a single iota from so much poetry of character. Rob Roy himself made a glorious appearance in his blazing tartans, eagle plume, target and broad-sword; and nobody that saw him could question his right to levy "black mail"-a single glance was sufficient to show, that, in the opinion of such a personage as this which trod the stage before us, "Rents and Factors, Rights of Chace, Not worth a moment's pains." Mr. Murray (the manager) himself personated "the Saxon Captain," who is made prisoner by Roy's wife, in a style of perfect propriety, looking more like a soldier, and infinitely more like a gentleman, than almost any actor of the present day, that I have seen on either side of the Tweed. I admired particularly the strict attention which he had paid to his costume; for he made his appearance in a suit of uniform, which I suppose, must have been shaped exactly after the pattern of the Duke of Cumberland's statue. The profuse flaps and skirts of the coat, and the smart, ferocious cock of the small hat, perched on the top of several rows of beautiful stiff curls, carried one back at once to the heart of the days of Marlborough and Bickerstaff. Perhaps the most purely delightful part of the whole play, was the opening of one of the acts, when I found myself suddenly transported into the glen of Aberfoil, and heard the pibroch of the Macgregors stealing along the light breeze of the morning, among those very shores which had been spread before my fancy in so many hues of Arcadian delight, by the novel itself, and the Lady of the Lake, its kindred predecessor. Already I feel that it is impossible I should leave Scotland without visiting, in good earnest, these romantic scenes. However, I must allow the season to be somewhat better advanced, ere I think of venturing upon that excursion. I am determined, indeed, to delay it as long as I can, in order that I may see it when adorned with its whole midsummer garniture of leaves. Mr. Murray acts as manager in behalf of Mrs. Henry Siddons, whose husband had taken a long lease of the Theatre shortly before his death. I think you once told me that you had seen this charming actress play at Bath, therefore I need not say any thing about her style of performance. She is, I believe, appreciated here as she ought to be; indeed, I know not that it is possible for any audience, wherever assembled, or however composed, to be insensible to the chaste and delicate fascination of that most feminine sort of acting. In looking at her, one feels that there would be a want of gallantry in not being delighted with so pure a picture of every thing that renders the captivation of womanly gracefulness complete. I speak at present, of course, of her most favourite walk. But you probably are well aware that Mrs. Henry Siddons is scarcely less successful, when she goes down many steps in the scale of character. Nor do you need to be told, that, in the highest walk of the art itself, she displays not unfrequently a power, and energy, and dignity of feeling, which are less talked of than they deserve to be, only because it is not possible to forget, when thinking of the daughterin-law, the deeper and more majestic magic of the unrivalled mother. The birth of Mrs. Siddons and her brother, (for they are of an ancient Scottish family,) creates no inconsiderable feeling of interest in their favour, among this pedigree-revering people. The uniform propriety, and indeed amiable and exemplary modesty of their own character and deportment, in all the relations of private life, may well furnish them with yet better claims to the kindness of their fellow-citizens. P. M. LETTER XXVII. TO THE SAME. * I SHOULD be very much at a loss, if I were obliged to say positively, either at what hour or from what point of view, the external appearance of this city is productive of the noblest effect. I walk round and round it, and survey it from east, west, north, and south, and every where it assumes some new and glorious aspect, which delights me so much at the moment, that I am inclined to think I have at last hit upon the true station from whence to survey its beauties. A few steps bring me to some new eminence, from which some yet wider and more diversified picture of its magnificence opens itself to my eyes, or perhaps to some winding ravine, the dark and precipitous sides of which, while they shut out much of this imposing expanse of magnitude, form a deep and concentrating frame-work, in whose centre some one isolated fragment assumes a character of sublimity, that seems almost to throw the wider field of variety and splendour into temporary shade. I have at last given up the attempt; and am contented to let my admiration be as impartial as the charm is universal. In every point of view, however, the