withdrawn; when those who had thus gratified their curiosity, with countenances expressive of horror and disgust, hastily descended, seized their canteens, and scrambling up the dangerous ascent to the breach, made their exit from the wine-stores in double quick time. The rest of the party, panic struck, without staying to ascertain the cause of their comrades' terrors, precipitately followed, and the desolate room and half demo lished supper, were returned to with at least as much pleasure as they had been quitted. "No more for me to-night!" cried Werner, "I've had enough in conscience; and what are we to do for our kettle?" Fish it up to-morrow, to be sure," said Schlegel, clean it thoroughly, and bury the man.". "Poor fellow!" exclaimed Meinheim, "he must have lain there some time; the flesh of his face and hands seemed quite sodden, and was dropping from the bones. I wonder whether he had been killed, and thrown into the tun, or whether in trying to get wine as we have done, the weight of his cuirass threw him off his balance, and into the cask? I thank God, for my escape!" Ho❝ After this," observed Herman, "I think I shall come round to the opinion, and adopt the resolution of your friend, the Spaniard; and now then for my song, my English song, for I swear by all the saints in the Spanish Calendar, and by our own Martin Luther, who is better than them all, our adventure is precisely the same as that." "In heaven's name," exclaimed Meinheim, "do then keep your song to yourself; we are already too much disgusted! A fine subject truly is this for a song, that a party of poor soldiers should find, in the very wine they had been drinking, a dead, and a putrid man, and this man too, an enemy! Oh! 'tis enough to drive one mad." Herman thought otherwise, and in spite of the opposition of his comrades, persisted with the most nasal "balladmonger" twang, and in the most lugubrious accents imaginable, to troll forth the following stanzas, which he termed "Up with the bowl. blood-red, Spain's grape-juice well may flow, -Taste not-the gory dead Have lent its glow.* "Well, my good fellows, ye that understand English, I mean, what think ye of that for a song? capital, isn't it ?" A loud snore was the reply. "Eh? what, confound the knaves, they've all taken to their blankets. So, I suppose the best thing for me to do, is to follow their example." M. L. B. SPIRIT OF THE Public Journals. carefully through the pages of my manuscript, naturally expecting to find an abundance of marginal notes, pointing out where my play was defective, and by what means it might be improved. Will it be believed? not a pencil-scratch was to be found from one end to the other! "Well," again thought I, "they should not have my play now, were they to offer me a thousand pounds for it; and to put it beyond my power to abate one jot from this resolution-ior, doubtless, to-morrow's post will bring me a repenting letter from them-I will send it, by this night's coach, to Covent Garden." I did so; and, along with it, the following letter to the manager: "Weepingford-le-Grave, 1825, "SIR,-I have to request your immediate perusal of the accompanying play; and since a five-act drama is, in these times, a rara avis, and, also, as it must be your desire to convince the world that the dramatic genius of England is not quite extinct (although modesty forbids my saying much about my own production), make no doubt my request will be complied with. I see but one difficulty in the way of its performance: the minor parts, I admit, might be suffi ciently well acted by Fawcett, Warde, Bartley, Farren, Miss Chester, Mrs, Chatterley, &c. &c. ; but, with the exception of Charles Kemble for Suavilius (the lover), the principal characters can find no adequate representatives in your theatre. Would it not be prudent, therefore, to engage Young and Macready for Tyrantius and Vampyrino? As to my leading character, Sanguino, which I wrote expressly for Kean, I am perfectly at my ease; for you will, of course, endeavour to induce him, by a liberal offer, to quit the rival establishment. The trifling part of Listenia (the confidante), might, perhaps, be entrusted to Mrs. Glover; but Tendrissima? Ay, there's the rub!' That part was composed with a view to Miss O'Neill; and I have strong hopes that a perusal of it might induce her to resume, for a time, her professional labours. "Waiting your earliest reply, and holding myself in readiness to proceed to London at a moment's notice, I have the honour, &c. &c. "P.S. The character of Hecatoria is so obviously fitted for the display of the sublime powers of Mrs. Siddons, that I do not despair of that unrivalled actress's consent to quit her retirement for the first forty or fifty nights, or so. * I will not disguise the fact of this suggestion having been prompted by the Demon of Re venge. 