to the Scotch in their Highland fling, who, throwing their very soul into the dance, as if there was nothing else to live for-jump and caper about at the sound of the bagpipe, with a never-ending succession of steps, like the people round the man with the enchanted fiddle. It is true that we have not Edmund Kean playing at Covent Garden, and John Kemble at Old Drury, but we have other and scarcely inferior tragedians, who are received with rapture whenever they appear in the metropolis. What right has Bunn to call his the only National Theatre, when there is only one solitary representative of the old school attached to the firm, and he is never wanted. I need scarcely recall to your memory Harley, -an actor unrivalled in his peculiar line,-sending the house into convulsions by his vivacious hilarity under every combination of circumstances. Now and then he plays the only part in an opera which Bunn's slender powers can clothe with the slightest semblance of fun,—and, perhaps, for that very reason, the only part that even Harley can't render tolerable. I believe, in a late opera, he consigned his precious pet comic abortion to the hands of the talented Harley;-and there was only one meagre pun, which, as far as I remember, was received in solemn silence. His stage is crowded by foreign artistes, taking the Englishman's bread and lavishing it upon Frenchmen. If he wants to fill his house for a few nights at the end of the season, he sends for some Danseuse from the Academie Royale, and their salary is as much as Charles Kean's was when he played Shakspeare for twelve nights, every night of which crowds were turned away from the doors. And this is patronage of English talent; in the very face of the above precedent he imports foreign debutantes. But the glory which has passed from Drury, only to be revived with renewed lustre, has, be it hoped, attached itself to other theatres, small in size, but gigantic in the superiority of talent they foster. In the Haymarket the finest body of comedians are assembled, which nightly delight immense houses with Shakspeare, Sheridan, and Goldsmith's best productions. Young authors are encouraged, and old ones cherished. The legitimate drama there, indeed, finds its home;-only lately Romeo and Juliet was played with a run equal to our most favourite operas. Young Kean frequently comes and plays Hamlet and Sir Giles Overreach. Then there is Sadler's Wells, where the great Bard's plays are nightly produced with every success, under the unwearied and praiseworthy excrtions of Mr. Phelps and Mrs. Warner, whose performances are hardly inferior to the greatest in the profession. The sight of the well-filled little theatre at the Wells is a silent rebuke to the fallen taste of the habitués of the more aristocratic NO XIII.-VOL. III. 3 B houses. Indeed, it is only in the latter, that the decline in the English drama is most painfully apparent,-elsewhere it flourishes in its pristine vigour. We must not forget the reason that a few years ago the drama was in such vogue. The array of talent was incomparable,—the Kembles, Young Kean, Cook, not to mention Mrs. Siddons, and though last not least, Macready, who came out under the most unpromising auspices,—all these, not excepting the comic actors of the time, seemed almost to have retired as it were in a bunch. Macready sometime after took the management of Drury Lane, and greatly contributed to raise the place from a very sink of iniquity to the resort of a polished community. This was the main cause of his failure; the feelings of the lower orders were enlisted against him, through the machinations of some malicious spirits, which soon manifested themselves. The actor is in the most unprotected state; the hiss, which is oftener the means of embodying malicious feelings, than of reprimanding with discretion, coarse allusions or ill-adapted pieces, is his starvation. And this cowardly means of assaulting a manager was resorted to in the case of our great tragedian; he struggled manfully against the tide of misfortune which had set against him, with some intermissions (which shall be touched upon by and bye), forming the few bright spots in his gloomy career as a manager. At the expense of his private fortune he fulfilled all his engagements with the most scrupulous care, and is to this day as honoured for his integrity as he is admired for his talents. We are not aware of any character he has undertaken in which he can be said to have failed. In power he is equal to our greatest artists, and the only fault that he has fallen into may be easily accounted for. He came out principally in the Melo-dramatic characters, and afterwards played the great parts of Kemble and Kean; with these models before him, and when the temptation to imitate England's idols would prove, and have proved, too strong for other men; he most carefully abstained from adopting any reading of theirs, but made his own parts, and thus by, perhaps too scrupulously, avoiding conventionalism, he fell into his only fanlt—mannerism. In Melo-dramatic characters, such as William Tell, Claude Melnotte and others, he stands unsurpassed; no one has ever tried the same parts without a disadvantageous comparison with the great original. In Werner he stands alone. It is in Shakspeare, from the cause above mentioned, that Macready's readings are not so universally admired, though, if people would take an impartial and unprejudiced view, and forget all remembrances of other actors, a very different judgment would be pronounced upon them. It is remarkable how all the second-rate actors have imitated this great tragedian; which is at once a lasting testimony to his talent. Let us just run through some of them. Beginning with Helen Faucit; she played under him, and, if I do not err, was taught elocution by him; her only fault is her decided imitation of Macready. Take the gaunt Miss Cushman, whose powers are hardly above the morbid German plays, in which Mrs. Haller is her best character. Her voice, style, elocution, and reading, all remind us of