We oft have tasted, till our path is dark; THE VISION. Κατέσχε με σκοτος δεινον. I CALL upon thee in the night, When winds are hush'd and waves asleep. The auburn hair is braided soft It would be crime, a double death But let me press that hand again, To muse on days, when thou to me Whose path is on the earth, A swallow left, when all his kind Have crossed the seas, and winged the wind. REFLECTIONS ON A BRUMAL SCENE. I HAVE an old remembrance-there are hours, A. And from each leafless bough-what time the wind Enough. Between these banks precipitous, And thrilling touch of pleasure; boisterous Thinned their young ranks ;-this, sickened at his home; Of daylight on the western hemisphere, Died with a slow, invisible decay! Many yet survive ; Yea, many, but all changed; with blackening wing, Seem near: with hoary scalps, the mountains high In golden ages past, Soracte stood, White with its diadem of snow. 'Tis we, Who change, alas! not nature; and where I, NOTICES OF THE ACTED DRAMA IN LONDON. No VIII. Ir the reader has any thing better to do than be idle we advise him to skip over our dramatic notice this month; for the theatres have been more than usually dull lately; and all we pretend to do at the best is to reflect a little of their light when they put forth any. The race of these rival theatres has been, this season, against the public as well as against each other: And from certain symptomsparticularly that of both of them puffing very much-we may now be pretty sure that they have nearly run themselves to a stand still. The most friendly counsel we can offer these unweildy rivals-who would be highflyers, contrary to the will of "fate and metaphysical aid"—is that they at once relinquish their opposition stages, and set up a comfortable and convenient patent safety coach. If these latter do not cut so dashing an appearance, they carry the passengers much more commodiously-are in not near so great danger of being upset and, above all, they fill much better. The only novelty of any importance since our last article, has been a tragedy at Covent Garden, called Mary Stuart; a translation from a very celebrated tragedy of Schiller's, of the same name. A translator, now-a-days, seems to think that if he understands the languages out of which and into which he translates, nothing more can reasonably be required of him: So he takes up a poem-changes the words of it from one language into their corresponding words in another -and thinks that all is done. As if poetry were a business of moods and tenses! If, after this, what was inspiration in one language, becomes insipidity in the other, he has no notion that the fault lies in him. But the truth is, he has "rendered unto Cæsar the things which are Cæsar's," and let all the rest escape. It would be considered as a ludicrous blunder if one unacquainted with the mathematics, should attempt to translate Euclid's Elements, from the language in which they are written, into another. It is nothing less for one who is not a poet to attempt to translate poetry. The essential qualities of it-that which makes it poetry-will inevitably evaporate, and leave nothing behind but a jargon of words, or a caput mortuum of detail. We are not acquainted with Mary Stuart in the original German; but are certain that it never could have acquired the reputation which it possesses, if it had been any thing like the doleful and dreary exhibition we have just witnessed. It was a total failure. Instead of being poetry illustrating history, or history suggesting poetry, it was neither poetry nor history. Take one example: Mary and Elizabeth, who never met at all, are set to fight a pitched battle of words together, on the green opposite Fotheringay Castle, in a twenty-four foot ring kept by the courtiers and attendants of each. As the play has been withdrawn for the present, to undergo alterations, we shall reserve any further remarks we may have to make on it till it is brought forward again. In the mean time we would by no means be understood to say that the play is entirely without merit. There are, in particular, two very interesting scenes;-the one in which Elizabeth hears the various opinions of her council on the proposed death of Mary,-and that in which she signs the death-warrant. But these were rendered prominent chiefly by the admirable performance of Mrs Bunn; who conceived the character in a very fine historical manner. Her acting was altogether too elaborate; but there was the true tragic spirit and tone about it. We happened to see this lady the first time she ever appeared on the stage; and we shall not easily forget the effect her person and voice produced upon us. They realized our very ideal of a heroine of romance; and sent us back at once(a long journey !)—to the days of chivalry. We could fancy her stately steps ascending to her place in the lists, to the sound of trumpets and the shouts of admiring multitudes.We could picture her, bending from her state, to place the reward of valour round the neck of an armed knight kneeling at her feet; or lend ing him her fair hand to kiss, as a still higher honour. Her voice, too! It was not a voice, but an echo. There was a passionate and mysterious music about it that we have never heard before or since. It sounded at a distance; and like an enchanter's spell, called up an antique bower, with a bright lady sitting in it, sighing over the strings of her own lute, "to the very tune of love." The gentle reader, if he has ever in his boyhood set fire at once to his imagination and the bed-curtains in reading himself to sleep over a romance-dreaming of it all night-and waken at day-break to continue it-will not laugh at our folly; or if he does, it will be good naturedly. As for those who have never, once in their lives, melted away their senses to the "thin air" of fancy in this manner, we have nothing to say to them; for we should never come to an understanding with each other: And they would pity us perhaps not less sincerely than we should pity them. The vision that we speak of haunted us for five long years of boyhood. It flew before us as we pursued it, and it still flies before us now youth is over, and we pursue it still, and ever shall, and ever in vain: For it is—nothing. It has no real existence and never had. "The mind has made it, as it peoples hea ven, Even with its own desiring fantasy.” The lady who has recalled these visions to us, has changed since we first saw her, more than we ever remember any one to have changed in so short a time. It is by a kind of second-hand association that she has recalled these images now. What she is reminds us of what she was; as that reminded us of what she might have been. We do not say whether the change is for the better or worse. Certain it is, however, that she is now a much better actress than she was, and therefore not anything like a heroine of romance. She is now a seeker after tangible applause and profit; and she will gain them:-but in exchange she must be content to forego those rapt imaginations that we can conceive her to have enjoyed when she was only la bella fornarina. She has exchanged moon-light meditations, for morning rehearsals-solitary echoes of Vol. VI. her own fancies, for the noisy applauses of a public theatre-and (worst of all!) imaginary love-vows, for real newspa per criticisms. She knows best whether the change is for the better.