Another instance in proof of the party temper and spirit on which the Irish government is now conducted, and to which we shall only allude, is the recent interference with the ballot at the Dublin Society. The name of Dr. Murray, the Roman Catholic archbishop of Dublin, was put in nomination as a candidate for admission, and was rejected by a large majority. Had this happened to any Protestant bishop, the circumstance would have passed by as an ordinary and inconsiderable matter: but occurring to a Catholic, a party man, an adherent of O'Connell, a subscriber of an annual 107. to the rent, gave a new colour to the whole affair; and the society has been called upon by the Lord-Lieutenant to make such an alteration in their mode of electing its members as may afford greater facilities to the admission of his party adherents, under a hint — as intimidation is now in Ireland the first and last argument propounded on every subject-of losing their annual parliamentary grant, if his instructions are not adopted. The society have refused to take his lordship's advice into consideration manfully and nobly. We shall now see if the threat will be carried into execution by the ministry at home. Such are the facts which have led us to believe that the post of viceroy of Ireland ought to be discontinued. Every body will admit that they are crying evils, and that they could not have occurred in the British empire under any other mode of administration. Could Lord Melbourne, from Downing Street, have dared personally to pardon Reynolds; to mitigate the punishment of Cummins; to change the stations of the assistant-barristers, so as to make the man and his post tally with the purposes of O'Connell; to pass over the gentlemen designated by the judges, and nominate others as the sheriffs of counties who had no place upon their lists; to forbid the officers of justice rendering assistance to the execution of a writ of rebellion under the broad seal; to encumber the necessary aid of the police in collecting tithes with such restrictions as amount to a prohibition of it; and then to descend from these high delinquencies, and interpose his authority in a pitiful, and vexatious, and officious meddling with the ballot-box of the Dublin Association? But, though the viceroy were away, might not all these abominable party operations be carried on by means of some other, though humbler, tool of the reigning administration? Such, certainly, might be the case. But, at all events, the country would be relieved from the authority of a single individual; from the constant influence of his character on public transactions, and from those arbitrary and self-willed acts which the rank and powers of his station are so strongly calculated to encourage him to practice. Besides, the subordinate agents of a government would be prevented, by their position and interests, from publicly venturing to attempt, on their own responsibility, a variety of measures, which, by dexterous suggestions, they now contrive to effect, without his being, perhaps, conscious of the influence which sets him in motion, by the instrumentality of the LordLieutenant. But, above all, it may be hoped that the true policy to be applied to the government of Ireland, with a view to the general interests of the whole empire, would be more impartially viewed and acted on by a cabinet of ministers in London, consulting on Irish affairs, with the facts fully and fairly laid before them for deliberation, and at a distance from the prejudices engendered by party feeling in the castle of Dublin. This cannot be the case at present, while the government is carried on in the very centre of political animosities, through the medium of a Lord-Lieutenant, whose mind must inevitably be warped by the adherents of either one or the other of the political factions, and whose situation gives more weight to his advice, while it affords an excuse to ministers for not looking more closely into the nature of the measures he recommends, and the characters of the objects of his patronage. ANOTHER CAW FROM THE ROOK WOOD. " TURPIN OUT AGAIN. Ovx is xoganas aropligi μov.-ARISTOPHANES, Clouds, 789. FEW novels run to the third edition: this point is gained, an author may So striking a bibliographical truth need hardly be announced as a discovery of our own. There is a Scotch allegory by Robert Burns, in which the matter is delightfully adumbrated; and to us, whose eye can quickly detect the recondite wisdom of what to the vulgar seemeth trivial and homely, the interpretation of his parable reveals itself at once. Arrayed on each side of the road to literary eminence, that truly wonderful poet mystagogically represents the scribes of the periodical press: "Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted- But your real man of genius (whom Burns chooses to designate under the mystic name of Tam O'Shanter), undismayed by the ghastly spectres that beset his progress, runs the gauntlet unterrified, dashes on full of confidence and of usquebagh (con spirito), until having cleared in gallant style the "keystane of the brig," "There at them He his tail may toss -K. 7. 