Wish that the face may always wear LONDON PERIODICALS. Sir Richard's Magazine. ye reckless children of Edina ! Were your ears impervious to melodious sounds when Sir Dick was blowing his own trumpet? But our conscience upbraids us for thus unnecessarily delaying the enjoyment of our readers. Let them prepare then (έκας, έκας έςτε, βεβηλοι!) for an intellectual banquet of the highest order, and for the reception of many valuable morsels of wisdom and eloquence. On opening this Magazine, our optics are first greeted with an engraving, quaintly cut in wood, and curiously impressed. This, however, is a matter of comparatively small moment. Nor will we detain our readers by transcribing, for their improvement, communications relative to the African Colonies-accounts of musical meetings-methods of preventing yellow fever or improvescience of extinguishing a candle. ments in the occult and mysterious The German student, however, deserves a word before we turn the leaf, and consign it to oblivion. It is written with a laudable and honest intent of putting an end to the study Or, like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough, try; and we deem it but fair to menof the German language in this coun Know ye the land where the gay Ma gazine Contends for dominion with sober Review, Where monthly and quarterly pamphlets are seen, Now stitch'd up in yellow, now pasted in blue? "Tis the land of the Lamb, 'tis the land of the Leigh, "Tis the land of Sir Richard, the land of Cocknee. and fierce Byron. Pope. WE regret to find that we had given the inhabitants of our "Gude Town" credit for more vous in literary matters than they really seem to deserve. Speaking, the other day, to a friend on the important change which has recently taken place in the externals of the Monthly Magazine, we were struck dumb with astonishment to find that the man absolutely knew nothing about the said Magazine, and had never heard that such a publication was in esse!-Petrifying ignorance!-and, what is worse, we have discovered many others equally immersed in the same Cimmerian dark ness! Not know The Monthly! Net know Sir Richard! Impossible! Has not Homer conferred immortality on Zoilus? and can even a dog-fly on Newton's mantle escape observation and notoriety? Are not the wonderful writings of the Refuter of the Principia known to the children of men? Is there a pastry-cook in the land who hath not found profit in them, or a tiunk-maker who hath not rejoiced over them? For shame! tion, that this profound article is more than enough to alarm a person of delicate nerves. The execution is, indeed, worthy of the design. We cannot stay to taste the honey of L'Ape Italiana; and our tender conscience is hurt to be compelled to omit Mr John Partridge's reply to Mr Farey. These, as in duty bound, must all give place to an article bearing the magniloquent title of "The Philosophy of Contemporary Criticism," and purporting to be a regular hostile manifesto against a periodical work, which we are sorry to offend Sir Dick's well-known modesty by naming in the same page with The Monthly Magazine-we mean-the Edinburgh Review! The first part of " Poor Richard's Almanack" certifies, that "Mr Jeffrey's prose has all the richness, flow, and elasticity of the finest poetry;" (right for once, Dick!) and that the 66 Doge of Venice" is a very stupid thing, consisting of " five prosing dialogues, in place of five acts; and yet strange to tell!-“ possessing beauties which render it worthy to be bound up with Cato and Irene!" "Article second," we are: assured, "is judicious enough ;" and we are farther instructed by this "Philosopher," that "punishments are framed with a design to deter the innocent, rather than reform the guilty!" This, to be sure, is a little beyond the reach of our comprehension. We have been accustomed to believe, that the laws afforded protection, instead of awarding punishment to "the innocent;" and that one of the grand objects of criminal jurisprudence was "the reform of the guilty," "a labour of love" that has conferred an endearing immortality on the names of Howard and Nield, and elicited the admiration and esteem of a grateful country for Bennet, Buxton, and Fry. "Classical education” is anathematised as "a blustering sort of essay," and therefore, we presume, written by some contributor of Sir Richard's. The editor, too, is taxed with "compromising his former opinions," and with "not being careful to preserve consistency in his journal." What his former opinions were, the worthy inhabitant of Bride Court has prudently declined informing us; and, being himself singularly remarkable for "consistency" in his own opinions, he unquestionably derives a right to hold, that all mankind, and Mr Jeffrey in the number, gravitate naturally to the opposite