much he would infuse a little additional energy into the motions of his legs and arms. There is, in particular, a want of decision in the manner in which he moves his arms;-let His him give them a freer swing, and a bolder scope. action at present is what a Frenchman would call trop coupé. The songs in which he principally distinguished himself were the barcarole "Take heed," and the beauIn the mad scene, too, tiful melody, "My sister dear.” where he sings snatches of different airs, he was very successful. We hesitate not to say, that we have now greater hopes of Mr Wilson than we had before.

Probably the finest music of this opera is arranged for the choruses, and Mr Murray has more than surprised us by the very excellent band of chorus-singers he has contrived to muster. Certain folks have been raving of late about the operatic force at the Caledonian Theatre, which is middling enough after all, or if it is first-rate, then at the Theatre Royal it is more than first-rate, for we defy the Caledonian people, with all their strength, to sing either the barcarole or the Market chorus, as it is sung at the other house. Be it remarked, however, that it is not upon this point that we rest the infinite superiority of the one establishment over the other.-Miss Phillips, as Donna Elvira, sings as well as she can, which is pretty well; and Miss Tunstall, with her high clear pipe, is both of great use in the choruses, and introduces a pretty Tyrolese air, "Green hills of Tyrol," which does not belong to the opera at all. The Market chorus is the most striking composition of the whole. It catches the ear at once, like the Hunter's Chorus in the " Freischutz," and bids fair to become almost as popular. Having said so much of the music of Masaniello, which we consider fully as good as any that has been written since the death of Weber, it is but justice to add, that the Manager has taken care to give full effect to the melo-dramatic department. The new scenery and dresses are excellent, and the eruption of Vesuvius, with which the piece concludes, is managed with much splendour. Miss Jarman plays Masaniello's sister, "The dumb girl," and of course does the part every justice. The piece altogether is entitled to great praise.

It is a curious fact, that the same gentleman whom we rebuked lately for his too great partiality to the Caledonian Theatre, and who spoke of the "rich and chaste humour" of the performers there, has recently found out that they are almost all Cockneys, and thus expresseth himself concerning them :-" Truth to say, it is only the exceptions who do not sport Donnar and Mariar, with most of the other flowers of the Cockney vocabulary." Our excellent friend is evidently coming round to the true faith, and we are glad we did not give him the shake

we meditated.

We saw an absurd paragraph in one of the newspapers this week, stating "that Mr Murray had received a handsome offer from Charles Kemble to perform at Covent Garden, should circumstances oblige him to leave EdinMr burgh." We hate small bits of humbug like this. Murray has no more intention of leaving Edinburgh than the Register Office has. He is now the sole lessee of the Theatre Royal, and by it he will stand or fall. Old Cerberus.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

THE NEW PHILOSOPHY.

By William Kennedy, Author of " Fitful Fancies." "VIRTUE is pleasure," said a Grecian sage,

"And the most virtuous, the happiest far;" A nobler sentiment upon the page

Of Revelation sparkles like a star.
Men have done much his pure intent to mar,
Whom many follow, and but few obey;
But truth will laugh, however fools may jar,-

Tired Reason shall at length spurn Falsehood's sway, Exulting like the sun, when storms have roll'd away.

Who doubts the maxim of the Benthamites?
'Tis co-existent with the human soul,
And of its shrine one of the sacred lights-
Though oft-times clouded by the gross control
Of the dust's opaque demon-he, the sole
Keeper of the multitudinous cells,
Wherein earth's anticks, miserably droll,

Make mouths at Heaven to smirking Folly's bells, Shaming the voiceless brute that in the desert dwells.

In morals 'tis an axiom-here-even here—

Upon this slippery "bank and shoal of time," With hell-fire in abeyance-noon-day clear,— The worst like not to be the sport of crime, Drench'd with their own foul vintage-every clime To sins peculiar adds their punishmentThe unity of Justice is sublime—

I should have said of Mercy-for 'tis meant To urge them back to peace, whose steps are woward bent.

And dismal were this globe were it not so!
'Tis bad enough; but it is Paradise,
Compared to what it would be, were there no
Terrestrial scourge for the salt blood of Vice-
Lust, flame-respiring, homicidal Pride,

And all our household devils running wild, Would roam, high-fed and rampant, far and wide, Making that hideous, yet but half defiled, Trampling each shoot of good on arid life that smiled.

Of sermonizing we have had enough—
If this besotted land will not awaken,
It is not framed of penetrable stuff-

Cobbett himself hath to the rostrum taken,
Teaching Britannia how to save her bacon-
Cool Owen lauds his parallelogram
With pertinacity, by sneers unshaken-

And would therein all sorts of people cram,
Penning, in common fold, ass, lion, wolf, and lamb.

