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was that you said, Sir?' A tragedy the inherent incongruity of the thing is known to be a modern production hangs an air of mystery over the -- it has not the smack of antiquity in whole narrative, mucb greater than it-and though it places us imme- that which arises from the preternadiately in contact with the Dramatis tural agency either of witches or Persone, it is not · by carrying us spirits. That Halbert Comyne, the back to them, but by bringing them next heir to the title and estate of down to us. The poet, who intro- the old lord, should come to Caerduces them to the modern public, like laverock Castle with a crew of desa Gentleman-usher of the Black-Rod, perados-that, on the third night must see to it that they have their after, the owner and his family should proper cue and costume. We would, disappear-that Halbert Comyne in a word, make the same remon- should wake up the servants in the strance to Mr. Cunningham that a middle of the night to tell them what late Scotch peer did (we think some- has happened—and that not a shadow what prematurely) to Mr. Mathews of suspicion should light upon him or on a parallel occasion. The noble his accomplices, except from the cir person we allude to had been to see cumstance of Simon Graeme and one of Mr. Mathews's At Homes, Mark Macgee being clandestinely and afterwards went into his dress- stationed so as to see two of the viling-room to congratulate him on his lains depositing the body of Lord success. “ I admire your perform- Maxwell under a tree, and through ance much-it is quite charming. the incantations and preternatural Your Frenchman is excellent, not forebodings of Mabel Moran, seems that I'm a judge myself, for I have to us quite out of the question. never been in France; but J

As to the Itroduction of spiritual says it's excellent; so it must be so. machinery into the tragedy of Sir There is, however, one thing, my Marmaduke Maxwell, we do not, dear friend, that I would advise you nor are we disposed to object to it to--leave out your old Scotchwoman, generally, nor could we, if we would. Depend upon it, it won't do. It's Mr. Cunningham has too many, and bad. The Scotch dialect is a thing too great authorities on his side. that is at present quite obsolete, no- But we think he has brought real body understands it. In foc, mon, and fantastic apparitions into contact, we in Edinburgh now speak pure St. on one or two occasions, in a way to James's !The serious Scottish distract the attention, and conseMuse may, at least, aspire to be upon quently to stagger belief. Thus a par with the good people of Edin- Halbert Comyne, when he visits Ma. burgh.

bel Moran in the cave, is terrified The only important drawback on first by the real ghost of Lord Maxthe effect of the poem before us is well, deceased, and next by the prewhat strikes us as the improbability tended apparition of Lady Maxwell, of the main incident on which the who is still in the body. A real story hinges. Halbert Comyne and ghost, we certainly think, to chalhis comrades enter Caerlaverock lenge our faith, should have the Castle as old friends and acquaint- field to himself, and not enter the ances, and in the middle of his hall lists with the living. The contrast murder Lord Maxwell, and carry off annihilates the continuity of our ideas by force his wife and son, without its - the substantial spirit overlays the being once suspected by the servants shadowy one, and one or other is and neighbours that the deed was infallibly rendered ridiculous.

We done by these unhallowed inmates. are frequently reminded, in the marWhat adds to the singularity is, that shalling of these dreadful appearanthey are not murdered or seized upon ces, of Richard and Macbeth. in their beds, or in some obscure But enough, and indeed too much of corner of the forest, but in the midst captious criticism. We will now of their own castle, the menials being proceed to lay before our readers one sent out of the way to a merry

or two passages, which will enable making for that express purpose. them to judge of the beauty and feThe discovery of this strange secret licity of execution to be found in this forms the chief business of the plot; attractive performance. and as it is continually recurred to, We give the following scene be




gross dust


tween Lord and Lady Maxwell, as a Life's heavenly jewel to the pit ? and page, mild and interesting effusion of pa- With cap and cringing knee, him, match'd triotic and pastoral feelings.

with whom

A murderer's hand is milkwhite, and the Lady Maxwell. Thou must not stand on

brow earth, like a carved saint Which men do bow to, but which ne'er re

Of a gross peasant, smutch'd with hovel


The brow of an archangel ? Their gratulation.

Lord Maxwell. Say no more : Lord Maxwell. Love, there is a voice Still whispering, that all we love or hate My Scotland, whilst one stone of thine is

left All we admire, exalt, or hope to compass, Till the stars wax dim amid our meditation,

Unturn'd by ruin's plowshare—while one Is but as words graved on the ocean sands, Which the returning tide blots out for ever.

