vase.1 A D'Orsay, compared with his castor, is omne circa petasum; and Bulwer must not attempt to rival the descriptive cock of the lorgnette, or paint the aristocratic pursing up of the "human face divine," when such. themes have been traced by the hands of the Edinburgh Prometheus. Mr. Ainsworth has given a niche to Turpin, but could he have erected a temple to Burke and Thurtell, like that in the work before us? No: these triumphs were reserved for the author of Glenlonely.

Yet, alas no sun but has its shadow; surgit amari aliquid; and we sincerely regret to find that our amiable author is not altogether free from affliction, the more so, as we strongly suspect, that either a laudable ambition, lucklessly thwarted, or the effects of an accident in early youth, have acidulated the milk of his existence. Perhaps both causes conduce to this result. Even the success of his literary lucubrations cannot, we fear, prove suitably sanative.

Unus Pellæo juveni non sufficit orbis,

Estuat infelix angusto limite mundi.

In Glenlonely he vents his sorrow in the following touching Stanzas, which we transcribe for the enchantment of our readers:

My wish is granted! Russell's bill
Creates a change in Church and state;

I gulp the patriotic pill,

And trust myself to elevate-
But even now-il cor mi dice,
Io non sono, non sono felice.

The lowest, meanest in the land,

The scum, the vermin upward float; 'Tis Murray's bark, by Topboots fann'd, And I have sneaked into the boat

But even here-il cor mi dice,
Io non sono, non sono felice.

Hay, Reid, and Thomson, are away

Sweet specimens of whig jobation.
I've sought to serve as well as they,
And oft have made due application;
But even now-il cor mi dice,
Io non sono, non sono felice.

There's Currie, from the gutter fished,
Makes noodles of their Sheriff boast;
And I, what I have ever wished,

Should now enjoy some quiet post.
I strive in vain-il cor mi dice,
Io non sono, non sono felice.

A Sheriffdom is no bad thing,

Though occupied by party tools;
If Duff or Tait would but take wing,
I might succeed one of these fools.
Ah wherefore not! Il cor mi dice,
Io non sono, non sono felice.

O'er places lost the Tories sigh,-
They cannot sure get in again:
Let others laugh, yet may not I,

To me their joy brings only pain;
Give me that pain,-il cor mi dice,
Io non sono, non sono felice.

Oh never more I'll aid Sir John,

Or at the poll-booth take my station;
My hopes are off, so I'll jog on

In my own private sitivation.
Confound the dogs, il cor mi dice,
Io non sono, non sono felice!

It is not in rerum natura, that talent such as this can

long pass unrewarded, and we earnestly hope peace may once more revisit the hearth of Glenlonely. Just as we write, we hear that a patent of peerage is in preparation, -a small affair indeed, but the harbinger of more halcyon bon bons.

Note to Number LI.

1 We believe an incident, in the early life of the author, relative to the rupture of a China utensil, is beautifully and happily alluded to in the Romance.

LII.

SCENE FROM THE JURY COURT OPERA.

ATTRIBUTED TO

DC, Esq.

SCENE, Robing Room after Trial.

TUNE-The Rogues March.

CHIEF COMMISSIONER SINGS,

Oh there's nothing on Earth
That in sorrow or mirth,

So sweetens our mortal existence,

As thus to repay,

In a true Judge-like way,

A friend for his friendly assistance.
Indeed 'tis the principal beauty

Of our otherwise comfortless duty,
That we're only to lean

To the side that we mean,

To suffer to pocket the booty.

PITMILLY.

Great Solon of old,

As by Sandford we're told,

Made a law for the ancient Athenians;

That no one in future

Should ever stand neuter,

Tho' it suited his private convenience.
I don't know if it strikes you so,

I never the subject would view so;
But it can't be denied

We should all take a side

When we find it convenient to do so.
GILLIES.

Some have ventured of late

For to in-si-nuate

That justice should be perfect blindness,
Or not condescend to look on a friend
With any particular kindness;
But this all contemptible fudge-is

Invented by Moralist drudges,

The man d'ye see

Who's a good friend to me,

Shall ne'er want a friend 'mong the judges.

CHIEF COMMISSIONER.

They say Politics

Ought never to mix

In judicial determinations,

And that we should be

All perfectly free

From such pitiful considerations:

But really it seems rather grievous

Of our great Polar Star to bereave us,
For take this away,

And tell me, I pray,

What general rule would they leave us.

CHORUS.

Then let us all sing

Long life to our King,

Who gave us our Pensions and Places,
May the Court where we sit,

And all about it,

Be placed on a permanent basis;

May we each be as true to his brother,
As the devil e'er was to his mother,
May we answer the ends

Of ourselves and our friends,

And do credit the one to the other.

LIII.

PETER'S ADDRESS TO BOBBY.
Rising with sweet obtrusive voice to claim
A bumper to that dear obnoxious name,
I feel as when-here standing as I do,
And all unused to public speaking too ;-
That where the soul with retrospective eye
Pierces the gloom of bright futurity,
Or darts its full anticipative gaze
Up the long vista of departed days,
Some object still uprears its widowed form,
And sheds its own hypothec o'er the storm,
Staunches the echo of the bleeding mind,
Nor leaves the soul, one shred or snatch behind.

BARD OF THE SEASONS, hail! I turn to thee
With concupiscent retromingency!

Whether I see thy non-adhesive hip

Witching the world with noblest horsemanship, Or hear thee in the house with looks severe Pour amorous nonsense in a Judge's ear,