But Ill will keep its throne, till doomsday steal,
Thief-like, upon the prowlers of the world;
They who to abstract equity appeal,

Will find the general lip derisive, curl'd.
In vain, Philanthropy! thy flag's unfurl'd
On distant Harmony's Millennian heights;
Dissension's blazing brands shall still be hurl'd,

And maugre all that honest Bentham writes, Laws will be Knavery's tools, and suitors hapless wights

Marshal, Old Truepenny! a chosen band,

And let them furnish practice to thy preachingActions, the shallowest brain can understand, Examples, the sure mode of moral teaching— Proclaim a truce to threatening and beseeching, In streets and highways plant each partisan, Purified from the itch for over-reaching, Sworn foes to every ceco-selfish plan, Warm and unflinching friends to the old house of man.

And then" God speed the cause!" pray I for one-
A worthier never link'd true hearts together-
The faint may fall before the harvest's done-
The stoutest hardly brave the wayward weather.

lopement of some new principles in another art, to the study of which he was the first to give an impulse among us,-namely, Elocution. Mr Knowles, since he gave up being an instructor here, in the Art of Reading, has been followed by many ambitious of being his successor. Of course, few could justly aspire to be so; but, from the appearance of a Mr J. H. Aitken, a protegé of Dr Chaliners, who announces himself as about to lecture in this town, after having devoted seven years to the study, and reduced its principles to just that number of rules, we hope a fresh impulse may be given to the study of so delightful an accomplishment.

CHIT CHAT FROM LONDON.-It is said that Messrs Colburn and Bentley are about to commence a new work on the plan of the Family Library and Constable's Miscellany.-A new Sunday newspaper, called The Intelligence, has made its appearance, under the auspices, it is believed, of the Treasury.-The exhibition of pictures by the Society of British Artists, opened a few days ago, and is better than it has ever hitherto been.-The London Literary Union already extends to 800 members; but what its distinct purposes are, is not yet generally made public.-Mr Westmacott has now concluded his course of lectures on sculpture, all of which have been received with much applause.-Mr Brougham is said to be in a very preca. rious state of health.-The ensuing exhibition of pictures at Somerset House is to be enriched by eight pictures by the late Sir Thomas Lawrence; and at the close of the present exhibition in the British Institution, the gallery is to be filled with his most finished productions, to be exhibited to the public.-Mr O'Connell has left London to attend his duties in a cause (Blackwood v. Blackwood,) in which he is retained with a fee of 800 guineas.-A new dioramic exhibition, containing views of Venice, of the Pass of Briançon, the Thames Tunnel, and the interior of Durham Cathedral, has been recently opened. What occupies one-half of London? a dun. What occupies more than one-half of Paris? un ris.

THEATRICAL GOSSIP.-At Drury Lane, Kean has been playing Hamlet with great eclat. Two new farces have also been produced successfully, the one called" Popping the Question," and the other, "Perfection, or the Lady of Munster;" the latter is by the popular song-writer, Thomas Haynes Bayly. At this theatre, likewise, a new singer of the name of Anderson has made a favourable impression on the public.-The London critics differ as to the merits of Miss Kemble's Portia; but they seem generally to agree that her father's Shylock was very bad. Miss Kemble, whatever be her talents, has been the chief means of adding to the treasury of Covent Garden a sum exceeding L.25,000, in about seventy performances. Her own salary is only L.10 per night.-As Drury Lane has no lessee at present, it has been suggested that either Mathews or Macready should enter upon the speculation next season.-A new opera is in preparation at Drury Lane, in which it is said that Miss Stephens, Vestris, Sinclair, Phillips, and the new singer Anderson, will ali have parts. A new Italian opera is reported to be in preparation at the King's Theatre, which has the novel attraction of being the entire work of an English amateur.-A gentleman of the name of Goldsmid, a name well known in the commercial world, is about to appear on the London stage as a comic actor; his abilities are highly spoken of. At a meeting of the friends of Mr Arnold, on Monday, a plan for rebuilding the English Opera house was submitted to them. It was found that, on the most moderate computation, it could not be rebuilt for less than 40,000.; of which it was intended to raise 30,000l. by debentures of 2507, each. Ten thousand pounds were subscribed in the room, and the whole sum, it is computed, will be subscribed in a fortnight. The English operatic company will open in the Adelphi. Before this, however, Mr Mathews will give his annual entertainment-a new one; and the Elephant will be marched off to the country.-It would seem, that the seduisante Sontag still adds to her other attractions that of being a spinster. Count Rossi, her alleged husband, has written to some of the French papers to deny the "soft impeachment" of ever having held any lordship over her but that of love! She arrived at Berlin a few days ago, and is now singing there.-Hummel, the pianist and composer, has arrived in Paris, where he is to give several concerts before setting out for London.-Miss Smithson is going to play pantomime and melo-drama in Paris, for which her talents are certainly much more adapted than for the higher walks of either tragedy or comedy.-Macready has repeated, with increased success, his performance of Werner in Dublin, where Miss Kemble is shortly to appear.-T. P. Cooke is at Glasgow, and will come here immediately on the termination of Liston's engagement, which commences on Monday.-Miss Jarman takes for her benefit this evening the play of "Know your own Mind," and the operatic mélo-drama of "Masaniello." The house will be crowdedly attended.-The following is the Farewell Address, written for Mrs Henry Siddons by Sir Walter Scott, and delivered by her on Monday last:

The curtain drops-the mimic scene is past-
One word remains-the saddest and the last;
A word which oft in careless mood we say,
When parting friends have pass'd a social day;
As oft pronounced in agony of heart,

When friends must sever, or when lovers part;

SAT.
MON.

TUES.

WED.

THURS.

FRI.

Or o'er the dying couch in whispers spoken,
When the frail thread of life is all but broken-
When all that ear can list, or tongue can tell,
Are the last mournful accents, Fare-ye-well!
Such is the spell the Actress must divide
From duties long her pleasure and her pride:
So brief the syllables that must bid adieu
To public life-to Scotland-and to you-
To hopes to doubts-to efforts-and to fears,
And all the business of my scenic years.
Yet ere we part-and even now a tear
Bedims my eye to think our parting near-
Fain would I speak, how deeply in my breast
Will the remembrance of your kindness rest→→
Fain would I tell, but words are cold and weak:
It is the heart, the heart alone can speak!
The wanderer may rejoice to view, once more,
The smiling aspect of her native shore;
Yet oft, in mingled dreams of joy and pain,
She'll think she sees this beauteous land again:
And then, as now, will fond affection trace
The kindness that endear'd her dwelling-place.
Now then it must be said, though from my heart
The mournful accents scarcely will depart;
Lingering, as if they fear'd to break some spell-
It must be utter'd !-Friends, kind friends, farewell!
One suit remains ;-you will not scorn to hear
The last my lips shall falter on your ear-
When I am far, my Patrons, oh! be kind
To the dear relative I leave behind!

He is your own, and like yourselves may claim

A Scottish origin-a Scottish name.
His ripen'd talents-let the truth be told-
A Sister in a Brother's cause is bold-
Shall cater for your eve of leisure still,
With equal ardour and improving skill.
And though too oft the poor performers' lot
Is but to bloom, to fade, and be forgot,
Whene'er the mimic sceptre they resign,
A gentler destiny I feel is mine;
For, as the Brother moves before your eyes,
Some memory of the Sister must arise;
And in your hearts a kind remembrance dwell,
Of Her who once again sighs forth-Farewell!
WEEKLY LIST OF PERFORMANCES.
March 27-April 2.

All in the Wrong, & A Roland for an Oliver.
The Provok'd Husband, & the Youthful Queen.

The Bride of Lammermoor, & Do.

The Soldier's Daughter, & Masaniello.

Rob Roy, & Do.

The Scape Goat, A Concert, & The Day after the Wedding.

ENIGME

Sur la belle Prisonnière d'Edimbourg.

Je commence à vieillir, et suis un peu flétrie;
Quant à la chair, aux os, je n'en eus de ma vie.
Cependant, tous les jours, d'une foule d'amants,
Je reçois de vifs, doux, et tendres compliments.
Eprise de la gloire, avide de conquêtes,

Je ne songeais qu'aux jeux, qu'aux triomphes, qu'aux fêtes,
Lorsqu' une apre rivale, envieuse de moi,
Par de lâches détours me fit subir sa loi.
Quoique proscrite, esclave, oisive et languissante,
Chacun me trouve encore aimable, intéressante;
Et tel est le pouvoir de mes charmes vainqueurs,
Que, comme Hélène qui subjugua tant de cœurs,
Sans les nombreux Argus, dont je suis entourée,
Je serais en danger d'être un jour enlevée.*

G. S., Nelson Street.

TO OUR CORRESPONDENTS.

WE shall present our readers, in next Number, with some novelties, or, what the Circus people would call "a change of performances."

We can assure "A Friend" that he will find us every thing he could wish ere long.-We are afraid the communications of "G. M." though sensible, would be considered a little heavy.-The Sonnet by N. C." of Glasgow, shall have a place.

"Lines for the Eye of Mr James Hogg," by Mr David Tweedie, in our next.

* The explanation of this enigma will be given in our next Number.

No. 74.

TO OUR READERS.