error. As might naturally be expected, this sage mirror of knighthood shows some discretion. He speaks tenderly and humanely of "capital punishments," and with a manifest leaning to the side of mercy in favour of those useful members of society, the coiners, forgers, highwaymen, thieves, and pickpockets, "whose interests," he says," are too frequently sacrificed, and their motives calumniated, in the cant of religion and aristocracy!" "Melmoth the Wanderer," however, puts him in the horrors, and he straightway opens his mouth, which is full of curses, and stigmatizes Anastasius as a "demoniacal ruffian ;" "exemplifies the vices of his temper" on "Malthus and Godwin,” reads the Art of War" with "loathing and abhorrence;" tells us he is not a" conter, (the reader may search Johnson in vain for this word, the meaning of which we do not pretend even to conjecture);" and fairly holds, that we might have turned Buonapate adrift, without such a prodigal expenditure of powder, shot, and steel, at Waterloo. By this time, however, he has wrought himself into such a pursy orgasm of rage, and is so full of" sound and fury," that he is nearly caught in a Mantrap," and escapes by miracle from the deadly aim of a "Springgun," belching forth, for the information of all whom it may concern, that, in the "manufacture" of the Edinburgh Review," paste and scissors are the chief implements employed!" 66 But the splendid qualifications of this Literary Hercules are chiefly apparent in his able and intelligent defence of "Laureate Hexameters, which he very properly holds may consist of five as well as of six feet; adding, that "the length of a line is as indeterminate as that of a stanza;" from which, we presume, he means, that it may be extended to six fathoms if necessary. We, heedless mortals! had imagined that the article in question displayed great ability, and uncommon acquaintance with the organization both of Latin and English verse, and had set the question as to the possibility of introducing hexameters into English poetry completely to rest. We are sorry to find that we have been labouring under a delusion. The flashy' Knight has emitted his oracular díctum, that the "Laureate's Hexameters are quite defensible," and that nothing could have been more out of place than a discussion on the fitness of Hexameter measure to English versification," in a review of the "Vision of Judgement," written in that very measure! 66 But Rhadamanthus is armed with his scourge, and he is resolved to use it on all and sundry; " castigatque cogitque fateri." The review of the "Life of Mr Pit" he avouches is "dull and prolix;" and adds, were the "aristocratical journals to write impartially, few would believe them." Of course they must write partially;" or, in other words, violate truth and honesty, that they may be "believed!" Is not this a libel on the moral and intellectual mind of the country? Sir Dick's notions of honesty appear in the paragraph that follows, where the worthy Literatist labours to prove, that it is not criminal to defraud the public creditor, and that it would be a highlymeritorious act to apply a spunge both to principal and interest, and to reduce him to beggary, because he had preferred the government security to any other. We have also a conspicuous sample of the knight's love of truth, in the glaring and wilful misrepresentations, contained in the article we have just been examining, of a work that has done more to enlighten the great body of the people, than the whole mass of periodiput together. cals Now for the poetry. Here is an entire new kind of verse. Let Elegy whine-let Satire grin or bark—let Pastoral doze or let Epigram laugh -I'll have none o' them, says Sir Dick to himself. To all admirers of "I pass'd the hero's dwelling, Each horrid agonizing roar Was follow'd by a stream of gore!" We could have wished to have given this beautiful piece, entire, but we are afraid of trespassing upon the editor's copyright in so inestimable a composition. The next stanza we therefore omit. Our readers have had a specimen of true pathos;-now for a little warm and natural indig nation: "Mute and transfix'd I stood What think they of the poor man's woe? Or their sufferings deplore, Or strive to relieve ?