was that you said, Sir?' A tragedy is known to be a modern production -it has not the smack of antiquity in it-and though it places us immediately in contact with the Dramatis Persona, it is not by carrying us back to them, but by bringing them down to us. The poet, who introduces them to the modern public, like a Gentleman-usher of the Black-Rod, must see to it that they have their proper cue and costume. We would, in a word, make the same remonstrance to Mr. Cunningham that a late Scotch peer did (we think somewhat prematurely) to Mr. Mathews on a parallel occasion. The noble person we allude to had been to see one of Mr. Mathews's AT HOMES, and afterwards went into his dressing-room to congratulate him on his success. "I admire your performance much-it is quite charming. Your Frenchman is excellent, not that I'm a judge myself, for I have never been in France; but J

says it's excellent; so it must be so. There is, however, one thing, my dear friend, that I would advise you to-leave out your old Scotchwoman. Depend upon it, it won't do. It's bad. The Scotch dialect is a thing that is at present quite obsolete, nobody understands it. In foc, mon, we in Edinburgh now speak pure St. James's!" The serious Scottish Muse may, at least, aspire to be upon a par with the good people of Edinburgh.

The only important drawback on the effect of the poem before us is what strikes us as the improbability of the main incident on which the story hinges. Halbert Comyne and his comrades enter Caerlaverock Castle as old friends and acquaintances, and in the middle of his hall murder Lord Maxwell, and carry off by force his wife and son, without its being once suspected by the servants and neighbours that the deed was done by these unhallowed inmates. What adds to the singularity is, that they are not murdered or seized upon in their beds, or in some obscure corner of the forest, but in the midst of their own castle, the menials being sent out of the way to a merrymaking for that express purpose. The discovery of this strange secret forms the chief business of the plot; and as it is continually recurred to,

the inherent incongruity of the thing hangs an air of mystery over the whole narrative, much greater than that which arises from the preternatural agency either of witches or spirits. That Halbert Comyne, the next heir to the title and estate of the old lord, should come to Caerlaverock Castle with a crew of desperados-that, on the third night after, the owner and his family should disappear-that Halbert Comyne should wake up the servants in the middle of the night to tell them what has happened and that not a shadow of suspicion should light upon him or his accomplices, except from the circumstance of Simon Graeme and Mark Macgee being clandestinely stationed so as to see two of the villains depositing the body of Lord Maxwell under a tree, and through the incantations and preternatural forebodings of Mabel Moran, seems to us quite out of the question.

As to the introduction of spiritual machinery into the tragedy of Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, we do not, nor are we disposed to object to it generally, nor could we, if we would. Mr. Cunningham has too many, and too great authorities on his side. But we think he has brought real and fantastic apparitions into contact, on one or two occasions, in a way to distract the attention, and consequently to stagger belief. Thus Halbert Comyne, when he visits Mabel Moran in the cave, is terrified first by the real ghost of Lord Maxwell, deceased, and next by the pretended apparition of Lady Maxwell, who is still in the body. A real ghost, we certainly think, to challenge our faith, should have the field to himself, and not enter the lists with the living. The contrast annihilates the continuity of our ideas the substantial spirit overlays the shadowy one, and one or other is infallibly rendered ridiculous. We are frequently reminded, in the mar shalling of these dreadful appearances, of Richard and Macbeth.

But enough, and indeed too much of captious criticism. We will now proceed to lay before our readers one or two passages, which will enable them to judge of the beauty and felicity of execution to be found in this attractive performance.

We give the following scene be

den

In some vast desart-there I'd deem each star,

That lumined me in loneliness, was framed To coronet my brows-that the bloom'd bough

On which the wild bees cluster'd, when its

scent

while heaven

Lends life, and thy worst foes are but of flesh, And can feel temper'd steel.

Lady Maxwell. Oh! had we here Him thou so lovest, thy fiery cousin, he Who would have heir'd thee had I not been blest

Above all hope in winning thee !—he was One bold in thought, and sudden in resolve; In execution swifter:-Halbert Comyne, Of thee our peasants love to talk, and draw Thy martial aspect, and thy merry glance Among the maids at milking time. Yet

they

Pause mid their rustic charactering, and cough,

And with a piece of proverb or old song They close the tale, look grave, and shake

the head,

And hope thou may'st be blest and bide abroad.(P. 31, &c.)

The following soliloquy of Halbert Comyne, in the beginning of the second act, may challenge comparison with some of Shakspeare's delineations of moody, blood-thirsty misanthropy.

"Tis said there is an hour in the darkness, when

Man's brain is wondrous fertile, if nought holy

Mix with his musings. Now, whilst seeking this,

I've worn some hours away; yet my brain's

dull,

As if a thing call'd grace stuck to my heart, And sicken'd resolution. Is my soul tamed

The airy shapes of the corses they enwomb ?

