The American Mechanic's Magazine and Journal of sulted the original authorities, and availed himself of the criticism of modern historians. His style is in general correct. We can recommend this work with a safe The American Annals of Education and Instruction. to see it reach a third, edition. The American Monthly Magazine. No. IX. Decem- THE first of these scarcely falls under our notice, yet deserves the attention of every one the least interested in mechanical improvement; the present number is in a great measure filled with communications and tables concerning rail-roads, canals, &c., from which may be gleaned much important information regarding the success of rail-roads on the other side of the Atlantic. We scarcely imagined that the Americans were making such extensive exertions in the cause of education, until we read this number of the American annals of education. The attention which the subject seems to meet with both from the legislature and the country at large, will not fail of producing most important results in the rising generation. The work before us is entirely filled with essays, papers, and letters, on education. The second article is a review of the system of Frederick Thiersch, as sanctioned by the King of Bavaria, and gives a tolerable good analysis of both the work and the system. The third article is on the philosophy of language, in which we have language traced not only to its first roots, but even to the cause of these roots, in a manner that could be understood by a child of ten years of age. The fourth article is a review of Hall's Lectures on Schoolkeeping, which demonstrates very clearly, how absurd it is that, when an apprenticeship is required for all other trades and professions, that none whatever is required for a schoolmaster. In America this idea is exploded, and we are told of one school (for teachers) that manufactures fifty dominies per annum. The article is very well written, and we wish to see it, as well as the lectures of Hall, in the hands of every Scottish schoolmaster. In the seventh article, we have an interesting account of the progress of deaf and dumb institutions in that country, a place where, until lately, the idea of teaching" deaf mutes" was reckoned almost as Quixotical as sailing in a balloon. The tenth article, on the progress of female education, is worthy the notice of all who are opposed to the practice of giving females an extensive and varied education; in fact, we cannot do better than quote the words of the Western Review. "If this world is ever to become a happier and better place, woman, well educated, disciplined, and principled, sensible of her influence, and wise and benevolent to exert it aright, must be the original mover in the great work." Regarding the third of these Transatlantic magazines, we think the style exceedingly flippant and vague; there is not a good paper in it, if we except the review of Galt's Life of Byron. The first article in the number is "The Wife's Appeal," and we will give it entire the first time we have room for it, as being the best piece of fugitive American poetry that we have lately seen. Historical Memoirs of John Knox; containing a Sketch of Scottish History from the Earliest Times to the Period of his Death; with an Account of the Reformation in Second Edition. Leith. James Burnet. Scotland. 1831. THIS is an excellent little book, of modest pretensions. It professes no more than to make the history of our great Reformer more patent than could be hoped for if it were confined to publications so expensive as that of Dr M'Crie. The author has thought for himself, con The History of the Reformation and Church in Scotland, till the General Assembly of Glasgow. By T. Stephen. 12mo. Pp. 259. Edinburgh. John Boyd. 1831. AN ingenious piece of special pleading. At this time of day, we can scarcely, with all our liberality, conceive a mind so constituted as seriously to entertain the views propounded in this work. MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE. MILITARY MEMORANDA. BREAKING THE LINE. SOME time ago a mighty fuss and hubbub was made on the subject of breaking the line, as it is called; and a great gun of the press, charged to the very muzzle, with all manner of quibbling and sophistry, was let off in defence of the claims of the late Mr Clerk, of Eldin, as the alleged discoverer of this celebrated manœuvre. We have no intention to revive the discussion as to the pretensions of Mr Clerk, and the probability or improbability of his having communicated, or caused to be communicated, to Lord Rodney the idea of breaking the line, and thus cutting off a portion of the enemy's force; firstly, because the principle of this operation was familiarly known long before either Mr Clerk or his pretensions were heard of; secondly, because it has not been unfolded with scientific precision, and with the necessary limitations, in that gentleman's treatise on naval tactics; thirdly, because there never has been a decisive battle fought, either on land or on water, where the general principle on which this manœuvre is founded, was not more or less reduced to practice. To satisfy ourselves that the principle was familiarly known, we have only to read the annals of war, and, not to go very far back, to turn, in a particular manner, to the history of the campaigns of Frederick. The whole secret of this great monarch's success, consisted in operating, with the