-their care 'tis below." Horrible wretches they must be! We wish they could see this Magazine. We are sure even their hearts, "callous" as they are, would relent at such flint-moving strains. Richard will perhaps transmit a copy to the Mess. But we fear "his care 'tis below." The writer's blood boil Sir ed within him, and, in the bitterness of his heart," he cursed all tyrants and vain glory." Why did he not give us the curse? It would have been a model of imitation for all future cursers and swearers. The history of this castigated hero must be read in the original. It deploreth, in poetic grief, the miseries of the youth who had left his friends, and his lass beloved, to turn soldier. "Return'd, alas! too late repentant, found His aged parents in the narrow grave— His disobedience blighted all around; His love distracted, and himself a slave! What wonder, then, that he who bore A feeling heart was stricken to the core? What wonder, that his wretched soul Sought comfort from the life-destroying bowl? That he who once was foremost in the His hopes all fled, his spirits sank, And that from muster he had staid read the concluding lines without None in the world! but who can sympathy? "This was his crime-for this a soldier brave Was pinion'd, stripp'd, and whipp'd into a slave!" "Whipped into a slave!" Do we understand this rightly? Does this elegant writer mean to insinuate that the hero was bonâ fide incorporated with a slave, and that they twain became one flesh, and by the mere act of whipping? Oh!" whipp'd into a slave?" We repeat it-our admiration is unbounded. Again and again let it be "wafted by the breeze," that all may hear it and admire" whipp'd into a slave !" Poor Jemmy Bottom, thou art undone for ever! thou art, indeed, translated into an ass. Thy poetry is eclipsed, and thou must yield the palm. Vain are the "raging rocks" -powerless are "lion, wall, and moonshine;" aye, and the man in the moon to boot, although he bring to his assistance the lantern which was his lantern, and the dog which was his dog. Pyramus and Thisbe too! but it is useless to contend with this poetical giant. We are sensible that any more extracts, and far more any thing that we could say, must, after what we have quoted, appear "flat and unprofitable." We shall here finish, therefore, hoping our readers will join in our humble prayer:-From the Monthly Magazine-from the harlot clothed in scarlet-from such stuff and from such poets, Good Lord deliver us!!! With their hum, hum, hum, &c. And princes by the nose, Led by fools or by foes, Pimps, dukes, Turks, and fine foreign doxies; Whilst a man of sense and grace, Could no more show his face, Than a footman his front in the boxes, With his hum, hum, hum, &c. There no language was fix'd, But all jargons were mix'd, Which gave the new courtiers much trouble; And though in all the herd No cloven tongue appear'd, Yet each tongue was both forked and double, With its hum, hum, hum, &c. Both in church and in state, And the drawing-room was left to the rabble; Which made great Jove to doubt, Or transform'd to a bedlam or a Babel, "Hum, hum," quoth the god, That shook all the firmament round him; "What a vile disorder's here! Straight away, my wing'd courier, Bring the guilty here, that I may confound them," With my hum, hum, hum, &c. The little airy post, As the welkin he cross'd, Spied three royal dames laid all along; And Hibernia with harp all unstrung, As he nearer did advance, "What the devil means this trance ?" Cried Merky, and he plied them with his wand; "Arouse, ye drones !" quoth he, ""Tis great Jupiter's decree," Whereat suddenly they started and they yawn'd, With a hum, hum, hum, &c. Then they, somewhat abash'd, Till they reach'd Jove's throne of mighty wonder; At the sight his haughty blood Boil'd in such an angry mood; 'Twas a mercy he withheld his red thunder, With its hum, hum, hum, &c. "What avails it now," cried he, "To have given to you three, You pack of ungracious jades! Such fair domains to till, If you doze thus and lie still, With his hum, hum, hum, &c. "Get you gone from whence ye came, With my hum, hum, hum, &c. To St James's, where in truth they espied With her hum, hum, hum, &c. "What the deuce have we got here?" Quoth bold England to Mynheer, "What! a madman for all my great pains ?" "Aha!" quoth Caledon, "I smell a rat, and so I'm gone, Devil a drop of my blood is in his veins !" With his hum, hum, hum, &c. Then Hibernia she sigh'd, As 'tis oft her way, and cried, "Too long have I serv'd you, hard masters! "Tis all at your own doors, For I strove with all my powers But after much pother, With their hum, hum, hum, &c. Thus helpless in their smart, And resolve to be no more afraid; But in vain! 'tis too well known Jove, still arm'd with thunder and threats, That gave a quick turn to their fates. He withdrew his dire intent, Then Jove, all serene, With a fatherly mien, And that voice that decrees mortal fate, With their hum, hum, hum, &c. "In vain do they dare Their past errors to repair, With their hum, hum, hum, &c. He shall make this vile discord to cease; The ancient Stuart blood, With the spirit of our brave Tudor race," "For him I do ordain Golden days to come again To these lands long oppress'd with wast ing war; And from him there shall come down Till he made the tyrant totter on his With his hum, hum, hum! |