main centre of attraction is the Castle of Edinburgh. From whatever side you approach the city-whether by water or by land-whether your foreground consist of height or of plain, of heath, of trees, or of the buildings of the city itself—this gigantic rock lifts itself high above all that surrounds it, and breaks upon the sky with the same commanding blackness of mingled crags, cliffs, buttresses, aud battlements. These, indeed, shift and vary their outlines at every step, but every where there is the same unmoved effect of general expression-the same lofty and imposing image, to which the eye turns with the same unquestioning worship. Whether you pass on the southern side, close under the bare and shattered blocks of granite, where the crumbling turrets on the summit seem as if they had shot out of the kindred rock in some fantastic freak of Nature-and where, amidst the overhanging mass of darkness, you vainly endeavour to descry the track by which Wallace scaled-or whether you look from the north, where the rugged cliffs find room for some scanty patches of moss and broom, to diversify their barren grey-and where the whole mass is softened into beauty by the wild green glen which intervenes between the spectator and its foundationswherever you are placed, and however it is viewed, you feel at once that here is the eye of the landscape, and the essence of the grandeur. Neither is it possible to say under what sky or atmosphere all this appears to the greatest advantage. The heavens may put on what aspect they choose, they never fail to adorn it. Changes that elsewhere deform the face of nature, and rob her of half her beauty, seem to pass over this majestic surface only to dress out its majesty in some new apparel of magnificence. If the air is cloudless and serene, what can be finer than the calm reposing dignity of those old towersevery delicate angle of the fissured rock, every loop-hole and every lineament seen clearly and distinctly in all their minuteness? or, if the mist be wreathed around the basis of the rock, and frowning fragments of the citadel emerge only here and there from out the racking clouds that envelope them, the mystery and the gloom only rivet the eye the faster, and half-baffled Imagination does more than the work of Sight. At times, the whole detail is lost to the eye-one murky tinge of impenetrable brown wraps rock and fortress from the root to the summit-all is lost but the outline; but the outline atones abundantly for all that is lost. The cold glare of the sun, plunging slowly down into a melancholy west beyond them, makes all the broken labyrinth of towers, batteries, and house-tops paint their heavy breadth in ten-fold sable magnitude upon that lurid canvass.-At break of day, how beautiful is the freshness with which the venerable pile appears to rouse itself from its sleep, and look up once more with a bright eye into the sharp and dewy air!At the "grim and sultry hour" of noon, with what languid grandeur the broad flag seems to flap its long weight of folds above the glowing battlements! When the day-light goes down in purple glory, what lines of gold creep along the hoary brow of its antique strength! When the whole heaven is deluged, and the winds are roaring fiercely, and "snow and hail, and stormy vapour," are let loose to make war upon his front, with what an air of pride does the veteran citadel brave all their well-known wrath, "cased in the unfeeling armour of old time!" The capitol itself is but a pigmy to this giant. But here, as every-where, moonlight is the best. Wherever I spend the evening, I must always walk homewards by the long line of Prince's-Street; and along all that spacious line, the midnight shadows of the Castle-rock for ever spread themselves forth, and wrap the ground on which I tread in their broad repose of blackness. It is not possible to imagine a more majestic accompaniment for the deep pause of that hour. The uniform splendour of the habitations on the left opening every now and then broken glimpses up into the very heart of the modern city-the magnificent terrace itself, with its stable breadth of surface-the few dying lamps that here and there glimmer faintly—and no sound, but the heavy tread of some far-off watchman of the night-this alone might be enough, and it is more than almost any other city could afford. But turn to the right, and see what a glorious contrast is there. The eternal rock sleeping in the stillness of nature-its cliffs of granite-its tufts of verdure-all alike steeped in the same unvarying hue of mystery-its towers and pinnacles rising like a grove of quiet poplars on its crest-the whole as colourless as if the sun had never shone there, as silent as if no voice of man had ever disturbed the echoes of the solemn |