greatest mass of his force, a combined This is the fundamental effort on the decisive point. principle, by the application of which all military operations are good, and without which they are vicious;-this is the principle, by the application of which Frederick gained the decisive victories of Leuthen and Rosbach, and Daun defeated the Prussian monarch himself at Hohenkirch; -this is the principle, by the application of which, at a later period, Bonaparte destroyed three successive armies of Austrians, with a force numerically inferior to any one of the three;-this is the principle, by the application of which, in a greater or less degree, all decisive victories have been gained, in ancient as well as modern times;—and this is the principle which, applied to the tactical combinations of fleets, has rendered naval victories in recent times so much more decisive than they ever were at any former period. It is, in fact, of universal application. Jomini, speaking of the battle off Cape St Vincent, says, Anglais remportèrent cette victoire, comme celle d'Ouessant, pour avoir percé la ligne ennemie; car, nous le répétons, le premier talent d'un général est de paralyser une partie des forces de son adversaire, pour tomber, avec toutes les siennes, sur le point qui lui offre de plus grandes chances de succès. Jervis triompha par l'application du principe qui guida Bonaparte à Montenotte et à Castiglione; sur mer comme sur terre, les memes resultats sont produits par les memes causes. (Hist. Critiq. et Milit, des Guerres de la Révol, tom, x. p. 198.) "Les Clerk, however, even when, in a later edition of his work, he comes to discuss the manœuvre of breaking the line, does not perceive the universality of the principle on which it depends, nor state the conditions necessary to ensure its success. The manoeuvre of breaking the line is, per se, of no avail whatever it is, in fact, just as broad as it is long: for if the headmost ships of the line, part of which is intersected, are immediately wore and tacked, the ships which have pierced the line, may be doubled upon in their turn, and overpowered by the repetition of their own manœuvre. In judging of the expediency of having recourse to this manœuvre, the first question to be settled, is a question of time alone. Before the headmost ships of the enemy's line can wear and execute the inverse manœuvre, will there be sufficient time to disable and subdue the ships which have been cut off? And this can only be solved by the assailant having his fleet so disposed as to enable him to fall upon a portion of the adverse line with the whole, or at all events the greater part, of his force; in other words, to operate, with the greatest possible amount of force, a combined effort on a decisive point. The conditions essential to success in every case, are time, and a superior force capable of being immediately directed against the point of attack. To neglect these conditions, is to expose one's self to almost certain destruction; while, on the other hand, when duly calculated and observed, the result can scarcely fail to prove decisive. It has been said, that there is nothing invariable in the art of combats. But this is a great mistake. Circumstances change, and the modes of application vary along with them; but the principle is immutable; and no great result can ever be obtained where it is departed from. Compare the battles which have proved decisive, and influenced or determined the fates of nations and empires, with those bootless butcheries which have produced no other result but carnage and bloodshed, and it will be found that, in the one case, the principle was more or less acted upon, and in the other totally neglected. In the early campaigns of the French Revolutionary war, for instance, the most sanguinary combats were fought, and the contest was carried on with the utmost acharnement and ferocity; but no decided advantage was gained on either side, because the true principles of military tactics were not then understood. Instead of concentrating their masses for a great effort on a given point nearest to the enemy's line of communication with the base of his operations, generals then divided and dispersed their forces into cordons, penetrable at every point, or into detached portions, equally incapable of giving or receiving timely support; and hence battles at this period were nothing more than a series of affairs of posts, in which saccess generally alternated from side to side-one part of an army perhaps pursuing while the other was retreating, and of course were productive of no definite or decisive result. But when Bonaparte appeared upon the scene, and at once modelled his operations on the true principles both of strategies and tactics, war assumed a totally different character, and victory seemed to attend upon his standards. In like manner, while the old system of fighting at sea continued to be followed, and fleets met and passed on opposite tacks, battles had no result, and victory was little else than a name. But when the principle of operating a combined effort, with a superior force, upon a decisive point, was once recognised and acted upon, then commenced the epoch of our naval glory, and then naval battles led to important results. The principle was not new in military tactics; for both Marlborough and Frederick were familiar with it, and obtained their most glorious successes by its practical application. But