-which may be interpreted, "The French Monarchy is to let," or "The French Monarchy belongs to Louis."

NEVER was a tragedy, upon the night of its first production, more eminently successful than Mr. Serjeant Talfourd's Glencoe, at the Haymarket. This signal triumph demonstrates incontestibly the great merits of the piece as a work of art, for amongst the entire audience not a partial voice was raised, nor hand moved in its favour. Indeed, the general impression was that the name of the author was unknown to fame; and to the coldness which such a belief inevitably engenders was superadded the personal hostility of several persons connected with the Clan Campbell (so unenviably identified with the terrible catastrophe), who hissed more than once during the early part of the performance. But the mighty and uniformly growing interest-the interwoven tissue and com. pacted chain of events, all tending to the dread consummation-the ever blackening cloud that thickens over the heads of the devoted clan, and casts the skirts of its shadow over the figures in the foreground-the weird prophecy betokening the advent of some unknown but not the less appalling danger-the melting away of that omen into the strains of jocund music approaching from the distance, proffering the external invitation of cordial friendship, but wisely repelled as insidious and deadly by the master-mind of the piece, while again and again its sweet but treacherous melody grates upon his ear-the domestic and probing interest of fierce fraternal strife-the conflict of love and loyalty of Jacobitism and rivalry, sundering hearts

which had been knitted in early boyhood-the banquet-scene, with its unconscious betrayal of premeditated villany, and Halbert Macdonald's stern denunciation and defiance-the snare into which his brave but far less noble brother is unwittingly, yet not guiltlessly, led-the terrible struggles both of youth and maiden against the powerful influence of absorbing love, the final triumph of virtuous self-denial, the generous sacrifice of individual feelings and interests to the welfare of others, which is the great moral lesson of the piece and, lastly, the rising of those distant sounds of horror on the ear, the murderous discharges of musquetry, intermingled with the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying, while the principal figures of the picture are assembled around that rough-hewn altar, and, at the very moment when Halbert Macdonald, having accomplished his mighty and most generous sacrifice, is informed of his brother's treachery, and called upon as the new-made chief of the clan to devote his early playmate to death, the heaven-sent ball that passes through his great heart, and releases his spirit from the racking contemplation of the ruin that speeds around him—all this irresistibly fixed, and chained down, and rivetted the attention of the audience-for it went direct to their hearts, and claimed their strongest sympathies. From the first act to the last domestic and historical interest were thrillingly and beautifully blended.

There is one great fault, but it was

inseparable from the subject.

The

catastrophe represents treacherous villany triumphant, and virtue, when it has completed its noblest effort, stricken to an early grave. But this is in some sort compensated by the beautiful morality, which is developed in the closing acts of the principal characters. The defect might have been remedied by the introduction of Old Moina at the end, predicting, by the aid of the second sight, some signal retributive disasters to befal the Campbells.

The most remarkable attribute of this tragedy is the singular unity both of the author's design and of its accomplishment. The interest is distributed with the utmost skill over the entire tragedy, deepening and concentrating its intensity most appropriately in the three last acts. In completeness and indivisible integrity of aim and execution, it perfectly resembles the best specimens of the Greek tragedy; and far exalts, beyond Ion and The Athenian Captive, our opinion of its author's capabilities. The noble selfdependence which Mr. Sergeant Talfourd displayed, in casting forth this production upon the waters, without the prestige of his much-admired name, has been gloriously rewarded; and we hail his accession to the roll of great English tragic writers, with a conviction much stronger than was generated by any of his previous efforts.

Much of this great success is unquestionably to be attributed to the prodigious power which Macready put forth in the principal character. We have here a new evidence of the great and genuine artist, who is capable of adapting himself to any and every combination which the poet can conceive. The fierce glow of a Highlander's passions, pent up within the rugged hills which have encircled him from childhood, yet fused with all that is high in thought and generous in emotion, and terminating in the mighty triumph over self, were represented by him with most earnest and truthful intensity. His inimitable elocution told with wonderful effect in the vivid bursts of impassioned eloquence which he sent forth at intervals, like a lightning-shock. His brief address in announcing Mr. Talfourd's authorship, was given in the purest and most gentlemanly taste; and not less judicious was his declining to pick up the prepared wreaths which were absurdly flung upon the stage by a few of his bungling admirers.

To Mrs. Warner's Lady Macdonald,

Miss Faucit's Helen, Mr. Webster's Mac Ian, and Mr. Phelps' Glenlyon, we have to accord a high meed of praise. Mr. Howe, as Henry Macdonald, was deficient both in grace and spirit.