Macready's faults, without any of his great redeeming points. She has his strut without his grace, (in my comparison, I am only speaking of her as an actor, not an actress), and his energy of delivery without his judgment or pathos. This may possibly be the reason she does not play with him. Mr. Phelps, the manager of Sadler's Wells, though undoubtedly a great actor in the parts he played second to Macready, viz., Macduff, Stukely, and others, as soon as he took to the first range of characters, became an imitator. In Mr. Anderson, also a very rising actor, this fault is apparent, and sufficiently manifested in his Claud Melnotte a season or two ago in London. Macready's reception after his absence from England for so long a time, and his enthusiastic welcome to America, sufficiently testify that the public feeling in favour of the drama is reviving from its partial eclipse, and that true talent is not without its reward; how applicable is Horace Virtutem incolumem odimus Sublatum ex oculis quærimus invidi. (To be continued.) WINTER SONG. TO F. H. C. I gaze at the trees in the grove, How leafless and lifeless they seem, As if pining away for the love Of the bright and the gay Summer beam. Yet think I, how leafless soe'er, They bear in their branches the root Of everything lovely and fair, Of buds, and of blossoms, and fruit. Oh! trust then, when prospects are clouded, When hopes in a Winter are shrouded, A TALE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. "Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word; Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd Of mortal ever lost or gain'd, How many a spirit born to bless, Has sunk beneath that withering name, Had wafted to eternal fame." -Moore. IN the spring of 1823, I resided, according to my usual custom during the summer months, about five miles from the town of Wexford, on a small property bequeathed me by my grandfather, -a happy old gentleman of the real Irish stock; that is, one who eschewed all creditors, and hated bailiffs from the bottom of his heart. His property, however, on coming into my possession, was unencumbered, and in tolerably good order. My chief delight was in shooting, or roaming about the country visiting old friends, or loitering among ancient ruins, pleasantly connected with historical facts. One of my favourite rambles was to the remnants of an old castle situated at the furthest extremity of my little property. Now why I should have preferred this spot to all others I cannot say. The ruins certainly were fine-very fine,-and the country around well-wooded and picturesque; but a hundred other sites equalled it. Perhaps it was because here I had been accustomed to sport when a thoughtless, happy boy; or because an old servant, who always attended my childish rambles, used to tell me of my ancestors having resided in these ruins, and the chivalrous deeds they there performed. Whatever was the cause, I will not now endeavour to discover; but certain it is that, twice or thrice in the course of the week, I generally found myself sitting, reading, or musing within the walls of the castle. Of late I had frequently met, during these visits, a grey-headed, vene rable-looking old man, who would sit for hours, apparently in deep thought, gazing at the remnants of what had once been a respectable little cottage, situated at the base of the castle-slope, I had never, except an occasional greeting, exchanged a syllable with him; but at our last meeting he seemed much more communicative, and after some few remarks, spoke of my family, with which he seemed perfectly acquainted; and then related to me his own history, which I here give, as nearly as I can, in his own words. "I am the last of three sons who composed the family of a wealthy tenant under your grandfather, Sir Henry Fitz-Patrick, Heaven rest his soul! But at my father's death, a series of misfortunes caused our separation, the chief of these was the death of our eldest brother. We had all received a good education, and my only remaining brother then went to Cork, to seek some literary employment, promising to visit me me as frequently as the great distance would permit. He was a noble, spirited youth and being the youngest, I had always been exceedingly fond of him. Soon after his departure I became weary of my solitary existence, and resolved to marry a sweet girl, to whom I had long been betrothed. I need not tell you, that my Catherine was the best, and most lovely creature in all the country around, it is sufficient to say, that she was gentle, affectionate, of the most heavenly disposition, and that we loved as few mortals ever loved. If any misfortune occurred, her gentle spirit and sweet smile would chase the angry feeling from my bosom, and above all, teach me to govern myself. But such happiness was too great, the draught was too deep to last, and at length, the cup of bliss was dashed from my lips as suddenly as irrecoverably. About this time, the rebellion of '98 broke out, and the country was plunged in anarchy and confusion; the peaceful earth was now stained with blood, and cruelty and oppression enflamed the nation, while the innocent suffered with the guilty. Kildare which for centuries had been the abode of tranquility and peace, was now in arms, and 10,000 men were ready for the struggle. Such was the state of things, when one evening as my wife and child, for one had blessed our union, were sitting with me over our evening meal, the door of our dwelling was suddenly burst open, and a person with pale and haggard countenance, and soiled and disordered dress, implored my protection. A few seconds sufficed to recognise in the terrified stranger, the features of my youngest brother. I now hurriedly enquired the cause of his distress, and it appeared that he had been falsely accused as a member of the Union, which, in those disturbed times, was sufficient to lead him to immediate execution. By a friendly warning he had escaped detention, but no time was to be lost, as his pursuers were even then on his track. Hastily |