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talents, has not lowered it. There not carried away by those who bring were two very fine things in it ;-his. it in, but disappears by the aid of reply to the tribunes of the people Harlequin's magic.-The scenery of when they decree his banishment. this Pantomime is extremely beautiful, “ I banish you!” and his quarrel and consists chiefly of natural views with Aufidius in the last scene, where of the country in which the scene he reiterates the word “boy !” We is laid. have seldom witnessed any thing more
The Pantomime at Drury-Lane is nobly dignified than his manner of indifferent. It commences with the giving the first of these speeches; and nursery story of Jack the Giant Kilo the last was highly energetic, power- ler-but it soon deserts that, and rurs ful, and natural : but it must be ad- into the usual Steeple-race. The mitted that they both wanted the scenery, too, is equally common-place; merit of originality.--This first was a and the drollery (such as it is) consists fac-simile of Mr Kemble's voice and of practical puns, which one half of manner in the same part. So much the audience cannot relish, and the só, indeed, that the resemblance other half (for whom chiefly the Panactually startled us. The latter part tomime is produced) cannot underof the last scene was performed exact. stand. It is really a little too bad, ly in the manner of Mr Kean. We that these enormous houses, which do not say in the manner that he will are fitted only for the representation of perform it,-for he is an actor that Spectacle, should give us so few tolebaffles all anticipation.—In saying rable examples even of that. that we have not seen any thing in
Miss O'Neil. the late performances of Mr Macready And so we are never again to see which has raised our opinion of his Miss O'Neil! never again to watch her talents, nothing can be farther from our eyes, those “ fountains of sweet intention than to detract from the tears," till we forget ourselves and all reputation which he now enjoys and the world ! Never again to listen to deserves. The only point in which we her voice, till we become enamoured differ from the public on the subject of “ dainty sweet melancholy!” Never is, that we think the popularity which again to- -But we are getting foolhe enjoys now, he deserved to enjoyish, and, indeed, impertinent-for this before. Undoubtedly he is the second lady is no longer a subject for publie actor on the English stage, but it is notice. We now take leave of her for equally certain that he is at a very ever-convinced that the stage will great distance from the first : as far as never see her like again, as it never did talents are from genius.
before. The very qualities which The Pantomimes.
made her what she was, would, in the The Covent Garden Pantomime, natural course of things, have kept this year is better than usual, because her from publicity. It is difficult to it is less extravagant and unnatural : conceive what train of cireumstances For nature should be respected to a could have made an actress of such a certain degree, even in that least na- woman: And we cannot help feeling tural of all things—a Harlequinade. a secret compensation for the loss of This story consists of a selection from her, in the reflection, that she has the adventures of Don Quixote, and only now crowned and completed the Sancha Panza; and it is a happy conceptions we had always formed of thought to make Harlequin's wand her nature, by thus willingly resigning take the place of the knight's heated the enthusiastic idolatry of a whole imagination, and bring about in reality people, for the quiet comforts of home, those changes which he only fancied. and the company of her own happy Thus the windmill is changed into a thoughts. She will now fulfil her giant--the flock of sheep into a com- true destiny-for she was made to be pany of soldiers, &c. In the island a Desdemona or an Imogen, but not of Baratraria, too, Sancha's dinner is to act them,
LETTER FROM THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
Glen-Wastle, January 1st, 1820.