Grows green, untouch'd by the destroyer's For I'm grown sick of the world's compa. While one foundation stone of palace or nionship,

church, Of camp and city, and life's pomp- the song Or shepherd's hovel, stands unmoved by Of bards impassion'd, who rank earth's

The rocking of artillery – while one stream, With things immortal—of the gladsome Though curdling with warm life's blood, sound

can frequent Of dulcimer and flute—the corrupt tongue

Its natural track--while thou hold'st holy

dust O'the shrewd politician. O! for a rude Of princes, heroes, sages, though their graves

den In some vast desart-there I'd deem each

Flood ankle-deep in gore-O, I will love

thee, star, That lumined me in loneliness, was framed And weep for thee ;-and fight for thee,

while heaven To coronet my brows—that the bloom'd Lends life, and thy worst foes are but of

bough On which the wild bees cluster’d, when its And can feel temper'd steel.

flesh, Fill'd all the summer air, graced my hand

Lady Maxwell. Oh! had we here

Him thou so lovest, thy fiery cousin, he Than a dread sceptre : and the little birds

Who would have heir'd thee had I not been

blest Would know us, love; the gray and plea- Above all hope in winning thee !—he was

sant wren Would hang her mansion for her golden One bold in thought, and sudden in resolve;

In execution swifter :-Halbert Comyne, young Even in our woodland porch.

Of thee our peasants love to talk, and draw Lady Maxxcell. Thy country's woes

Thy martial aspect, and thy merry glance Have robb’d thee of thy peace—have pluck'd Among the maids at milking time. Yet

they thy spirit Down from its heaven, and made sweet

Pause mid their rustic charactering, and sleep to thee

cough, The bitterest bliss of life.

And with a piece of proverb or old song Lord Marzocll. Is there a bosom

They close the tale, look grave, and shake

the head, Full of a loyal heart ? - Is there a knee That seeks the dust at eve ?-a holy tongue,

And hope thou may'st be blest and bide Whose orisons find heaven? a noble mind,


(P. 31, &c.) Whose pure blood has flow'd down through

The following soliloquy of Halbert the pure veins Of a thousand noble bosoms ?-a brave Comyne, in the begiming of the se

cond act, may challenge comparison Who loves his country's ancient name and with some of Shakspeare's delinealaw,

tions of moody, blood-thirsty misAnd the famed line of her anointed kings? anthropy. Oh heaven! give him swift wings: the sword, the rack,

'Tis said there is an hour in the darkness, The halter, and whet axe hold him in chace,

when And make a den of Scotland, for the fiends Man's brain is wondrous fertile, if nought To howl and revel in.

holy Lady Maxwell. But shall we sit, Mix with his musings. Now, whilst seekEven as the dove docs on the doom'd tree

ing this, top,

I've worn some hours away ; yet my brain's Until the axe strews to the weazel's tooth

dull, Her young ones in their down ?-shall we As if a thing call'd grace stuck to my heart, go cast

And sicken'd resolution. Is my soul tamed





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live so,

And baby-rid with the thought that flood And, with a heart e'en soft as new pressid or field

curd, Can render back, to scare men and the Away he walk'd to wooe. He swore he

loved her : moon, The airy shapes of the corses they en. She said, cream curds were sweeter than womb

lord's love : And what if it is so ? Shall I lose the crown He vow'd 'twas pretty wit, and he would Of my most golden hope, because its circle

wed her : Is haunted by a shadow ? Shall I go wear

She laid her white arm round the fond Five summers of fair looks,--sigh shreds

lorel's neck, of psalms,

And said his pet sheep ate her cottage kale, Pray in the desart till I fright the fox, And they were naughty beasts. And so Gaze on the cold moon and the cluster'd they talk'd ; stars,

And then they made their bridal bed i' the And quote some old man's saws 'bout grass, crowns above,

No witness but the moon. So this must Watch with wet eyes at death-beds, dandle

pluck the child,

Things from my heart I've hugg'd since I And cut out elder whistles for him who

could count knocks

What horns the moon had. There has Red earth from clouted shoon ? Thus may

been with me I buy

A time of tenderer heart, when soft love Scant praise from tardy lips ; and when I hung die,

Around this beadsman's neck such a fair Some ancient hind will scratch, to scare the

string owl,

Of what the world calls virtues, that I stood A death's head on my grave-stone. If I Even as the wilder'd man who dropp'd his

staff, May the spectres dog my heels of those ( And walk'd the way it fell to. I am now slew