2nd P.S. I re-open this, to inquire whether Braham, Miss Stephens, and Miss Paton, are at Covent Garden Theatre. If not, would they engage with you for the solo parts of the funeral dirge in the third act? Pray consider how essential it is that those parts should be well executed." Fully satisfied that this display of theatrical knowledge would secure to me the most prompt attention of the manager, with extraordinary complacency I awaited his reply. A few weeks elapsed, and a packet was delivered to me. The seal bore the welcome letters T. R. C. G. "Here is my play," I exclaimed, "sent down for revision, previously to its being put into rehearsal." I opened a small note, which was tucked between the first and second leaves, and read "T. R. C. G. "SIR,-I am desired by the Managers to thank you for the honour of the pre ference; but they are of opinion that the performance of your Tragedy, called Sanguino, or the Blood-stained Murderer, would not serve the interests of this theatre.-1 am, sir, &c. &c." At first, I could hardly credit what I read. My play formally rejected, and not a word added, by way of postscript to the inhumanly civil letter, to thank me for my suggestions respecting the cast, or even in acknowledgment of the theatrical tact which, in that respect, at least, I had displayed! This latter circumstance was easily accounted for: the managers would wait a favourable opportunity for adopting my hints, and then disingenuously appropriate to themselves all the honour and profit accruing from them. But the wonderful resem blance between this and the letter of rejection from the " rival establishment"alike to a comma! The momentary hope arising out of this, that I had, by mistake, sent my play a second time to Drury Lane, was dissipated by the differences between the places of date and the writers' names. It was clear to me that, notwithstanding it was obviously to the interest of a theatre to act any play, no matter whence it came, which presented a chance of profitable success;-notwithstanding that by extending the field of competition the managers would, in some degree, be relieved from the extortions of the present monopo lists of dramatic literature ;—notwith I beg the reader would observe that Mr. Kean has, since this period, actually heen engaged at Covent Garden Theatre! I shall draw no severe inference from this circumstance, but coutent myself with noticing it only as an extraordinary coincidence. standing the consequence of such relief would be that themselves would share in the profits which, under the present system, are swept into the purses of a knot of pampered and rapacious authors;-notwithstanding all this, I say, it was clear to me that a compact, mutually binding, had been entered into by the Theatres Royal, to reject all dramatic works which did not issue from the brains (the brains, save the mark !) of your Mortons, your Kenneys, your Pooles, and your Planchés. With disgust I retired from the struggle, resolved never again to write for the stage. Fortunately for myself-(may I add, for the public also ?)—it happened about this time that our town was honoured by the visit of the eminent man I have alluded to this was no other than the celebrated Clearmount, who for many years had been the principal tragedian at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket. My first meeting with him was in our public reading-room, the proprietor of which was, also, printer of the Weepingford Herald. A paragraph had that morning appeared, announcing that Mr. Clearmount, the celebrated tragedian, was "rusticating at this place;" and Clearmount's visit to the publisher was for the purpose of expressing his displeasure at its appearance. "Who could have told you this ?" inquired the tragedian. "I found the paragraph in my letterbox, last night, sir; and as I had no reason to doubt its ""Tis very strange! Who could have written it ?" "That is more than I can tell sir; but, if you know the report to be untrue, I will contradict it to-morrow." "Why-aw-no—. The-aw--the fact is, I-I am Mr. Clearmount.". [Here I started with astonishment, delight, and admiration. It was the first time I had ever seen so celebrated an actor off the stage.]-" But," he continued, "'tis very odd; I arrived but yesterday afternoon, and as I came here merely to recruit, after my professional labours, I intended to be strictly incog. Who could have! 'Tis very annoying pd hate to be followed about the streets by crowds of curious people. However, 'tis one of the penalties we public characters must pay to-. Aw, have you any theatre in this town of yours ?" "Yes, sir; and as we are now in the height of our season, I hope-" An intelligible smirk, accompanied by a bow, completed the sense of the unfinished sentence. "Why-aw-no-no; I dare say I shall be tormented to death to play for a night or two; but, as the poor people you have here are, no doubt, thought well enough of by the town's-folks, it might seem invidious were I to act." Here I ventured a word. "Have you acted Macbeth lately, sir, in London ?'' "In London-aw-no; the fact is, Macbeth is an up-hill part; Rosse is the part I have usually selected." "Or Hamlet?" "Hamlet? no-not exactly Hamlet. Other tragedians, I know, think much of it: John Kemble did. For my part -no-in London, I have always preferred Rosencrantz, as