The Press.
London, England, 1857-04-18 00:00:00

When these letters appeared in the Times,
they were signed with the author's name. His
present titlepage states that the letters are
" reprinted by permission." If the letters
came from a non-professional writer, we should
suppose that " permission" would not be
needed, or that copyright was intruded upon
by their collection in a book. The volume,
though not deep, is one suited for book-clubs.
but readers of the fair sex must be warned
that several coarse speeches are unavoidably
introduced into the volume. We could wish
that some of the dark portions of the subject
had been relieved by sketches of " woman's
mission " in such a district; but perhaps that
might only be a pretext for introducing still
sterner pictures.

I. Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads,
Jacobite Ballads, ifc. By George W.
Thornbury. London : Hurst and Blackett.
2. First Fruits. Poems. By E. H. B.
London : Hurst and Blackett.

1. The rich vein of poetical material under-
lying English life during the whole of that
long struggle which begun at Edgehill and
ended at Culloden is very lar from being yet
exhausted. Scott worked it extensively in
his prose fictions, but devoted only one of his
poems to so thoroughly congenial a topic ;
and a few songs, plaintive or triumphant, by
the minstrels of those nations where love of
the white rose and the Catholic faith lingered
longest are all that poetry has yet contributed
to the celebration of that famous and heroic
contest. Possibly the events aro even yet too
near to form the subject of a great epic poem.
The opinions of mankind are still divided on
the rights of the contending parties. No
poet could treat of it without becoming an
advocate ; and admiration of his verse would
be lost in criticism of his argument. lint
perhaps the very causes which unfit this
period of history for the theme of the epos or
the drama, may add zest and poignancy to its
lyric embodiment. Partisanship is not out of
place in a song; and certainly in a battle song
it is necessary for the minstrel to feel for the
moment inspired by the same passion as the
combatants. We can safely say of Mr. Thorn-
bury that ho does not fail in this qualification.
His sympathies are Jacobite throughout ;
and, indeed, it must be said that after 1088,
when the Puritans were extinguished, the
poetry of the struggle was all on the losing
side.

Mr. Thornbury's versification is bold and
spirited, as the accompanying extracts will
sufficiently show. But. we would suggest the
exercise of greater care in the choice of names
and epithets. Even a bad rhyme is in our
opinion preferable to an unpc.tical word ;
and, in spite of the Wordsworthians, we hold
to the existence of a distinct poetical
phraseology :

MELTING OF THE EARL'S PLATE.
Here's the gold cup all boss) with satyrs and saints,
Aud my race•bowl (now, women, no whining and plaints!)
From the paltriest spoon to the costliest thing,
We'll melt it all down for the use of the king.

Here's the chalice stamped over with sigil and cross,—
Soule day we'll make up to the chapel the loss.
Now bring me my father's great emerald ring,
For I'll melt down the gold for the good of the king.
And bring me the casket my mother has got,
And the jewels that fall to my Barbara's lot;
Then dry up your eyes and do nothing but sing,
For we're helping to coin the gold for the king.
This dross we'll transmute into weapons of steel,
Tempered blades for the hand, sharpest spurs for the heel ;
And when Charles, with a shout, into London we bring,
We'll be glad to remember this deed for the king.
Bring the hawk's silver bells, and the nursery spoon,
The crucible's ready—we're nothing too soon ;
For I hear the horse neigh that shall carry the thing
'That'll bring up a smile in the eyes of the king.

There go my old spurs, and the old silver jug,—
'Twas just for a moment a pang and a tug ;
But now I am ready to dance and to sing,
To thick I've thrown gold in the chest of my king.

_
The earrings Inge shape, and the coronet too,
I feel my eyes dim with a sort of a dew.
Hurrah lot the poaaet dish !—Everything
Mitll run into bars for the use of the kieg.
That spoon is a sword, and this thimble a pike;
It's but a week's garret in London belike—
Then a dash at Whitehall, and the city shall ring
With the shouts of the multitude bringing the king.