More fiery of resolve. This night I've 'the gulph of battle ; wise men cease wiped their faith

The milk of kindred mercy from my lips; In the sun's rising ; soldiers no more trust I shall be kin to nought but my good blade, The truth of temper'd steel. I never loved . And that when the blood gilds it that flows him.-

between He topt me as a tree that kept the dew Me and my cousin's land.-Who's there? And balmy south wind from me: fair

(P. 40, &c.) maids smiled ;

The following speech of the enGlad minstrels sang; and he went lauded amoured Sir Marmaduke is tender forth,

and beautiful. Like a thing dropt from the stars. At every step

How sweet is this night's stillness :—soft Stoop'd hoary heads unbonneted; white and bright caps

Heaven casts its radiance on the streams, Hung in the air ; there was clapping of

and they hard palms,

Lie all asleep, and tell the vaulted heaven And shouting of the dames. All this to him The number of her stars. I see the doves Was as the dropping honey ; but to me Roosting in pairs on the green pine tree tops; 'Twas as the bitter gourd. Thus did I The distant ocean 'mid the moonlight hang,

heaves, As his robe's tassel, kissing the dust, and All cluster'd white with sleeping water flung

fowl.Behind him for boys' shouts,-for cotman's Now where the moon her light spills on yon dogs

towers, To bay and bark at. Now from a far land, I turn my sight, but not that I may try From fields of blood, and extreme peril Í If her chaste circle holds a world more worth come,

Man's worshipping than this. See-seeLike an eagle to his rock, who finds his nest

oh see Fill’d with an owlet's young.–For he had Lights at her window !_blessed is the air

Her blooming cheek that kisses :- looks she One summer's eve a milkmaid with her pail, forth, And, 'cause her foot was white, and her To see if earth hold aught that's worth her green gown

love ? Was spun by her white hand, he fell in O let me steal one look at her sweet facelove :

For she doth still turn her dark eyes from Then did he sit and pen an amorous ballad ; me ; Then did he carve her name in plum-tree And she is silent as yon silver star




That shows her dweling place

. P. 44.)

nie top



out prey :

Of Mr. Cunningham's talents for I heard a groan, and then another groan, terrific description an adequate judg. And something plunging mid the midnight ment may be formed from the dia- wave, logue between the outlawed Royalists And so I came to tell thee.

Mabel. aud Mabel Moran, Act 3, Scene 1.

Heaven, I thank thee,

The green ear's spared yet, but the ripe Mabel. Hast thou look'd seaward ? hast And by a villain's sickle. Brief's thy time,

is cut, thou land ward look'd? And look'd to heaven ? then say what Thou ruthless spiller of thy kinsman's blood thou hast seen.

A hand shall rise against thee, and a sword First Royalist. There is a strange com

Shall smite thee mid thy glory. For the sun

Shall walk but once from Burnswark's bon. motion on the earth, And trouble on the waters; heaven's whole

To lonely Criffel, till we hear a sound

Of one smote down in battle. Now, my Stream seven-fold bright; a ruddy red one

friends, dropt Down on Caerlaverock castle ; lo! it There is a bright day coming for poor Scot

changed From its bright starry shape to a flaming’T will brighten first in Nithsdale, at the

hour shroud : I heard a loud sob, and a funeral wail

Foretold by our prophetic martyr, when

Now Flights of blood-ravens darken'd all the The slayers' swords were on him.

be men : pines, And clapt their wings, and seem'd to smell Gird to your sides your swords; rush to

the flood; I read the hour upon the chapel clock,

To the good work of redemption. (P. 63.) And I dared look no longer. Mabel.

Thou hast done There is great spirit and force of Wisely and well. Now, William Seaton, painting in the following:

say Didst thou sit on Barnhourie cliff, and Sir John.

Now, noble general, watch

I crave small thanks for telling a strange Sea-shore and hi aven? Then say what

tale. didst thou note.