-Now that Miss O'Neil-(it goes almost as much to our heart to call her the late Miss O'Neil as if she had died)-Now that she has left the stage, the pros pects of Mrs Bunn are entirely altered. She is now, without exception, the best tragic actress we have: And if she takes pains to improve the powers she possesses-if she cultivates a more strict intimacy with nature, and confides more implicitly in her suggestions and impulses-she will not disgrace her station. After this it is painful to speak of the performance of Miss Macauley in Mary Queen of Scots; and we should have been loath to do so, but that she is not at all loath to speak of herself. This is the lady who accused Mr Kean of attempting to keep her from public notice." The attempt and not the deed confounds us!" Miss Macauley's performance was, like the rest of the piece, a translation of Mary Queen of Scots-though still quite " german to the matter." She was not Queen Mary, but " Queen Mary's lamentation." We might almost say that Mary's whole character-certainly all the effects it ever produced-resulted from her personal beauty. In this respect she was, without exception, the most romantic personage in our history. Fortunately we are spared the pain of saying how little Miss Macauley was qualified to represent Mary in this particular-for we find the portrait ready done to our hands. "Fierce, wan, And tyrannizing was the lady's look." It would be anything but friendly to this lady to conceal from her that she never can succeed on the London stage. As she has obtruded herself on public notice, she will not be angry with us for saying what we have. Indeed we hope she will have discrimination enough to attribute our apparent want of gallantry to the real excess of it. For, as we could say nothing pleasant about her, we should probably have followed our usual practice of being quite silent,-but that we do owe her a little grudge, for stepping into the frame where we had hitherto kept the picture of Mary Queen of Scots, and standing right before it-and all that we can do, she will not go away. We do not know that any other part of this tragedy requires notice, unless it be Mr C. Kemble in the gallantwe will not call him the unfortunate Mortimer; who perishes in endeavouring to rescue Mary from her enemies. It was a delightful sketch breathing the buoyant spirit of youth and chivalry combined. This gentleman's noble person and air are the only things left on the stage that are worth looking at in this way, except Miss Foote and her beauty has evidently made so much impression upon herself, that other people feel nearly absolved from its power. The Comedy of Errors. SHAKSPEARE'S Comedy of Errors has been revived at this theatre. For what reason, it is difficult to divine, unless it be that the managers think this the most valuable of those of Shakspeare's works which are laid on the shelf-which is not unlikely,-for it is without exception the least valuable. The revival, however, has been quite successful, on account of some very pretty music being introduced into it, set to some of Shakspeare's songs and some other verses, and sung in a spirit of the most delightful and friendly rivalry by Miss Stephens and Miss M. Tree. Miss Tree is really an exquisite singer. She improves upon us every time we hear her; and is only second to Miss Stephens. These two ladies sang "Tell me where is fancy bred ?" in a most delicious style, "flowing with milk and honey." The managers are very clamorous about the success of this their experiment of introducing examples of Shakspeare's Sonnets" to the stage. If those poems wait till these gentlemen discover their beauties, and marry them to music, they will "live and die in single blessedness." In truth they are innocent of knowing any thing about such trifling matters. They think that because a sonnet is a short poem a short poem is a sonnet. We assure them that this is not the case; and moreover add, for their edification, that not a line of any thing they have introduced into the Comedy of Errors is to be found in Shakspeare's Sonnets. Two of the four examples which they refer to the sonnets are from the Pas sionate Pilgrim; and the other two are not written by Shakspeare at all. The one beginning" Come live with me, &c." is part of Kit Marlow's Milk Maid's Song; and the other-" As it fell upon a day, &c."-is part of a delightful little lyric by an obscure poet of Elizabeth's time, named Richard Barnfield. We whisper these things in the manager's ears for every body else knows them. These same persons, too, have tried to make improvements in the language in which Shakspeare has thought proper to dress his poetry; which is as if a country clown, with his hard, horny, plough-holding fingers, should attempt to improve the arrangements of a woman of fashion's toilet. We had nearly forgotten to mention, that the music which is introduced into this comedy has these remarkable circumstances about it-that it is partly original by Mr Bishop, and partly selected by Mr Bishop, and yet it is all selected, and all by Mr Bishop. The explanation of the riddle is thisthat that which is not original is selected by Mr Bishop, and that which is original and by Mr Bishop, is selected by Mr Bishop also.-But it is very pretty and appropriate nevertheless. Mr Macready. Since our last notice, Mr Macready has gained a sudden and unexpected increase of popularity, by his perfor mance of Richard III. and Coriolanus. At the close of both these tragedies, it is the fashion to hail him with shouts of applause, waving of hats, &c., and calls for him to come forward and give out the play, after he is "dead in law."We have been prevented from seeing any more than the last act of his Richard III.-for it has not been acted for several weeks. The most striking part of this is the manner in which, after having received his death-blow, he retires to the side-scene, and then, with a super-human energy, lifts himself to more than his natural height, and comes pouring down upon his adversary till he reaches him, and then falls at his feet like a spent thunderbolt.-This is extremely fine.-If this performance should be repeated, we shall make a point of recurring to itfor the little we did see of it, raised our expectations of the rest very high, Mr Macready's Coriolanus, if it has not raised our general opinion of his |