The Sun.
London, England, 1846-03-02 00:00:00

AINS WORTH.

Culled from the original vof Alexander Dumas, the
chapters of the " Count of Monte Christo" are continued
with unabated,' if not increased, spirit ; Mr.
Ainsworth's romance of " Old Saint Paul's" (the in-
judicious revival of which we commented upon last
month) is continued also; the " Life and Writings of
Nimrod," in like manner, reach another installment ;
while Dudley Costello obliges us with some additional
" Passages in the Private History of my Poodle." Al-
though we are desirous of not pursuing a wearisome re-
monstrance with the gentleman to whose editorship this
magazine is consigned, we would again entreat him, with
the utmost earnestness, to avoid any future reiusitation.
Harrison Ainsworth's imagination is too copious to com-
pel him to sustain his literary reputation by reprints.
Where, we may surely inquire, are the "Lancashire
Witches?" where is the conclusion of the "Revelations
of London?" If Mr. Forrest cannot manufacture any
effusion superior to '• The Goblin Steed," we would re-
commend him to appraise his escrutoire, and sell it at
a 'sacrifice. Never was there a more hacknied legend
than that respecting goblin steeds; we have been treated
over and over again to goblin steeds, to all appearance
shod in phosphoric smithies; goblin steeds perspiring
little rivulets of fire; goblin steeds with saddles, of course
of asbestos. These same goblin steeds have been de-
scribed again and again with the same break-neck
rhythm, the same invariable moonlight, the same con-
ventional " Away and away went the coal-black steed!"
May this unhappy repetition be the last ! We take leave
to assure Mr. Forrest, and the whole tribe of poetasters,
that goblin steeds are sadly at a discount—after Lord
Byron's " Mazeppa," nothing of the description is re-
quired. Charles Mooton's " Immaterialities : or, Can
such Things be ?" we conceive to be a capital joke ; the
seriousness with which he pretends to wail the decay of
credence in ghosts is comical beyond measure. He hath
a sneaking kindness for spectral illusions, and utters the
following lamentation upon the practical character of
this generation—the passage is rife with wholesome
truths :

" Our household gods are metal and paper, to whom we
sacrifice six days. . . Our very poetry is mixed up with
machinery—our inspiration springs from the breadbasket,
and our sympathies are sown upon poverty like a patch
with 'needle and thread.' The pity of the bard goes hand
in hand with a quartern loaf; and the shirts upon our
back: loudly reproach us with the pining misery of the
weary sempstress who fitted their parts together. The phan-
tom ship, the fats morgana, the giant of the Brocken, the
warriors and horsemen of the clouds, are all put to flight by
the science of optics ; the kraken is destroyed—not by har-
poon or gunshot, but by the Jog-books of voyagers who
never saw him; astrology is, a lie, dreams are idle nonsense,
and spectres result only from a disturbance of the brain and
visual organs."
For this the writer is (or assumes to be) mournful
-for this we are right joyous. Those have but a maudlin
estimation for the invisible kingdom, who pine for the
darksome ages of credulity, who weep for the gnome, and
the pixy, and the hobgoblins of our forefathers, and who
are filled with a sullen disgust of those divine sciences
by which these nothings have been scared away from the
general mind. ' With hydraulics, and mechanics, and
chemistry, and steam-power, and all those glorious
causes and effects of intellect, we are not, as some erro-
neously imagine, degraded either in our rationality or
our poetry. Nobly has Keats announced that " the
poetryof earth is never dead." Superstition and ignorance
are no•increasers of our happiness, God knows ! and under
the category of superstition or of ignorance the absurdities
already mentioned can alone be classed. Our bards, it
is true, hold " a dear quartern loaf " in one hand and
their lyre in the other—but are not their themes thus
sanctified with a purer and a holier greatness in pleading
for the woes and sufferings of their fellow-men? The
bay-leaves would sweeten custards for those that want
not ; the loaf of bread would allay the pangs of famine
felt by those that want ; which of these two aspirations
is the greater? The earth itself is fraught with such
subtle and exhaustless beauty, that we need no stimu-
lants from any bugbears of a.diseased fancy. Viewing
things in this light, the world without is but an index, is
but a channel, is but a golden passport, to the world
within. "How a Charade is solved by a Codicil" is
another of those pleasant, rattling, off-hand papers, in
penning which Shirley Brooks has so much facility.
"Lady Alice Kyteler " is also fully entitled to a perusal.
As a caterer for public taste, Mr. Ainsworth has again
shown himself this month a proficient ; the minority of
the articles are frivolous, the majority are clever.