As I spurr'd past where yon rough oakSecond Royalist. A fearful cry came from

wood climbs the flood, a cry,

The river-margin, I met something there Between Caerlaverock and Barnbourie rock, A form so old, so wretched, and so wither’d, Of an unearthly utterance ; every wave I scarce may call it woman ; loose her dress And they roll'd in heaped multitudes and As the wind had been her handmaid, and

she lcan'd Seem'd summited with fire. Along the Upon a crooked crutch. When she saw me, beach

She yell’d, and scrode into my path ; my There ran a rushing wind ; and with the steed wind

Shook, and stood still, and gazed with me There came a voice more shrill than human

upon her: tongue,

She smiled on me, as the devil does on the Crying, “Woe! woe!” I look'd again damn'd;

A smile that would turn the stern stroke of Four figures sailing in a bonnic boat, Two rude and strong, the third one slighter Into a feather's touch. I smoothed my seem'd,

speech A pale and martial form; the fourth one was Down from the martial to the shepherd's A mourning dame--even like Caerlave

tone, rock's lady,

And stoop'd my basnet to my saddle bow, With eyes upturn'd and white hands held And ask'd for the castle of my good Lord to heaven.

Comyne ; A strong wind came, the green waves mount- Her eye glanced ghastly on me--and I saw ed high,

Bencath its sooty fringe the glimmering fire: And while the waters and the wild fire “ Go seek thou Halbert Comyné one day flash'd,

hence, The peasants twain were daunted sore and Thou'lt find him even as the dust which thou bow'd

Dost carry on thy shoes. His days and hours Their heads in terror-up then leap'd the Arc number'd. Can the might and pride youth,

of man His bared sword like devouring lightning O'ercome the doom of God ?” I ask'd her fell

blessing :


and saw

my sword


She smiled in devilish joy, and gave me quick

There's kames o' honey 'tween my luve's To feed Caerlaverock ravens.

lips, Comyne.

So that's all :

An' gold amang her hair, For one poor plack she'd dream thee a rare Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil, dream ;

Nae mortal een look there. And crown thee Lord Protector, for the What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare half

touch, Of a crook'd sixpence. These are old wild Or what arm o' luve dare span, dames,

The honey lips, the creamy palm, Who sell the sweet winds of the south to

Or the waist o' Lady Ann ! sailors ;

She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose, Who milk the cows in Araby, and suck

Wat wi' the blobs o' dew; The swans' eggs of the Tigris : they can

But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip, turn

Maun touch her Lady mou. Their wooden slipper to a gilded barge :

But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle o' gold, Their pikestaff to a winged steed, that fies

Her jimpey waist maun spanAs far as earth grows grass. They cast their spells

O she's an armfu' fit for heaven,

My bonnie Ladie Ann. On green hot youths, and make the fond brides mourn.

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers, I give them garments which the moths have Tied up wi' silver thread, bored,

An' comely sits she in the midst, And mouldy cheese and so keep my good Men's longing een to feed. name,

She waves the ringlets frae her cheek, And my hens on my hen-roosts.

Wi' her milky, milky han', (P. 97, &c.) An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger

of God, The tone of sentiment in this dra

My bonnie Ladie Ann. ma is throughout amiable and moral, The morning cloud is tassell'd wi' gold, and the conclusion happy and skil

Like my luve's broider'd cap, fully brought about. We wish all An' on the mantle which my luve wears our readers to read it!—The Mer

Is monie a golden drap. maid of Galloway is as beautiful as Her bonnie eebrow's a holie arch the Legend of Richard Faulder is Cast by no earthly han'; overpowering. Is there not a re- An' the breath o' Ileaven's atween the lips semblance in the conception of the O’my bonnie Ladie Ann ! last to the RIME OF THE ANCIENT I am her father's gardener lad, MARINERE by Mr. Coleridge?

An' poor, poor
Of the Songs, we do not well know My auld mither gets my sair-won fee,

Wi' fatherless bairnies twa. which to select as the most delight

My een are bauld, they dwell on a place fully natural. Perhaps the following Where I darena mint my han', is as striking for its touching and cha

But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers racteristic simplicity as any :

O’my bonnie Lady Ann,

is my




Within the last month, Drury the public will astonish the Drury Lane Theatre has, under the inge- Lane coffers with cash, and plennious directions and active super- tifully repay the cost of the costintendance of Mr. Beazley, been liness. We are no great hands at altered for the better, and brightened description, we critics being accusby the goldbeater's aid into a house tomed rather to cavil at evil author. of no ordinary splendour. Such a ship and erring players, than to deputting forth of golden leaves few au- scribe the beauties of architecture, tumns have witnessed; and as the and the industrious skill of the artist. conversion from cold and comfortless But such a description as our poor . inconvenience to bright and capti- carping and critical braivs may afvating beauty has not been wrought ford, we cheerfully offer to our readat a trifling expence, we sincerely ers. It must be remembered, that line (though we do not expect) that we write from the testimony of our

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