it was new in its application to naval tactics at the period of the change of system to which we have already referred; and if Clerk had really any share in bringing about this change, he would be entitled to the distinction of having deserved well of his country; for, assuredly, next to the merit of original discovery, which was here wholly out of the question, is that of If having pointed out a new application of an old and wellknown principle. We are free to confess, however, that we have as yet met with no evidence to induce us to award to our countryman even this secondary bonour. On the contrary, our opinion is, that the revolution in naval tactics, which proved the forerunner of so many triumphs, was in a great measure, if not altogether, attributable to a fortunate accident—an opportune shift in the wind, and a tempting opening in the enemy's line. Rodney had left England impressed with the importance of this manœuvre, would he not have tried it in the previous battles off Martinico and St Lucia, on both of which occasions he had the advantage, as it was then considered, of the weathergage? And, if he had understood it, even when he did attempt it late in the action of the 12th April, 1782, would he have contented himself with merely passing through the French line, and engaging their rearmost ships to leeward? But be this as it may, Rodney's practical exemplification of some of the advantages of the manœuvre directed the attention of naval men to the subject, when all the theoretical speculations of philosophers would have been disregarded; and it was reserved for his illustrious successors not merely to reap the full benefit of the discovery which he had opened up, but likewise to show within what limits, and upon what conditions, it could safely be executed. These, we repeat, are time, and a disposable superior force ready to act against a given portion of the enemy's line. Villeneuve's skilful disposition at Trafalgar shows, however, that even these conditions may, in certain circumstances, be in a great measure neutralized; and that superior discipline, courage, and pertinacity, are, after all, among the surest guarantees of victory. sense. THE FLOWER-GATHERER. No. II. We loiter a little longer in the gardens of the sunny south. O, balmy air! Thou murmurer, Go, balmy air, and gently blow, O seek that I her favour share; Let thy pinions close now. Weary wind, who wanderest Mournest through yon willow Cease thy sorrow! cease, oh, cease! Lest thy song my sighs increase; Whisper nought but calm and peace To her lowly pillow. Gentle, wanton, frolic air, Flitting, sighing everywhere, To judge from a great proportion of the poems of Italy which have been translated into our language, we might almost be led to suppose that this passionate earnestness was their sole characteristic. Even the stern Dantehe who had more of "the ancient Roman honour in him than any he that breathed in Italy"-yields to the "soft impeachment." What a glow there is in the following sounet! and withal what a gentle and stately grace! It is like the silver swan gliding majestically along the surface of the lake. "Negli occhi porta la mia Donna Amore.” Aid me, bright dames, her homage to express ! But even in these hot climates there are cool shades, where refreshing sentiment, and more lofty reflection flourish luxuriantly. In our last number we showed Calderon, in stately verse, moralizing the stars into ephe. meral existences. To-day we show him, with the beautiful perversity of imagination, endowing with enduring life the flowers which bloom and wither in a day. THE FLOWERS. These flowers which now their glowing pomp unfold, Waking beneath the eyelids of the morn, Shall, when day sets, with drooping leaves forlorn, Sleep in embraces of the midnight cold: These gorgeous tints, which shine like heaven adorning Bright Iris, freak'd with purple, jet, and gold, Shall be to mortal life a symbol warning How much of change doth one brief day behold. The rose, she greets the morning but to bloom, And blooms, but soon to fade in lonely bowers— A tomb and cradle for her brief perfume One bud:--And such, man's fleeting fortune towers, Which in a day is born, and meets its doom In woe-for ages past were once but hours. Camoens saddens yet more his melancholy imaginings, by calling to his aid the recollections of the Jewish captivity. "Em Babylonia sobre os rios cuando De ti Siao sagrada nos lembramos." In Babylon, by streams unknown forlorn We sat, and wept when Zion we thought on, MARGARET SIMSON was the daughter of humble parents, in the county of Ayr. With a comely figure and pretty face, she had her share of vanity; and, like her betters, could mock at the pains and anxieties of her rustic suitors. In the bloom of womanhood, however, but gay and light of heart as in her most girlish days, she was united to John Rouat, a thriving fisherman. John's fortune consisted of his coble, three oars, his fishing gear, a moderate sum gradually saved, and the health wherewith Providence had blessed him. Margaret's former gaiety gradually subsided into a cheerful care for her husband's comfort, and John's habits of industry became strengthened by increasing occasion for their exercise. Contented with their allotment of worldly substance, all things went well. John's musings, however he might have been engaged, were turned homewards. The wind might blow, the rain pelt, or fish be scarce, he thought of