, will not yield the iron necessary for their fabrication ; and the Thames itself, if sufficiently blackened by becoming the common sewer of a metropolis large as keep the pensnthre going.ate threatens "to be, will not yield ink enough to Where, too, shall we find clerks deliver, to sort, where postmen to dthe letters? May not the craft of letter-writing increasever so fast, as to reduce every man to the necessity of delivering his own letters It is, indeed, fortunate for mankind that some physical bounds bounds will be thus set to the letter-writing impulse. Otherwise there would be considerable onsiderable risk of the means to destroying the end, by overthrowoftheof the reciprocity (as Mr. Pitt would havesaid) it has happened in the presentstate psorocitessm. ayAbes readers,of literature, that authors are more numerous thanfolks may be so busy in with epistolary authorship ; in writing to their friends, that they may never find time to read their own letters."