HERE is as pleasant a number of the Literary Journal as one could wish to read on an April day. We have taken advantage of a temporary dearth of new works of interest, to supply our friends with an assortment of miscellaneous articles on various subjects,

some grave, and some gay,-some instructive, and some amusing, but all possessed of a degree of merit rarely met with in any other periodical now existing. If there be any one who turns away in morose dissatisfaction from the perusal of this sheet of royal octavo, we can only say of him, in the words of Shakspeare," Let no such man be trusted."

"By St Agatha! I believe there is something in the shape of a tear in those dark eyes of mine, about which the women rave so unmercifully," said the young Fitzclarence, as, after an absence of two years, he came once more in sight of his native village of Malhamdale. He stood upon the neighbouring heights, and watched the curling smoke coming up from the cottage chimneys in the clear blue sky of evening, and he saw the last beams of the setting sun, playing upon the western walls of his father's old baronial mansion, and, a little farther off, he || could distinguish the trees and pleasure-grounds of Sir Meredith Appleby's less ancient seat. Then he thought of Julia Appleby, the baronet's only child, his youthful playmate, his first friend, and his first love; and as he thought of her, he sighed. I wonder why he sighed! When they parted two years before, sanctioned and encouraged by their respective parents, (for there was nothing the old people wished more than a union between the families,) they had sworn eternal fidelity, and plighted their hearts irrevocably to each other. Fitzclarence thought of all this, and again he sighed. Different people are differently affected by the same things. After so long an absence, many a man would, in the exuberance of his feelings, have thrown himself down upon the first bed of wild-flowers he came to, and spouted long speeches to himself out of all known plays. Our hero preferred indulging in the following little soliloquy :-" My father will be amazingly glad to see me," said he to himself; " and so will my mother, and so will my old friend the antediluvian butler Morgan ap-Morgan, and so will the pointer-bitch Juno, and so will my pony Troilus;-a pretty figure, by-the-by, I should cut now upon Troilus, in this gay military garb of mine, with my sword rattling between his legs, and my white plumes streaming in the air like a rainbow over him! And Sir Meredith Appleby, too, with his great gouty leg, will hobble through the room in ecstacy as soon as I present myself before him;

PRICE 6d.

-and Julia-poor Julia, will blush, and smile, and come flying into my arms like a shuttlecock. Heigho!—I am a very miserable young officer. The silly girl loves me; her imagination is all crammed with hearts and darts; she will bore me to death with her sighs, and her tender glances, and her allusions to time past, and her hopes of time to come, and all the artillery of a love-sick child's brain. What, in the name of the Pleiades, am I to do? I believe I had a sort of penchant for her once, when I was a mere boy in my nurse's leading-strings; I believe I did give her some slight hopes at one time or other; but, now-O! Rosalind! dear-delightful”

Here his feelings overpowered him, and pulling a miniature from his bosom, he covered it with kisses. Sorry am I to be obliged to confess that it was not the miniature of Julia.

"But what is to be done?" he at length resumed."The poor girl will go mad; she will hang herself in her garters; or drown herself, like Ophelia, in a brook under a willow. And I shall be her murderer! I, who have never yet knocked on the head a single man in the field of battle, will commence my warlike operations by breaking the heart of a woman. By St Agatha! it must not be; I must be true to my engagement. Yes! though I become myself a martyr, I must obey the dictates of hoForgive me, Rosalind, heavenliest object of my adoration! Let not thy Fitzclarence"

nour.

Here his voice became again inarticulate; and, as he winded down the hill, nothing was heard but the echoes of the multitudinous kisses he continued to lavish on the little brilliantly-set portrait he held in his hands.

Next morning, Sir Meredith Appleby was just in the midst of a very sumptuous breakfast, (for, notwithstanding his gout, the Baronet contrived to preserve his appetite,) and the pretty Julia was presiding over the tea and coffee at the other end of the table, immediately opposite her papa, with the large long-eared spaniel sitting beside her, and ever and anon looking wistfully into her face, when a servant brought in, on a little silver tray, a letter for Sir Meredith. The old gentleman read it aloud; it was from the elder Fitzclarence: My dear friend, Alfred arrived last night. He and I will dine with you to-day. Yours, Fitzclarence."--Julia's cheeks grew first as white as her brow, and then as red as her lips. As soon as breakfast was over, she retired to her own apartment, whither we must, for once, take the liberty of following her.

She sat herself down before her mirror, and deliberately took from her hair a very tasteful little knot of fictitious flowers, which she had fastened in it when she rose. One naturally expected that she was about to replace this ornament with something more splendid-a few jewels, perhaps ; but she was not going to do any such thing. She rung the bell; her confidential attendant, Alice, answered the summons. "La! Ma'am," said she, "what is the matter? You look as ill as my aunt Bridget."-" You have heard me talk of Alfred Fitzclarence, Alice, have you not?" said the lady, languidly, and at the same time slightly blushing. "O! yes, Ma'am, I think I have. He was to be married to you before he went to the wars."