the clean blazing hearth of his home, with the beaming faces around it, and cared not. Twenty years had passed away, leaving John Rouat somewhat less active, with here and there a broad furrow traced by time or care, but still vigorous, and assisted by two stout, well-favoured youths, his only surviving children. The lads were of restless dispositions, thoughtless, and self-willed. They early evinced dislike to their father's calling, often hazarding, while yet mere boys, their lives in some crazy yawl, with rude sail and rudder, far upon the waters in the most boisterous weather. Their father looked upon their frowardness with painful anxiety, and strove to check its growth; persuasions failed-hot expressions were used, and blows bestowedyet all would not do. John, the oldest, was the first openly to throw off his obedience. A revenue cutter, stationed on the neighbouring coast, was in use to anchor at stated periods in the bay; and, despite of his parents' remonstrance, he engaged himself as one of its crew. His father, provoked at his obstinacy, struck him when they met, and angrily forbade him ever to return home. The James Rouat, because of his brother's behaviour, and as having often betrayed similar inclinations, was treated with greater rigour than before. It happened about this time, that a young man belonging to a war-brig came, after three years' absence, on a visit to his mother and friends in the village. James and he had been intimate from earliest boyhood, and now their old acquaintanceship was warmly renewed. Robin told him "How sailors lived like kings," cutter soon sailed on her accustomed cruise; and father south-west, were gradually swelling into thick murky and son parted in bitterness. volumes, that drove heavily athwart the firmament. A stiff gale set in; the sun emitted a filmy light, and intermittent half-formed waves lashed along the beach. These were succeeded by greater, spurting their spray high over opposing fragments of rock; and soon the white surf of a thousand heaving billows speckled the dark waters. All appeared gloomy and sad, save the sea-birds careering on the blast, as if delighted with the conflict of elements. The storm arose so suddenly, that it had attained its greatest violence ere any of the fisherboats could be descried on their return to the bay of the village. Wives and mothers watched for their coming, crowded together upon a little eminence. At length one boat was seen striving through the deep, and the sight was hailed with something like joy, although they knew not whose it might be. Others were soon observed rising and falling on the distant waves. By much exertion, they successively but slowly neared the shore; their little parties were recognised and welcomed by hearts bounding with gratitude, and for a space all seemed joy and giadness in the hearty expression of mutual congratulations; but one boat was still awanting-it was John Rouat's. what sights they saw, and wonders they performed, how happy at sea, and how jovial on shore; till his enraptured friend resolved to go and be a sailor. When Robin Blair, therefore, returned to his duty, James Rouat, withoat his parents' leave, and scarcely with their knowledge, bore him company, with the intention of entering into the same service. John Rouat became morose and fretful, and his countenance wore an expression of settled gloom, while a sulky reserve in his whole demeanour made his acquaintance shun though they pitied him. He pursued his occupation as formerly, but without the same spirit, and his fishing seemed never so successful as it used to be when his lads were with him the thought of their desertion, just when increasing years most required their help, shed a deadening influence over all his efforts. His wife saw his unhappiness, and, stifling her own sorrow, strove to inspire him with that comfort which she herself did not feel; but John Rouat would not be comforted. One day, while he sat on the stone bench at his door, mending his lines, a ship letter was put into his hands by the village postman. At first he thought it must be from one of his sous; his heart softened, and in the moment their disobedience was forgotten: but it seemed not the writing of either. Entering into his house, he opened the letter and read, in large uncouth characters, as follows: Margaret had stood apart, no one speaking comfort, so busy was each bosom with its own fears and emotions. Often she strained her gaze over the turbulent waters, but her eyes were dimmed by the breeze, and deceived her. When the last boat touched land, and she saw not the old coble with its single occupant, a feeble cry broke from her throbbing breast, and rushing to those who had escaped from peril, she wildly demanded her husband. The poor fellows she addressed, wet and worn with fatigue, were stunned by her call, as if it brought some dreadful occurrence to their recollection. Some answered not, and others spoke evasively, or made signs to their companions. Margaret riveted her eyes upon the men -she knew that her husband was lost. John Rouat had that morning, before daybreak, rowed off to the accustomed fishing-place, distant about three miles, whither he was gradually followed by the other boats belonging to the village. In his sad humour, John held no communication with the rest; when the sound of voices, or morning's dawn, informed him of their proximity, he rowed farther away. Lonely and