DEAR CHRISTOPHER, A THOUSAND merry new-years to you and all your dear Divan-I mean, what of them remains in Auld Řeekie ; for here are three of us—three of your best Contributors, that have been curling, skating, shooting larks, and drinking het-pints together for a week-often thinking of you as a friend, but never dreaming of obeying your commands as an Editor. Tickler and I walked over the hills from Altrive eight days ago, and found the Laird in excellent preservation-indeed, looking rather larger than life, owing to the quantity of trappings and happings he sports during this terrible frost. The glass was down at nine as I was going to bed. But in spite of all that, we contrive to spend our time very merrily with our worthy old landlord: nay, I do not think I ever saw this place looking more beautiful-no not even in “ the leafy month of June.” When one looks down in the morning from the Queen's Tower, you cannot picture to yourself a more lovely phenom
omenon than the tops of the trees. They are all spread over with a coating of frost-work-every little twig is feathered as delicately as if it had cost a fairy milliner a night's hard work to adorn it. The tall black trunks rise like ebon pillars, amidst and beneath glorious canopies of alabaster; and the water being hard bound, and the mill silent, no sound is heard all around, except the eternal cawing of the rooks, from those innumerable nests on which my window looks down. The minister is well, and desires his compliments. He is in raptures with the Radical's Saturday Night, which Tickler read aloud one night in his loftiest tone of pathos; and says, it is a shame, if a certain queer fellow does not ere long, give the world the finest treat they have had for some time, by publishing his long promised poem of the Manse.
The Laird has become very lazy of late, and says, Don Juan has put him quite out of conceit with the Mad Banker, which, I now fear, he will never conclude. Don Juan and Anastasius may be abused by those that like, but Wastle thinks them two works likely to produce greater effects on the public mind than almost any things that our time has put forth. There is no question, he says, that the author of the Novel has borrowed a great deal of his matter, and his manner both, from Faublas; but as I am not very powerful in the French department, I cannot judge of the propriety of the apophthegm. Surely Anastasius ought to have been split into two or three tales a single volume of it is more than the whole of the Brownie of Bodsbeck. The want of continued interest will probably prevent the work from being so great a favourite among the ladies; but surely individual parts of it will always live among the most exquisite ornaments of English literature. The description of his brothers and sisters at the beginning the picture of Constantinoplethe visit to the grave of Helena--the whole of the Egyptian part, above all the flight of Hussan, and the Bridal Scene-and the close of the third volume which is written in the truest spirit of Romance-these are things which do honour to the genius of Byron, if Byron wrote them, or Mr Hope, if Mr Hope wrote them, and that is saying enough. As for the Jackall, I feel satisfied he never wrote one line-not even the worst one in the whole book.
I had a letter from Dr Scott this morning, full of all his characteristic kind of fun. It is dated from the guard room of the Glasgow Yeomanry Hussars, in which corps the Dentist is cutting a conspicuous figure, and for whom he has written a noble war song, which he is to send you next month. Their dress uniform, he says, is red breeches and yellow boots—and he is getting his mustachios to grow: but I think the worthy doctor is more likely to sewe the good cause, by writing a few more of his loyal songs, than by disguising his portly outward man in this remarkable manner. As for us in Ettrick, we are to have a new regiment of Yeomanry Sharpshooters and I am to be a corporal. I never saw a finer set of fellows than the most of them but I remember how you admired our horse Yeomanryand we are of the same breed.
In case you should be in want of a few of Wastle's verses, I send you a fragment of one of his cantos, which I found in his drawer this morning, but the beginning of it is a-wanting, having been torn off. I heard him read it all over, but I remember nothing of the exordium, except that it was awfully severe upon poor Mr Terrot. That young lad is very rash, and knows nothing whatever of what he is meddling with, but you should spare him for this time. There was also a dedication to Tickler, which went on thus :
“Oh, Timothy! we true old Bachelors
Grace lone Glenwastle and serene Southside?
&c. I cannot recollect the rest of it, but as usual, I was treated with slender cere. mony. He has been, as I have hinted, abusing poor “Common-place Terrot," as he calls him,-and then off he goes with this beginning of the fragment. Some verses, you will observe, are quite illegible in this sad scrawl of the old
That stirs the blood, if any blood there bem.
Melodiously, magnificently free; Kindling the air above, and earth below,
With one resistless flame of harmony; High above pealing choir and echoing ring Ascending, like the mandate of a king.
All over cross, and star, and grin, and gash,
To see Miss Molly, with a sabretache,
To see him laced like some fine velvet cushion,
One universal glare of tinsel glorious,
In Stanhope slim, with caution meritorious.