you might have seen by the play-bills." Here, to my great surprise and delight, he hummed a line or two of a song, which was no other than my "Ah! hide your nose!" The publisher introduced me as the author, and the tragedian (after bestowing upon me compliments of a nature too flattering for me to repeat), invited the "young poet," (as he condescendingly designated me)-to walk with him! This was the proudest day of my life. In the evening I had the honour of accompanying him to the theatre, where we had the manager's private box (so called, I presume, because it is the most conspicuous of any in the house ;) and it was delightful to observe how cautiously he endeavoured to conceal himself, by holding a white handkerchief to his face, lest their knowledge of his presence might discompose the actors: only occasionally leaning quite forward to applaud, which he did with good-humoured condescension. I could greatly extend my reminiscences of this eminent tragedian. Sufficient for my present purpose, however, is it to state, that during the week he remained at Weepingford, I had the honour of seeing him daily; and that upon one of these occasions, after listening to nearly half of the first act of my tragedy-he candidly acknowledged that he was so deeply affected by it as to be unable to endure the rest-he took the manuscript out of my hand, promising, at the same time, to read it at his leisure, and (if he approved of it) to recommend it to the notice of the manager-that is to say, of the Theatre Royal, Weepingford. How highly he estimated my work the result will show. I shall just notice one circumstance connected with his departure, as it is illustrative of the diffidence which is ever the concomitant of superior genius. Apprehensive (as he himself told me) that a crowd might collect about the door of the inn, should the coach stop there to receive him, he had desired the driver to take him up a quarter of a mile on the London road. Thither I accompanied him. The better to avoid observation as he passed through the town (for he had to call at the Post-office, the Public Reading-room, the Theatre, the Grammar School, &c. on his way), he took the precaution of throwing his travelling-cloak across his shoulders, à l'Espagnol, and of holding a handkerchief to his face. On stepping into the coach he waved his hand to me with that air of unaffected, yet dignified patronage, so peculiar to him. "A pleasant journey Mr. --," said I. "Hush!" interrupted he, as I was about to utter his name ; "remember, I travel inccg.' This was the last I ever saw of the celebrated Clearmount. A few days after his departure I was agreeably surprised by receiving the following letter from the manager of our theatre: "T. R. Weepingford. "SIR,-In consequence of the power ful recommendation of Mr. Clearmount, I have read your tragedy. I like it; and if you will guarantee me the sale of five pound's worth of box-tickets, I will act it for my own benefit. Suppose we take a chop together, to-morrow, at the Pigeons, and talk the matter over? "Your obedient servant, "ROGER STRIDE." "P.S. Better bespeak a private room; and if you tell Scores that I dine with you, he will let you have some of his best port." But my reminiscences of Clearmount have led me so much out of my subject, that I must hasten to a conclusion. We dined. After the second glass of wine, "Now, sir, said Mr. Stride, "to business; and, in the first place, we must cut." "Cut! exclaimed I; what is cut ?" "Why, sir, your play is rather too long it is more than three times the length of Othello; so that, were we to act it as it stands, it would not be over till three o'clock in the morning; and then, what would become of Sweethearts and Wives,' Frieschutz,' and the 'Cure for the Heart-ach,' which I intend to give as afterpieces-to say nothing of songs, dances, &c. ?" I instanced the present late example of the London theatres, but in vain."Besides, sir, not a line can be spared." "Leave it to me, sir. Your first, second, and fourth acts are utterly useless; nothing is done in them, nor are any of the principal characters introduced. They are all talk. "But, sir, it is poetry they are talking.' He made no reply; but simply plung ing a very long pen down to the bottom of a very deep ink-bottle, he set heartlessly to the task of drawing black lines across page after page of my manuscript, exclaiming at each excision-" That's of no use and that's of no use-never mind, sir, it will dove-tail beautifully." I was growing faint, and rang for a small glass of brandy. "Another bottle of port," said the manager; "and-waiter-have you any more ink in the house ?" "Now, sir," said Mr. Stride, after about two hours' lopping-" now, sir, we are something like; and, with a leetle trimming at rehearsals, we shall do very well." My play, which had reckoned fourhundred and forty-eight closely-written pages, and cost the world-and-all for carriage to London and back, might now have been transmitted under a member's cover!" "Be assured, sir, your play will go beautifully. To-morrow I will send it to the Bellman (who examines all these things), and as soon as we have his license to act it, we will put it into rehearsal. Good night, my dear sir.Waiter, Mr. -'s bill. Good night, my dear sir." "Well; the day arrived when I was to read my play to the actors. I performed my task with a certain degree of trepidation; but (as I fancied) not altogether without effect: for some of the performers applauded, others looked grave-moved, no doubt, by the pathetic of my piece. The reading over, Mr. Straddle called me aside "Sir," said he, "do you expect me to play Tyrantius ?" "If you please, sir." "Sir, I'd rather forfeit my engagement. Sanguino, which Mr. Stride has taken-the manager always takes care of himself-ought to have been the part for me. Good morning, sir." "I like your play amazingly, sir," said Mr. Rantley; but you have made a great mistake in the cast." "Don't you think Vampyrino a good part?" "Very good; but Mr. Stride's is a better; and I can't play any but first business. Between ourselves, Straddle is wrong to refuse his part-but he is a discontented man-'tis a very fine part, and if he hadn't refused it, I should have been glad of it myself. But, under the circumstances I wish you a very good morning, sir." Notwithstanding these little differences, a few trifling concessions on both sides, made in the spirit of good humour, brought us all to a right understanding; and the play, as originally cast, was put into rehearsal. On the morning of the last rehearsal, Mr. Stride put a paper into my hand. It was a note from the Bellman; and, as it is rather a curiosity in its way, I give a copy of it verbatim : "To the Manager of the Theatre Royal, Weepingford-le-grave. Please to omit the following underlined words in the representation of the tragedy, in five acts, called Sanguino, or the Blood-stained Murderer: Act 1. Scene 4. Burst my Adamantine chains.' [Adam is a Scripture name, and must not be used on the stage.] Act 2. Scene 1. 'And hoarse as is the lusty fish-wife's voice, When through the streets" buy my live soal" she cries.' [Evidently meant for By my living soul! which is profane swearing.] Act 4. Scene 3. To Amsterdam in sullen mood he went,' [for the same reason.] Ditto. And now I hear the beetle's drowsy hum,' [might be taken for an allusion to our worthy parish beadleseditious.] Act 5. Scene 2. Oh Heavens! how like an angel does she seem!' [Query, Olympus for Heavens - Goddess for angel. Against bringing Heathen Heavens and Divinities upon the stage, there is no moral or legal objection.] "SIMON DRIVEL." The reading of this letter was productive of considerable amusement; when, after deliberate consultation as to whether the morals or the peace of Weepingford were likely to be compromised by the utterance of my profanities, it was resolved that, at all risks, they should be spoken. It is fair, how ever, to state, that within five weeks afterwards, an apprentice ran away with his master's daughter, and a new chemise was stolen from the lines of Mrs. Scrubs, the laundress. My tragedy was acted. How it was received I know not, for I had not nerve to attend the performance. The next morning I looked into the play-bills, and was astonished at the absence of the announcement I had expected to find there, that it would be repeated every evening till farther notice. "What is the reason of this, Mr. Stride? Of course my play was—” TRADITIONAL STORY REGARDING THE LAST OF THE WOLVES IN MORAYSHIRE. THE last wolves existing in this district had their den in a deep sandy ravine, under the Knock of Braemory, near the source of the Burn of Newton. Two brothers, residing at the little place of Falkirk, boldly undertook to watch the old ones out, and to kill their young, and as every one had suffered more or less from their depredations, the excitement to learn the result of so perilous an enterprize was universal. Having seen the parent animals quit their den in search of prey, the one brother stationed himself as a sentinel, to give the alarm, in case the wolves should return, while the other threw off his plaid, and, armed with his dirk, alone crawled in to dispatch the cubs. He had not been long in the den, when the wolves were seen by the watchman hastening back to the ravine. A sudden panic seized the wretched man, and he fled without giving the promised warning, and never stopped till he crossed the Divie, two miles off. There, conscience-stricken for his cowardice, he wounded himself in various places with his dirk; and, on reaching Falkirk, he told the people, who eagerly collected to hear the result of the adventure, that the wolves had surprised them in the den, that his brother was killed, and that he had miraculously escaped, wounded as he was. A shout of vengeance rent the air, and each man, catching up whatever weapon he could lay his hands on, the whole gathering set out, determined, at all hazards, to recover the mutilated remains of their lost friend. But, what was their astonishment, when, on reaching the Hill of Bogney, they beheld the mangled and bloody form of him whom they supposed dead, dragging itself to |