2. We were among the first to predict the rapid and successful career of Mr. Ainsworth as a novelist; when Turpin first did ride abroad, we were there to see, to admire, and to applaud : at this stage of his popularity, now that he has kicked up such a cloud of Olympic dust, and gained such xudes from all voices, our encouraging cheer is drowned in the general shout of acclamation. Yet needs must we confess, that our REGINA takes still a quasi-maternal interest in this young author; and we should probably dwell here on the precise nature of her feelings, had not Homer done the very thing for us, in depicturing the heart of Andromache as swelling with joy at the anticipated triumphs of Astyanax with this difference, however, that, according to history, they were never realised "Hers was a fiction, but this is reality.” Per We recur, therefore, with manifest com- " Rookwood, a Romance. By William Harrison Ainsworth. Third Edition, complete in one volume, with Illustrations by George Cruikshank, and a Portrait of ARA London. "Per siculas equitavit undas?" It is by such facts that calumny is struck dumb. When Scipio Africanus was accused of a miscalculation in the public accounts, by some peddling Joe Hume of that remote day, how did he act? Did he exhibit his balance-sheet? Not he! He talked of the anniversary of some glorious triumph over the water, and by that gentlemanly and dignified reference he got rid of what Theodore Hook would call a troublesome complaint in the chest. For our part, we expect to hear of new editions in the eastern as well as the western hemisphere: we anticipate Tartar translations and Arab commentaries. We see no reason why this romance should not be read as eagerly on the plains of Mesopotamia as on the banks of the Potomack. The Cossacks on the river Don have, no doubt, already sent their orders to No. 3 St. James's Square. Fortunate author! Tu lætum equino sanguine Concanum It was impertinently said by (leaden) penciller Willis, of Captain Marryat's nautical novels, that they could scarcely be entitled to rank as works of literature,"being read chiefly about Wapping." We need not dwell on the recent results of that choice bit of criticism, the readers of the Times newspaper having been treated to a belligerent correspondence thereanent; from which all rational folks have concluded, that, though the New Yorkian had plenty of disposable lead in his pencil, paper pellets sufficed for his pistol. We are happy to record a better proof of the taste and judgment of the Americans (in their predilection for Rookwood) than is afforded by the melancholy spemen of an homme de lettres whom they have sent us in Willis. Quinctilian has laid it down, as a sure indication of proficiency in mental cultivation, a rattling regard for Cicero: "Ille se profecisse sciat cui Cicero valde placebit." An unbounded admiration of the chronicles of Turpin, we tell brother Jonathan, ought to suffice in his case; and our respect for his intellectual attainments will be inseparable from and commensurate with his due appreciation of "Rookwood, a Romance." We are fully prepared to hear illnatured individuals volunteering an explanation of this decided partiality shewn to Mr. Ainsworth's narrative on the other side of the Atlantic, and attempting to account for its popularity among the original settlers. Any one initiated into the secrets of the book-trade must be aware, that copies of the Newgate Calendar are in constant and steady request throughout President Jackson's dominions; most families being anxious to possess that work from motives connected with heraldry and genealogical science. It is the same pardonable weakness that secures among us the sale of Mr. Burke's Peerage and Commoners. We all wish, naturally enough, to see the names of our relatives in print, and be acquainted with our remote kinsmen in the various ramifications of consanguinity. The connexions of Turpin may have been many; his history would naturally be expected, by our transatlantic countrymen, to throw some light on the motives which led a number of his contemporaries to depart for the land of the brave and the free. Hence, the ill-natured persons of whom we speak have ascribed to similar causes the furious demand for copies of Rookwood in the back-settlements, on the ridge of the Alleghanies, down the Missouri, up the O. I. O., and on the banks of the I. O. U.; a river which, if it be not in the map of the States, among the other xaλa grilga of Yankeedom, is well known to be the real Pactolus of the colony. Their Lycurgus is one “Lynch.” There were many brave fellows in Greece long before the birth of Agamemnon, but, owing to the art of writing not having been yet invented, they all died intestate, if not unsung. There were, doubtless, also, from time immemorial, many capital highwaymen in and about the Peloponnesus; but, as Tom Moore, in his comic song on "Wellington's name," says of the Irish rogues and rapparees,† Constable's Miscellany was, for a time, in brisk request, from a mistaken notion as to the nature of its contents. †The best etymology yet offered for this word is that supplied by our author, in one of those songs that have made the