abstracted, he thought not of the gathering storm, nor of danger, till the waves lipped over his boat's edge. As the threat "I rite this opertunity to let you kno as how your poorening aspect of the heavens became more apparent, the jack is ded of a teribl yellow fiver which he catshed soon as our ship left Jameka-and axed me for to rite to let the old peepl kno as how he dyd thinkng and Ripenteng of them. "I hav no more to say at presen but remains Your =afekshonate jack's Friend, JHON DEMPSTER." The wretched father read the letter aloud; towards the close his voice became tremulous; as he finished, a heavy groan escaped, and he covered his face with his hands. Margaret listened with that pain which only a mother can feel. She watched in silence the motions of her husband, but without venturing to speak; for of late he had been unkind even to her. He sat for hours gazing on the embers, his rough hand pressed against his cheek; and no sound, but the shivering burst of sorrow, passed his lips. different fisherboats moved together, that they might return in company for mutual protection. John Rouat sat unmoved. Again and again they hallooed, and called him by name; at last, seeing him raise his grapuel, and dip his oars in the water, they steered for the bay. In returning, the chief danger lay where the Frith is open for more than a mile to the swell of the broad ocean. John Rouat's boat was the last that essayed to cross this "wild commotion." The storm continued to rage, and huge frothy billows swept fearfully along. Awhile he succeeded-but by efforts that exhausted his strengthin keeping to the wind. He felt his coming weakness, and fear assailed his heart, still he clutched the oars, and, by habit, drew them through the brine; but his strokes were nerveless, and suddenly his boat wheeled round, exposed to the influence of the tempest. Bareheaded and aghast, he gasped for breath. His grizzled locks stood erect, and wildly he stared upon the waves dashing over his frail boat. Still he tugged; till one whelming billow, "mightier than the rest," came heaving onward, now rising in a turgid mass, now subsiding deep and hollow, to rise again with added force. Autumn had nearly reached its close, when one day He knew his doom-his bloodless lips quivered-the cold the sky became suddenly overcast, and to those accustom- sweat of agony stood upon his wan forehead-the oars ed to judge of such signs, portended a storm. The day escaped his grasp, and he clung convulsively to his bark, had been beautifully calm, but already could be traced on now cumbered with water. There was brief but awful the smooth surface of the bay, the rippled course of shift- suspense. Heavily man and boat descended in the deeping gusts; and long streaks of fleecy clouds which lined the|ening gulf-rising, it encountered the briny wall—a gush In a few days, John Rouat again plied his fisherboat; but the death of one son, and uncertainty as to the other's fate, bowed down his spirit. He became more sullen and distant in his manners than ever; the condolence of kind neighbours was hardly acknowledged, while their offered assistance was uncourteously rejected. of waters broke over it-one gurgling yell was heard, louder than the storm. The billow rolled onwards. EDINBURGH DRAMA. We have passed many a delighted hour within the walls of our Edinburgh Theatre, but never one of deeper feeling than was spent in witnessing the animated Tableaux from Shakspeare's plays, introduced into the slight dramatic sketch entitled "Shakspeare's Dream." unrelenting hatred at his successful rival, who stands over him, directing his sword point for the last deadly thrust. How easy with a poet is the transition from sternness to gentleness! Did ever even Shakspeare's mind conceive any thing more lovely than that sweet and gentle girl, who stands gazing heavenward in her sorrow, allowing her last floweret to drop unremembered from her hand? " They all withered when my poor father died." But more startling yet is the transition when, from the depths of woe, we pass in an instant to a subject provoking the most side-rending mirth. See there, beneath the oak of Herne the Hunter, Falstaff, with antlered brow, sinking in terror to the earth, at the shouts of the Welsh fairy and his goblin crew, while the Merry Wives of Windsor, two portly and comely dames, huddle their biting jeers upon him "with the most impassable conveyance." What! is the base-string of humanity to be sounded yet deeper? See the overstrainedly careless mien of Gadshill, as he seeks to persuade the carrier to lend him his lantern. One of the "hempen homespuns" draws back in stupified astonishment at his forwardness, but the other, of a "prettier wit," points with his fingers at the unreasonable beggar, as if replying with the biting sarcasm, "Lend thee my lantern, quotha? Marry, I'll see thee hanged first." We wonder whether a man could ever hold up his head again after such a retort. Last scene of all is Romeo dead beside Juliet's bier, and the distraught maiden impatiently waving off the impor Let our readers who have not yet witnessed this spectacle, fancy to themselves the stage, and the body of the house, reduced to a kind of mysterious twilight. You can scarcely distinguish the company, but you are kept aware of their presence by a low anxious murmur of expectation. At the extremity of the stage is seen the glittering of a large, massive, richly-gilded frame. But