and while their sense of duty suggested to them the propriety of making the infamous Spaniards walk the plank, they secured the slaves for sale to the free, enlightened, and independent republicans of Georgia and Carolina.

We have no space to follow Barney in all his adventures, which are most beautifully told in the poem. Suffice it to say, that at its commencement we find him keeping a public house in Eagle Court, White Hart Yard, and expecting through the interest of an early patron, the Knight of Kerry, to obtain an inspectorship in the new police. We regret to say that there is one stain upon his character. He has married both the daughters of the person from whom he had bought the goodwill and fixtures of his publichouse and when the ladies discover this lapse of morality, their anger knows no bounds. The bard, with the usual sense of poetic justice in such cases, expresses himself with indignation against the bigamistical propensities of his hero; while he coolly passes over the other little adventures of his life with but slight reproach. Piracy and its concomitants are venal; marrying two women an atrocity never sufficiently to be reprobated;-and with the usual deep insight into human character which marks all the compositions of this school, the bosom of the gentleman, who had seen robbery, and murder, and outrage, under every form, without remorse, is wrung to despair by the reflection that he had offended against the laws of marriage.

Barney is arrested on this charge, but luckily, he discovers that one of the ladies had two, and the other three husbands before. The tables are turned, and he has the satisfaction of transporting both his wives. Their appearance at Bow Street is charmingly written. Beautiful, exceedingly, is the first appearance of the orphans at the bar; and only to be surpassed by what we still hold to be the most perfect in its beauty of all Frosty-faced Fogo's creations the wail over Jack Scroggins. There is a wild witchery about it that goes with a thrill to the heart.*

"Lo! down the glen they come, the long blue glen,

Far off enveloped in aërial haze,

Almost a mist, smooth gliding without step;

So seems it, o'er the greensward, shadow-like,

With light alternating, till hand in hand

*

*

* and cheek by jowl,

Placed on their perch, distinctly visible,
The sisters stand awhile, then leaning over,
Blow up the officers in words of slang
Like fun; and keep their game eyes steadily
Fixed on Sir Richard's mug.

One phiz is pale
In its own pockmarkedness, but paler seems
Beneath the border of her unwashed cap,
So sooty-black, contrasting with the red,
Deep-seated, of her well-carbuncled nose,
Kept purple by her drams. The other foxy
As ruddiest reynard, and bedaubed with rouge,
In rivalry of all those uncombed locks,
Like carrots glittering, o'er her breadth of face
Afloat, and from her eyes, some twice a minute,
Pushed back with greasy hand. But, oh! those eyes
Black all around, but as you closer gaze

Yellower and yellower grows the spreading circle
That girds around each twinkling orb, befringed

Upon a knoll, distinctly visible,

The sisters stand awhile, then lay them down,
Among a weeping birch-tree's whisperings,
Like fawns, and fix their mild eyes steadfastly
Upon the clouded loch!

One face is pale

In its own pensiveness, but paler seems

Beneath the nunlike braidings of that hair,
So softly black, accordant with the calm

Divine that on her melancholy brow

Keeps deepening with her dreams. The other bright, As if in ecstasies, and brighter glows

In rivalry of all those sun-loved locks,

Like gold wire glittering, in the breath of joy

Afloat, on her smooth forehead, momently

Kindling with gladder smile-light. Those dark eyes,

With depths profound, down which the more you gaze,
Stiller and stiller seems the spiritual world
That lies sphered in their wondrous orbs, beyond
New thoughtful regions opening far beyond,

And all imbued with the deep hush of heaven."

With eyelids almost closed upon the eye,
And reddened by the constant lush of Booth.

With this divine passage we close. We wish that our readers should pause, while a burst of such celestial harmony rings in their ears.

We trust, now that Mr. O'Toole has found his harp, he will not be in a hurry to throw it away. Let him at all events, not fail to give us the eight promised visions which remain, and we shall do them justice. We hail in him the reviver of our song, now for more than a dozen years dormant. In him we see the poet, the philosopher, the patriot. His powers of fancy are equalled only by his accuracy of observation, and we fearlessly pronounce him as much at home on the heights of Pindus as in the cellars of St. Giles's, and as chosen a favorite of the nymphs of Helicon as of the maidens of Covent Garden. Vale!

MISS PIPSON.

THE prettiest mouth that man could wish to lay his longing lips on
Is that belonging to the sweet and innocent Miss Pipson.

()! when she goes along the street, the wink she often tips one,

Which makes me feel confounded queer— the cunning wag Miss Pipson.
And when the snow-white French kid glove her pretty hand she slips on,
She seems the very queen of love the beautiful Miss Pipson.
She is the lawful daughter of her father's father's rib's son,
And thus you have the pedigree of elegant Miss Pipson.
She is so full behind, you'd swear that she had got false hips on,
And yet no bustle doth she wear-magnificent Miss Pipson.
She sings and dances vastly well; and when the floor she skips on,
You see at once she doth excel-the nimble-limbed Miss Pipson.
'Tis dangerous to approach too near her fingers, for she grips one,
And puts the soul in bodily fear- the cruel minx, Miss Pipson.
But yet you can't object, although in terror she so dips one;
You rather glory in each blow received from fair Miss Pipson.
Pain from her hands no more is pain; and even when she nips one,
You can not, for your soul, complain - the cruel, sweet Miss Pipson.
'Tis said she carries things so high, that sometimes e'en she whips one;
But that, I guess, is "all my eye,"-adorable Miss Pipson.

At all events, she tips, and grips, and dips, and nips, and trips one;
And therefore I'll have nought to do with beautiful Miss Pipson!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.*

WE had completed our Magazine, when the melancholy news, so long expected, of the death of Sir WALTER SCOTT, arrived in We have no opportunity, at this late period of the month, of doing any thing like justice to the memory of the great deceased, even had we the talent.

town.

Our contemporaries of the daily and weekly press are busily employed, and, we are happy to find, without an exception, honorably employed, in paying tributes to his memory. They have as yet, however, produced scarcely any thing that was not long before-indeed, if could not well be expected that they should. We have no ambition to run a race with our less-encumbered friends; and we hail with unaffected admiration the kindly spirit which has been universally displayed toward the illustrious deceased. The time has gone by, indeed, when any one would be heard who would venture to offer an insult to his memory; and we shall not sully our pages by a reference to the existence of a virulent and contemptible knot, that at one period vented their petty spleen against the greatest man of our day.

Criticism on his works is now superfluous: they have taken their enduring station in the literature of the world. If the applause of foreign nations be equivalent, as it is said, to the voice

* There is so much good feeling, as well as good sense in this tribute to the greatest author of modern times, that it can not be omitted in any collection of Maginn's Miscellanies. It appeared in Fraser's Magazine, for October, 1832, and must have been written currente calamo, as Scott's death, which took place at Abbotsford, on the afternoon of the 21st of September, was not known in London until the 23d. As an estimate, from a particular point of view, of Scott's personal, literary, and political character, this paper possesses interest as well as merit.-M.