first edition go off so triumphantly: "Callidum quidquid placuit jocoso Since then we have pretty accurate (including that very remarkable implement the symbolic caduceus), and that to the Egyptians the abstraction of their sacred vessels was a sore subject of reminiscence. The Latins, oddly enough, were in the habit of connecting literary allusions with the practice of thievery; thus, homo trium litterarum, i. e. FUR; litteram longam facere, i. e. to form an I, or to "dance," as our author has it, "to the tune of a hearty choke with caper-sauce." The same association of ideas probably suggested to Dr. Johnson the remark, that he who could make a pun would pick a pocket. All these matters could be enlarged upon, were we in a discursive humour; but we merely meant to state, that no class of persons appear to be such favourite subjects for historical or poetical narrative as corsairs and robbers, in their vast variety of impersonation. Schiller and Byron have, in truth, much to answer for, notwithstanding the latter poet's sophistry concerning the effects of the Beggar's Opera; Scott's Rob Roy and Robin Hood are of evil example; Moore's Captain Rock will, we fear, outlast his History of Ireland; Paul Clifford and Eugene Aram will be, unfortunately for the public morals, more durably popular than a hundred Last Days and Last Tribunes; and it will greatly surprise us if Mr. Ainsworth's forthcoming book, on the Admirable Crichton, shall cause the tale of Turpin to be forgotten. This republication of Rookwood comes recommended by the addition of many novel and interesting features, calculated to heighten and enhance its previous attractions. Among them, we suppose it were needless to invite attention to the features of the handsome author himself, delineated by the magic pencil of Maclise, and engraved by the potent burin of Edwards. That face (with figure to correspond) sold five hundred extra copies of our Mag. two years ago. The illustrations, by George Cruikshank, are worthy of his well-earned celebrity. Far be it from us to institute an invidious comparison between him and our own Croquis: the world is wide enough, and can accommodate Uncle Toby without any necessity for excluding the blue-bottle fly (vide Sterne, in loco). George is in the full zenith of his ascendant Crescit occulto velut arbor ævo Were we not equally anxious to avoid Be those bright gems unseen, unknown— Ah! why should we review it ?- And dunces' books provoke us, PROUT, with Vignettes by CROQUIS." When first the romance of Rookwood burst on an admiring world, and claimed for its author a place in the foremost rank of contemporary novel-writers, the lyrical poetry with which the work abounded challenged for him a name among the most distinguished modern votaries of the muse. The songs formed mjernomple? Para! no more! a leading and substantive merit of the book, and were found to be so successful, that Mr. Ainsworth, awaking one day, recognised in himself a poet. He has shewn a due appreciation of the public's approval. More than a dozen additional ballads and odes adorn the pages of this new edition; and we must say that they decidedly are of the right sort, full of glowing enthusiasm, and redolent of inspiration. We know not whether he has yet determined what school of poetry he intends to patronise—whether the lake or leg of mutton school; should he consult us, we think that he has a decided vocation for the "sepulchral:" his immortal ballad of "the Sexton," which still haunts our imagination; it revealed in him the existence of a power akin to that of Ezekiel, and was, in sooth, as glorious a vision of dry bones as we can recollect just now. Southey has chosen a domicile on the margin of his favourite lakes, to enact the genius loci; it is not without reason that Ainsworth has latterly selected a rural residence close by the grand necropolis on the Harrow Road: if the cemetery company's directors" have any brains, they will vote him 500l. a-year, and create him laureate of the grave-yard, with the grass of the enclosed grounds in feesimple to his Pegasus for ever. Of the new lyrics which give such value to this edition we would select, as a first specimen, the following ballad; which, though, in our opinion, not equal to "the Sexton" in fancy and strength, is yet a noble production, and fully justifies our high idea of his capabilities. "The Legend of the Lime Tree-Branch: a Ballad, Fatalis rami."- Eneid, VI, Amid the grove, o'erarched above with lime-trees old and tall Seven yards its base would scarce embrace, a goodly tree, I ween, And 'mid its boughs two ravens house, and build from year to year, Their black brood hatch, their black brood watch, then, screaming, disappear. In that old tree when playfully the summer breezes sigh, Its leaves are stirred, and there is heard a low and plaintive cry; And when in shrieks the storm-blast speaks its reverend boughs among, But whether gale or calm prevail, or cloud the welkin skim, In olden days, the legend says, as grim Sir Ranulph viewed His blood-hounds twain he called amain, and straightway gave her chase, With eyes of flame to Ranulph came each red and ruthless hound, |