Of charioteering Ajax, & IT&dworos,
Bearded or beardless-booted, red or blue,
Better than we ourselves were wont to do,
Intense flirtation ! serious, deep, and true,
Fantastic exquisites, 'tis not the thing:
And padded breasts, and feels the seents they fling
Upon the like, ere now, at old Ambrose's,
With joy, at prospeet of some glorious dosis;
Be satisfied, my dears, with bleeding noses.'
The dapper dandy stuffed in his sedan
The mirth that wraps our mystical divan.
Upon your beat : be happy, if ye can;
One feels in gazing on their stiff attire,
All effluence of the soul-fear-hope- desire
Will soon, so hampered, lose his pristine fire,
* Who that was at our last musical festival can have forgotten Mr Schmidt?
Yet now, that I'm a rich old battered beau,
Old Homer, were he here-how he would scorn it! Their hooks are baited well--but will I bite?
No not for worlds; as some old crafty trout, No one can't think the blacksmith had been jealous At leisure fattening in his deep clear pool, of any of these prig-my-dainty fellows.
When some green angler flogs his fly about,
Observes the bright deceit all calm and cool,
And never dreams of stretching forth his snout,
Like your young gaping gormandizing fool; As fine as all the 7th and 10th together,
So l-in short, since I've been Laird of Wastle,
My heart is an unconquerable castle.
And if it did not were not I a dunce? A man will shew you what a man should be
When madam curtsies low, more low I bow,
And twice I simper, if miss simpers once;
I'm trebly lined about both breast and brow
I've still some smooth brass buckler for the nonce,
Round, round, and round again, superbly going ;
To dwindle out his unmolested span
In his own way--to smoke his pipe at eve
In quiet o'er his solitary cann, I'm sorry his Circassian has returned
eyes out if he has a mind, For love or money I would fain have seen her; Ah! how to gaze and gaze, mine eyes had burned,
And creep to bed just when he feels inclined. Were she, in aught of feature or demeanour,
XXXVI. Like yon sweet thing, whose tears are all inurned
It is not orthodox that creed of yours, In the world's heart-whose glance of loveis keener
That, without woman, comfort there is none. Than all the lightnings e'er Prometheus stole
I don't deny your company has lures Yon visioned queen of Allan's musing soul,
For most-the sweetest lures beneath the sun;
But time for all things is the best of cures,
And habit, now (my course so nearly run)
To see the paltry price the Turk has told: To be alone by day, still more by night.
Were present) for so perilous a change;
I know you'd hate my modes of dressing fish; For all thy weakness-her ambrosial breath
The whole of my small culinary range Might well persuade to sin, though sin were death.
Would shock you-you would scout each favourite
And give for sheepsheads rotis a Volainge ; And yet ’tis not her beauty, first or most,
You would insist on putting in green tea,
For novelties you'd be a constant plotter.
You would abuse my old French elbow-chairs, The proud set-to of dozens of crack belles.
You would compel me thro'the house to totter-
To hear your notions, (you'd have talk'd with There is a certain haughty conscious swim
Trotter)t O'th' eye, an artful dropping of the lid,
About some Gothic or Chinese repairs; Which says, I'll easily make an end of him,
You'd pull my own coeval damasks down, Or looks ('tis all the same) as if it did;
And run up bills, you minx, for chintz from town.
Nay, who knows but you might dislike my friends,
And stare them by your coldness from my door?
Give great Pulltuski o'er the fingers' ends ?
Or dare to pun, and call my Hogg a boar?
And then to make deserted ME amends, Should think such engines have been moved or
Bring in your fine strange faces by the score, me;
“ Captains and colonels, and knights in arms," I ne'er suspect that gentle damsels sigh
With stars, and other fashionable charms ?
“CHILDREN!!!"—the word's enough!-depend When I was young they scorned me being poor,
upon't I can't be gulled in age, though flattered more.
'Twill never do; there's lots of marrying men.
The deuce a fear, if patiently you hunt,
You'll meet with chances every now and then. I was but the laird's brother long ago,
But as for me, my Bramah's very blunt, And all did treat me as a younger brother ;
Yet, ere I stop, I tell you once agen, Full well the frigid curtsey did I know
I'm quite determined to continue single
* They seem to have been written when the Persian Ambassador was in Edinburgh.
