tres crowded with the waifs and strays of the London streets to applaud agonizing scenes which had been spiced with their last groans and convulsions under the superintendence of Mr. Ainsworth himself,-to admire vivid tableaux arranged by his coadjutor, Mr. Cruickshank; the latter, alas! how sadly sunk from the high moral position he might have occupied as Hogarth's far-off successor! Well is it, that every police-case of crime and misdemeanour springing from this Jack-Sheppard mania, circulating among the idle and untaught myriads of St. Giles's and St. George's fields, should be brought forward and illustrated in severe italics. But better would it be if that same press could acquit itself of having begotten the monster now found so noxious-of having sharpened, if not created, that unwholesome appetite, which could not fail, at last, to condescend to garbage-of having hastened that movement, the final direction of which was the mire and the foul odours of the kennel!

In examining how far the press has or has not done this, and in illustrating our inquiry with facts and testimonies not easily to be put aside, the somewhat unusual course presents itself, of dwelling for awhile upon a detail previous to approaching the general features of the subject, that detail being the career and position of Mr. Ainsworth as an author. To describe this will be neither a long nor a difficult task. Mr. Ainsworth possesses the merit of being neither hasty nor frequent in his intercourse with the public. His early tale "Sir John Chiverton" is known to very few, and only to be regarded as an evidence of promise. If intermediate works there be, betwixt its appearance and that of "Rookwood," they have slipped out of sight:-for it is upon that romance and "Crichton," its successor, that the renown was based, which has now spread from boundary to boundary of the empire of the New Police, and too far, we fear, within the jurisdiction of many a county magistracy.

It is needless to recapitulate the incidents of the plot of "Rookwood." The author's manner of working is more to the purpose. As it is now (and the sign is worth noting) required of almost every writer of a certain popularity, to account for his dealings with the public by the profession of

strange mixture of slang, sportsmanship and sorcery, would probably say, that his tale was elaborated in illustration of the same solemn word as that to which the morbid splendours of Victor Hugo's 'Notre Dame de Paris' owe their accumulation. Destiny would probably bear the blame of the scenes in the church-vault and the doings of the fiend-like sextonDestiny would be brought to apologize for the monstrous wickedness of lady Rookwood in her husband's sick chamber -Destiny would be alleged to be the mover of the atrocities of the gipsies' haunt,-scenes, one and all elaborated with the utmost pains, in their turgid distortion caricaturing the wildest extravagances of Maturin, but unredeemed by any glimpses of that poetical spirit, which, with all his tawdriness, Maturin possessed. Of this we hold Mr. Ainsworth to be devoid; celebrated though he be among his admirers, as successful in that sweetest exercise of poetry, song-writing. He can select the thoughts and images which arrange themselves effectively in a lyrical form, and make up a burden certain to catch, if not to keep, the ear; he is familiar with the quips and contrivances of versification; but of that melody of the heart, with which every lyric of Shakspeare and Ben Jonson overflows, and which our modern song-writers, Burns, Beranger and Moore, in a less measure possess, he has nothing. Not one of his songs has struck root. And it is the deficiency of this true poetical spirit which makes his prose descriptions labour as they proceed. Not one single touch or colour in them has of itself any significance. Effort is laid to effort, word piled upon word, allusion tacked to allusion, with as florid a liberality as that of the Irish streetballad maker, who intending to extol the charms of his mistress, compares her to "the famous duchess of Bavaria and Dido the African Queen." With much care, there is no force of dialogue; with much parade of wit and passion, never an exclamation or a repartee which either Tragedy or Comedy would consent to own.

Of the assertions we have just made, it may not be amiss to offer proof, by citing a passage from each of Mr Ainsworth's novels, chosen rather with regard to brevity, than as offering the fullest illustration of the positions we have laid down which could be found. The first, taken from "Rook

wood," is a fair specimen of our novelist's skill in recording the utterance of violent passion. The scene is one of suspense and excitement ;-the widowed lady of a guilty husband is broken in upon by the rightful heir, long deemed a natural son, at the very moment when she has received the proofs of his legitimacy, and is distracted by her own evil promptings towards crimes by which these may be suppressed. A long series of portents and preparations, as pertinent as the two morning guns in "The Critic," has preceded this interview. The injured son speaks :

“'Look here,' and clutching her hand he drew from out the folds of his waistcoat the skeleton hand of his mother, in the bones of which the broken blade was sticking. [!] This dead hand, which has, this instant, in all probability preserved my life', [lady Rookwood having attempted but an instant before to silence his claims by the stroke of the penknife,] 'was my mother's; it has done this, it will do more,-it will accomplish all the rest. See,' added he, stretching forth the shrunken finger, and placing it close by lady Rookwood's hand, who recoiled from contact with it, as from the touch of a scorpion, 'That ring was placed where you now see it before your own was proffered-that cold hand was pressed to your husband's at the altar, before his faith was plighted to you. His faith to her was broken; but the vows he broke were marriage vows. The living hand may part with its ring to another—the dead will retain possession while matter shall endure. Compare them together. The one through her brief life was ever gentle, ever kindly, ever yielding; the other grasping, stern, inexorable. That is instinct with vitality, with power-this incapable of motion-dead. Yet shall this nerveless hand accomplish more than the living. Years have flown since this ring was placed upon the finger; yet hath it not corroded, nor relinquished its hold. Look at it, lady:-consider it well, touch it, examine it 'tis real, actual, your own in shape; in substance; in design : for the same holy end procured, with the same solemn plight bestowed; all the same, save that it was the first, ay, the first; let that convince you. With what a voice this silent circlet speaks-how eloquent-how loud! I have no other witness-yet will this suffice. Of those to whom I owe my being, both are dead. Can neither answer to my call? She sleeps within the tomb that now yawns to receive him he is on his way thither; yet this remains to answer for both-to cry out, as from the depths of the grave, for justice to me. Look at it, I say: can you look, and longer doubt? You cannot dare not-do not. I read conviction in your quaking glance-in your averted countenance.'"-Rookwood, vol. i. pp. 288-300.

