objects at least. Nothing gratifies one more than to see that great pains have been taken to please them; and a whole audience is sensible to this kind of pleasure, when they see a new play got up with a fine fresh stock of scenery, to salute their eyes with novelty at every turn of the story. Besides, in such a play as this, it would have been quite intolerable to discover any want of inclination to give its heroes every possible advantage of visual accompaniment to their exertions. Every body was already as well acquainted as possible with Mattie, Major Galbraith, Andrew Fairservice and the Dugald Creature-to say nothing of those noble kinsmen, Baillie Jarvie and Rob Roy; and every one would have looked upon it as a sort of insult to his own sense and discernment, had he seen any of these dear friends, otherwise than in the same dress and place in which they had already been introduced, and rendered familiar to him by the great Magician, whose wand had called them into being. I confess, however, that, familiar as I had long been with these characters, and with that of the Baillie, imprimis, I was perfectly refreshed and delighted when they stood before me, living and moving in actual bodily presence.

The illusion of theatrical deception cannot possibly be carried farther than it was in the case of Baillie Jarvie, as personified on this occasion by Mr Mackay. I could have sworn that every curl in his neat brown periwig-every button on his well-brushed, dark, purple coat-every wrinkle in his well-blacked, tall, tight boots, had been familiar to me from infancy. And then the face-what a fine characteristic leanness about the jaws-not the least appearance of starvation or feebleness, but the true horny firmness of texture that I had always pictured to myself in the physiognomy of a Common-council-man of the Land of Cakes! And what truth of expression in the grey eyes of the worthy warm-hearted Baillie! The high aerial notes at the ending of his sentences, and the fine circumnavigation of sound in his diphthongs, were quite new to my imagination, but I could not for a single moment suspect them of being any other than authentic. I could scarce believe him when he said, a body canna carry the Saut-market upon his

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back."

The "Dugald Creature" was quite as good in his way-indeed even better, for it must have required no trivial stretch of power to be able to embody so much rudeness without taking a

single iota from so much poetry of character. Rob Roy himself made a glorious appearance in his blazing tartans, eagle plume, target and broadsword; and nobody that saw him could question his right to levy" black mail"-a single glance was sufficient to shew, that, in the opinion of such a personage as this which trod the stage before us,

"Rents and Factors, Rights of Chace,
Sheriffs, Lairds, and their domains,
All had seemed but paltry things,
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 perform

ance. 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 daughter-in-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 nconsiderable feeling of interest in their favour, among this pedigree-revering people. The uniform propriety, and indeed amiable and exem

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