You will see from this, that the Laird is not going to be married any more than the Shepherd. We still sing in chorus (Tickler, Wastle, and I), every evening, our old song. WHEN shrovetide falls in Easter week,
When usury's never paid to Jews; And Christmas sees the swallow's wing:
And noses are not stained by brandy; When Lawyers nought but truth will speak, And Pussy barks and Messin mews; And Whigs in private toast the king :
And itch is cured by sugar-candy: When songs and plays are quite put down,
When maids on sweethearts never dream; And sermons by all men preferred;
And birds' nests can no more be harried; And indigo dies breeches brown
And oysters float in waves of creamOh! then my love and I'll be married.
Oh! then-oh! then-we will be married. I wish, from my soul, you were here, to join your fine bass in the stave, and to taste the best hock ever the Laird had in his cellar, of which he gives us a long-necked bottle or two every day. You never licked your lips over the like. He got it from Mr Thomas Hamilton, the famous Glasgow wine-merchant, by way of particular favour, and he says it is more than a hundred years old. There never was the match of it on Yarrow before. Grieve and' Laidlaw were pretty well when I heard from them.-Ever your affectionate Contributor,
We love Peterhead. We recollect “ I have also laboured under other dif. passing a few days there very plea- ficulties than those above stated, which I santly a good many years ago, and in- have studied to surmount; and many of the deed shall never forget the surpassing pieces contained in these pages, are not ardinners that we enjoyed at its incom- ranged according
to the plan I had in view,
having collected much of the information at parable ordinary. Every place within different periods after I had begun printing. fifty miles of Aberdeen is pleasant to Having none who could assist me, I was us, for the sake of that double-bodied obliged to be author, caseman, pressman, town, and the cunning, yet kindly &c.; and many of the following pages never toned pronunciation of its inhabitants. were in MS. being actually composed while We beg leave, therefore, to return our printing them. It is therefore hoped, those best thanks to Mr Buchan for his pre experience, will not
be blind to the trouble
whose judgment is matured by reason and sentation copy of the “ Annals ;” and of such an undertaking, under so unpropito assure him of corned-beef and greens, tious circumstances, and will allow, that and a jug of toddy, at Ambrose's, on imperfectly as the subjects are handled, I dehis first visit to the city of Blackwood's serve the clemency of an impartial public. Magazine.
But, if they have otherways determined, I Mr Buchan has really made a very shall console myself with the following lines, amusing book of it; and there are written originally in French by the king of some circumstances attending his little Prussia.” publication, which we think must in-, As we are not now reviewing the terest in his favour all good-natured, works of the king of Prussia, we omit statistical, and antiquarian readers. his majesty's verses, and turn to Mr These are very modestly mentioned in Buchan's prose. We shall not insult his preface. He has not had the be- our readers by telling them where Penefit of much education-and he is not terhead stands. rích in this world's gear. Besides—but
« Peterhead is a clean and neat little let our worthy annalist speak for him. town ;-the streets are open, straight, and self.
in general clean and dry, and give a free
Annals of Peterhead, from its Foundation to the present Time ; including an Account of the Rise, Progress, Improvements, Shipping, Manufactures, Commerce, Trade, Wells, Baths, &c. of the Town : Also, a Sketch of the Character of the Inhabitants, their Civil and Ecclesiastical State: An Excursion to the Bullers of Buchan, Slains Castle, &c. with their Description—the Scenery of the country round-Remarks on Dr Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides, &c. : Biographical Notices of men of learning and genius, among whom are, George Earl Marischal, founder of Peterhead, and Marischal College, Aberdeen ; with a number of Curious Articles hitherto unpublished ; with Plates, En. graved by the Author ; by P. Buchan, author of the Recreation of Leisure Hours, &c, Peterhead, Printed at the Auchwedden-press, by the Author ; Sold by him, the Books sellers in Peterhead, and the principal Booksellers in Scotland. 1819.