And this, according to Mr Ainsworth's next paragraph, is a specimen of "the eloquence inspired by intense emotion, "so vivid that it never fails to produce a convincing effect,

The second fragment affords proof of the manner in which words take the place of fresh, creative thoughts in Mr. Ainsworth's descriptions. It is a part of his portraiture of Crichton the Admirable, whom, it is not unfair to assume, the author himself saw, and wished his reader to see, more clearly than the subordinate personages of the story:—

"The countenance of Crichton was one that Phidias might have pourtrayed, so nearly did its elevated and ennobled character of beauty approach to the ideal standard of perfection erected by the great Athenian sculptor. Chiselled like those of some ancient head of the Delphic God, the features were wrought with the utmost fineness and precision -the contour of the face was classical and harmonious- the mens divinior breathed from every lineament― the lips were firm, full, and fraught with sensibility, yet giving token of the most dauntless resolution-the chin was proudly curved-the nose Grecian--the nostril thin and haughty as that of an unbroken barb of the desert-the brow was ample and majestical, shaded by hair of the lightest brown, disposed in thick ringlets after the manner of the antique. There was a brilliancy of colour, and a sparkling freshness in Crichton's complexion, the more surprising, as the pallid hue and debilitated look of the toil-worn student might more naturally be expected in his features than the rosy bloom of health. In compliance with the fashion of the day, a slight moustache feathered his upper lip, and a short-pointed beard clothed his chin, and added to the grave manliness of his aspect. One blemish, if such it could with propriety be termed, existed in Crichton's physiognomy. Around his right eye was stamped a faint roseate mark, as is evidenced by Aldus Manutius, who, in his dedication to Crichton of the Paradoxes of Cicero, has said, cum te omnes signo rubeæ rosæ, quod tibi Natura circa dextrum lumen impressit, tanquam unicam et raram in terris avem, homines cognoscerent. This defect would be scarcely worth mentioning, inasmuch as it by no means detracted from the beauty and expression of his countenance, and indeed could scarcely be detected except by very near observance, were not its statement necessary to the perfect individuality of the portrait which we wish to present to the reader."—Crichton, vol. i. p. 67.

It is hardly necessary to advert to the total want of innate power in this description, which makes it necessary for the author to quote authorities, and give his reasons for quoting them, by way of finish to his picture. If any novice in composition would wish to consider the results of the opposite manner of working, let him turn to Sir Walter Scott's slighter portraits; those, for instance, of Richard of England on his sick bed, and Saladin the Soldan by the Diamond of the Desert, in the Tales of the Crusaders.'

It may seem strange to all, who, like ourselves, in the

wood," is a fair specimen of our novelist's skill in recording the utterance of violent passion. The scene is one of suspense and excitement;-the widowed lady of a guilty husband is broken in upon by the rightful heir, long deemed a natural son, at the very moment when she has received the proofs of his legitimacy, and is distracted by her own evil promptings towards crimes by which these may be suppressed. A long series of portents and preparations, as pertinent as the two morning guns in "The Critic," has preceded this interview. The injured son speaks :

"Look here,' and clutching her hand he drew from out the folds of his waistcoat the skeleton hand of his mother, in the bones of which the broken blade was sticking. [!] This dead hand, which has, this instant, in all probability preserved my life', [lady Rookwood having attempted but an instant before to silence his claims by the stroke of the penknife,] 'was my mother's; it has done this, it will do more,-it will accomplish all the rest. See,' added he, stretching forth the shrunken finger, and placing it close by lady Rookwood's hand, who recoiled from contact with it, as from the touch of a scorpion, 'That ring was placed where you now see it before your own was proffered-that cold hand was pressed to your husband's at the altar, before his faith was plighted to you. His faith to her was broken; but the vows he broke were marriage vows. The living hand may part with its ring to another—the dead will retain possession while matter shall endure. Compare them together. The one through her brief life was ever gentle, ever kindly, ever yielding; the other grasping, stern, inexorable. That is instinct with vitality, with power-this incapable of motion-dead. Yet shall this nerveless hand accomplish more than the living. Years have flown since this ring was placed upon the finger; yet hath it not corroded, nor relinquished its hold. Look at it, lady:-consider it well, touch it, examine it 'tis real, actual, your own in shape; in substance; in design : for the same holy end procured, with the same solemn plight bestowed; all the same, save that it was the first, ay, the first; let that convince you. With what a voice this silent circlet speaks-how eloquent-how loud! I have no other witness-yet will this suffice. Of those to whom I owe my being, both are dead. Can neither answer to my call? She sleeps within the tomb that now yawns to receive him he is on his way thither; yet this remains to answer for both-to cry out, as from the depths of the grave, for justice to me. Look at it, I say: can you look, and longer doubt? You cannot-dare not-do not. I read conviction in your quaking glance-in your averted countenance.'"-Rookwood, vol. i. pp. 288-300.

And this, according to Mr Ainsworth's next paragraph, is a specimen of "the eloquence inspired by intense emotion, "so vivid that it never fails to produce a convincing effect,