The tragedy was got up in a style which reflects the utmost credit on the management, and some of the scenes were beyond all praise. The newspapers have put our readers in possession of the plot, and we shall, therefore, confine ourselves to making some extracts, for the purpose of exhibiting the careful and highly poetical execution, premising that the redundance of imagery, which was so objectionable in Ion, is but rarely to be met in this play, and that, in reference to the peculiar character of the scene, the imaginative illustrations are very felicitously chosen.

Halbert has just returned from Mac Ian's abode, and encountered on his way a fatal omen :

Halbert,
Ruin yawns for all--
Poor fated clansmen! I have heard again
Old Moina's voice.

Lady Macdonald. Her voice who spake
when death-

Halbert (laying his hand on her arm).
Mother!

Lady Macdonald. He shivers as with ague.
Speak, my son!

Halbert. Yes-it is over now. I'll tell you
all,

As far as words can tell it. As I left 'Mac Ian's door, and walked in mist, which clung

Around me like a shroud, that voice shriek'd

forth

Close at mine ear, "THE HOUR IS NIGH!"Each cliff,

Pillar, and cavern, echo'd back the words, Till they appear'd to fill the glen with sound, As floods from thousand streams might deluge it.

'Twas no delusion; surely as you hear My voice, I heard them.

Lady Macdonald. You have mused, my son, In dismal solitudes on our old tales Till each wild pass is haunted, and the wind, Struggling within a mountain gully, moans Or shrieks with prophecy.

Halbert.

No! It transfix'd me As with an arrow-when it sunk, still night Held its breath, waiting terrors! 'Neath the

moon

Our three huge mountain bulwarks stood in light,

Strange, solemn, spectral; not as if they tower'd

Majestic into heaven, but hoar and bow'd
Beneath the weight of centuries; and each
Sent forth a sound as of a giant's sigh:
Then, from their feet the mists arising, grew
To shapes resembling human, till I saw,
Dimly reveal'd among the ghastly train,
Familiar forms of living clansmen, dress'd
In vestments of the tomb: they glided on,
While strains of martial music from afar
Mock'd their sad flight-

(A distant band heard playing, “The Campbells are coming.") I hear that music now,The same, the same. Do you not hear it, Helen ?

Glitter with dancing feathers and bright plaids,

Our echoes learn to laugh, and our rough paths

Are cheer'd by tales of love, you droop and sigh!

Does any secret grief afflict my child?

Helen. Grief, madam! 'Tis the pensiveness of joy,

Too deep for language, too serene for mirth, Makes me seem sad. To meet in manhood's bloom

The gentle playmate of my childhood: propp'd

On the same arm to tread the same wild paths;
And in sweet fellowship of memories feel
Hour after hour of long-forgotten pleasure
Start forth in sunny vividness to break
The mist of heavy years, is joy so hearted,
That it can find no colour in the range
Of gladness to express it-so accepts
A solemn hue from grief.
Lady Macdonald.

Have you then felt Those years so heavy, you have help'd to make

So light to me? Your lodging has been bleak,
Your entertainment scanty; yet your youth
Has been so furnish'd with rich thoughts, so
raised

To lofty contemplations, that my pride
In the bright valour of my younger son
Cannot prevent my wonder that the hours
In which my Halbert with delighted care
Has minister'd to your soul's noblest thirsts,
Should be thus soon forgotten.

Not forgotten,

Helen. Nor have the years been heavy: when I said

So,

I was most thankless. Pardon me, sweet lady.
But when with Henry, I recal old times,
I look across the intervening years
As a low vale in which fair pastures lie
Unseen, to gaze upon a sunlit bank

On which my childhood sported, and which grows

Near as I watch it. If his nature seems
Unsoften'd by reflexion-like a rock
Which draws no nurture from the rains, nor
drinks

The sunbeam in that lights it, yet sustains
A plume of heather-it is crown'd with grace
Which wins the heart it shelters.

Her passion for the Highland scenery in which she has grown up is thus expressed :

If the tufts of broom Whence fancy weaves a chain of gold appear, On nearer visitation, thinly strewn, Each looks a separate bower; and offers shade

I then had kept such watch upon my soul,
As had not let the shadow of a thought
Fall on your image there: but not a word
Of courtship passed between us.
Halbert.

Not a word. Words are for lighter loves, that spread their

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