within it, there is only a black space. Two shadowy figures-Oberon and Titania-are flitting about the stage, waving their magic wands in mystic circles. Titania evokes the phantasm of Juliet. Low, tremulous music rises on the ear, gradually swelling to an expression of intense passion; the black space disappears, and in the bright but uncertain light of the moon, we see the gentle girl leaning on her balcony, with upturned look, absorbed in love's reverie. The first impulse is a hushing sense of wonder-the next is to give vent, in clamorous applause, to our feelings of admiration, and the whole house re-tunate friar. sounds with clapping of hands, bravos, and loud hurrahs. But the blackness creeps again over the beatific vision. The music is changed. A less passionate and somewhat stately air is heard, and the enchanted island of Prospero bursts upon the view. The fair Miranda is seated before a globe, upon which she rests one hand, while with the other she endeavours to raise a huge book. Her look is bent upwards, as if following the direction of her father's hand, who, propped on his wand, points to the skies. Ariel, with folded wings, reposes in a corner. What a severe grandeur there is in the arrangement and attitudes of the group! The music now expresses horror and dismay. In the uncertain glimmering of a huge hall stands the guilty queen of Macbeth, essaying to wipe from her hands that blood which never can be hid from the mind's eye. Scarcely visible through the thick gloom, we see the anxious faces of the attendants infecting the spectators with contagious horror. The white drapery of the agonized dreamer has a spectral and unearthly appearance. Hark, to "the startling burst of the trumpets' blare!" Amid a glare of light, and elevated on the kingly dais, the princely Edward and his brother York are enfolded in the warm embrace of boyhood's affection. Their dark uncle, in feigned humility, and devotion to their service, bends the knee before them. The scene needs but the applause of surrounding multitudes to make it right royal, and there with a wish it comes thundering from pit, boxes, and gallery at once. mark? There he stands, 66 "A solemn, strange, and mingled air, By fits 'twas sad, by starts 'twas wild." Whom else could it herald but the moody Prince of as Kemble stood and Lawrence drew," wrapt in his inky cloak, and inkier thoughts, in a dim and blasted light, which seems as if it were a parcel of his fortunes. That pensive, upturned look, that finger pointing at the skull in his hand, betoken the long-drawn, shuddering sigh with which he exclaims, "Alas, poor Yorick !" How well does the picture harmonize with Shakspeare's poetry! At first all seems darkness and woe, but there are gentle silvery glances of the moon, which steal soothingly over us as we gaze. Nay, not the last scene; for, at the waving of King Oberon's wand, the whole crowd of phantasms which have passed before our eyes troop together upon the stage the black curtain disappears the statue of Shakspeare stands bathed in light, and all the shadowy beings point to him as theirs. Pritchard has made us his own for ever by the manner in which, in his character of Shakspeare, he greeted this apparition on the first night of the representation of the Tableaux. He rushed forward, and prostrated himself before the image of his future self. We know that these pieces of dumb-show are generally left to the actor's discretion; and we believe that this action was hasty and unreflected on Pritchard's partbut it was exactly what he ought to have done. It was the passionate yearnings of youth bowing down, in no ignoble idolatry, before its own perfected genius. It was like frail mortality paying the homage of mingled awe and delight to that more glorious state which itself is afterwards to attain. But the green curtain has fallen, the lamps are rekindled, and the audience are either departing, or busied in the momentous arrangement of shawls and cloaks. All are busy exchanging remarks on the delightful vision they have seen. Have we indeed been slumbering among so much good company? We felt as if in the dim cavern of the weird sisters, beholding the dim phantasmata of future and contingent existence floating before us; here we are in a moment, amid a gay and brilliant assembly. But the impression left by these transitory glimpses of beauty shall not thus pass away. and Among the performers in the Tableaux, Miss Jarman is entitled to our warm thanks for her Juliet-Mrs StapDen-ley for her Lady Macbeth and Statue of Hermione. Miss Turpin was the truest Ophelia we have seen, either on the stage or upon canvass-delicately beautiful, and overflowing with feeling. The Manager's Garrick, in the tent-scene in "Richard III."a representation which has since been replaced by one of more bustle and incident was the most startling piece of personation we have seen. It was the very picture. We have here specified a few of those who did best where all did well. Our best thanks are due to Murray, and to the eminent artist who assisted him, for this rich treat. It is introducing an entirely new source of delight upon the Edinburgh stage, and one which is susceptible of infinite variety. We should like to see some of the best works of the Italian But it is in vain that we endeavour, within our narrow limits, to do justice to them all. See there, amid the din and confusion of battle, Richard casting his last look of |