And what if it is so? Shall I lose the crown Of my most golden hope, because its circle Is haunted by a shadow? Shall I go wear Five summers of fair looks,-sigh shreds of psalms,

Pray in the desart till I fright the fox,Gaze on the cold moon and the cluster'd stars,

And quote some old man's saws 'bout crowns above,—

Watch with wet eyes at death-beds, dandle the child,

And cut out elder whistles for him who knocks

Red earth from clouted shoon? Thus may I buy

Scant praise from tardy lips; and when I die,

Some ancient hind will scratch, to scare the owl,

A death's head on my grave-stone. If I

live so,

May the spectres dog my heels of those [

slew

And, with a heart e'en soft as new press'd curd, He swore he

Away he walk'd to wooe. loved her:

She said, cream curds were sweeter than lord's love:

He vow'd 'twas pretty wit, and he would wed her :

She laid her white arm round the fond lord's neck,

And said his pet sheep ate her cottage kale, And they were naughty beasts. And so they talk'd;

And then they made their bridal bed i' the grass,

No witness but the moon. So this must pluck

Things from my heart I've hugg'd since I

could count

What horns the moon had. There has been with me

A time of tenderer heart, when soft love hung

Around this beadsman's neck such a fair string

Of what the world calls virtues, that I stood Even as the wilder'd man who dropp'd his staff,

And walk'd the way it fell to. I am now More fiery of resolve. This night I've wiped

The milk of kindred mercy from my lips; I shall be kin to nought but my good blade, And that when the blood gilds it that flows

between

Me and my cousin's land.-Who's there? (P. 40, &c.)

The following speech of the enamoured Sir Marmaduke is tender and beautiful.

How sweet is this night's stillness :-soft and bright

Heaven casts its radiance on the streams, and they

Lie all asleep, and tell the vaulted heaven The number of her stars. I see the doves Roosting in pairs on the green pine tree tops; The distant ocean 'mid the moonlight heaves,

All cluster'd white with sleeping water fowl.

Now where the moon her light spills on yon towers,

I turn my sight, but not that I may try
If her chaste circle holds a world more worth
Man's worshipping than this. See-see-

oh see

Lights at her window !-blessed is the air Her blooming cheek that kisses :-looks she forth,

To see if earth hold aught that's worth her

I heard a groan, and then another groan, And something plunging mid the midnight

wave,

And so I came to tell thee.

Mabel. Heaven, I thank thee, The green ear's spared yet, but the ripe is cut,

And by a villain's sickle. Brief's thy time, Thou ruthless spiller of thy kinsman's blood: A hand shall rise against thee, and a sword Shall smite thee mid thy glory. For the sun Shall walk but once from Burnswark's bonnie top

To lonely Criffel, till we hear a sound Of one smote down in battle. Now, my friends,

There is a bright day coming for poor Scotland:

'T will brighten first in Nithsdale, at the

hour

Their wooden slipper to a gilded barge: Their pikestaff to a winged steed, that flies As far as earth grows grass. They cast their spells

On green hot youths, and make the fond brides mourn.

I give them garments which the moths have bored,

And mouldy cheese-and so keep my good name,

And my hens on my hen-roosts.

(P. 97, &c.) The tone of sentiment in this drama is throughout amiable and moral, and the conclusion happy and skilfully brought about. We wish all our readers to read it!-The Mermaid of Galloway is as beautiful as the Legend of Richard Faulder is overpowering. Is there not a resemblance in the conception of the last to the RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINERE by Mr. Coleridge?

Of the SONGS, we do not well know which to select as the most delightfully natural. Perhaps the following is as striking for its touching and characteristic simplicity as any:

BONNIE LADY ANN.

There's kames o' honey 'tween my luve's lips,

An' gold amang her hair,
Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil,
Nae mortal een look there.

What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch,

Or what arm o' luve dare span, The honey lips, the creamy palm,

Or the waist o' Lady Ann!

She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose,
Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;

But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip,

Maun touch her Lady mou.

But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle o' gold,
Her jimpey waist maun span-

O she's an armfu' fit for heaven,
My bonnie Ladie Ann.

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers,
Tied up wi' silver thread,

An' comely sits she in the midst,
Men's longing een to feed.

She waves the ringlets frae her cheek,
Wi' her milky, milky han',

An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger o' God,

My bonnie Ladie Ann.
The morning cloud is tassell'd wi' gold,

Like my luve's broider'd cap,
An' on the mantle which my luve wears
Is monie a golden drap.
Her bonnie eebrow's a holie arch
Cast by no earthly han';
An' the breath o' Heaven's atween the lips
O' my bonnie Ladie Ann!
I am her father's gardener lad,

An' poor, poor is my fa';
My auld mither gets my sair-won fee,

Wi' fatherless bairnies twa.

My een are bauld, they dwell on a place

Where I darena mint my han', But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers O' my bonnie Lady Ann.

WITHIN the last month, Drury Lane Theatre has, under the ingenious directions and active superintendance of Mr. Beazley, been altered for the better, and brightened by the goldbeater's aid into a house of no ordinary splendour. Such a putting forth of golden leaves few autumns have witnessed; and as the conversion from cold and comfortless inconvenience to bright and captivating beauty has not been wrought at a trifling expence, we sincerely hope (though we do not expect) that

the public will astonish the Drury Lane coffers with cash, and plentifully repay the cost of the costliness. We are no great hands at description, we critics being accustomed rather to cavil at evil authorship and erring players, than to describe the beauties of architecture, and the industrious skill of the artist. But such a description as our poor. carping and critical brains may afford, we cheerfully offer to our readers. It must be remembered, that we write from the testimony of our