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such an accurate display of nature in the Ed. inburgh theatre.

The famous English Roscius has been here for a few weeks-I have seen him in 3 or 4 of his principal characters; but I will defer to an other opportunity any minute details of his pe culiarities in acting, and shall content myself, in this letter, with a short criticism of his performance of Orestes in the Distressed Mother. During the first acts, he was rather tame; he appeared to reserve all his powers for the explosion of madness, when the horrors of his fate assail him, and when he seems to abandon himself in dark despair to the wretchedness which closes forever around him. Who that has ever witnessed Kean's performance in that soul-rending scene, in which Orestes laments the bitterness and misery of his dreadful doom, will not feel his spirits chilled, by something like the gloom of misanthropy? No pen can describe that horrid shriek by which he announces the destruction of reason and the agonies of madness; nor the wild and horrifying manner in which he represents Orestes tortured by the appalling visions which "sear his eye-balls”—till human nature, exhausted by such distraction, sinks into a calm even more dreadful than the storm which had preceded it.

But how wide the difference between this actor, and the inimitable Talma! Kean's excellencies are confined to certain bursts of passion, but the French Roscius is unrivalled in the minutest details of his performance. No

one ever so completely sustained the character of profound wretchedness, or expressed so truly the influence of present suffering and the despair of settled grief. Talma reminds you of the heart-rending misery he has endured, by the spectacle of an exhausted frame and subdued spirit. The very act of speaking seems an exertion too great for a mind which has been bowed down by a complication of sufferings. Alas! are not the pomp of declamation, and the aids by which passion is wont to express its miseries and distraction, all disregarded in the intensity of mental agony? In Kean, as I hinted before, the expression of wretchedness and despair seems confined to a few words, to broken sentences and sudden flashes of thought, which do not lay open before you the whole soul of the sufferer, although they afford glimpses of its awful re

cesses.

With this letter I send you a copy of Mr. Alison's sermons, which are models of exquisite composition. As a preacher, he surpasses any that I have yet heard, except the Abbé Fraissinous. His aspect is rather melancholy; however it occasionally beams with a noble serenity, which gives an expression almost angelic to his countenance. His large gray eyes glimmer with" a gentle lambent fire," and his high, pale forehead, sometimes recals to mind that celestial brightness which appeared in the countenances of saints, in moments of inspiration. His voice is the most soft, mellow and

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rich in its tones that ever awoke the sympathies of my heart: it has been beautifully compared to the far-off melody, with which the great poet of Italy has broken the repose of his autumnal evenings. To give you an idea of Mr. Alison's style, I will quote two beautiful passages from his sermons, although I do not subscribe to the political opinions he displays: "England has been called to guard the fortunes of the human race; to preserve, amid her waves, the sacred flame that was to relume the world; and, like the cherubim that watched the gates of Paradise, to turn every way her flaming sword against the foes of God and man." "It seemed to our desponding eye, as if the old age of the human race had come,-as if the sun of Righteousness was about to set amid the shadows of evening, and one long night overspread the moral world. These days and these terrors are passed. The Spirit of God again moved upon the face of the deep, and the order and the harmony of creation is again beginning to appear. Mr. Alison resembles, in his elegant manners and in the poetic imagery of his style, Dr. Glendy of Baltimore, whom I know you so much admire. It is not alone his oratorical talents which make Dr. G. so deservedly a favourite with every person of taste. The amiable tolerance of his religious opinions, and the cheerful piety and active philanthropy which breathe through his whole deportment, set him in glaring opposition with those gloomy fanatics,

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who "show us the steep and thorny way to Heaven," whilst they secretly perhaps primrose path of dalliance tread."

LETTER XVI.

Where Esk, thro' woods, rolls o'er his rocky bed,
The tower of Roslin rears its ancient head.
Destructive Time has urg'd the pile's decay:
Intestine war has swept his strength away:
The white thorn rises from the yawning walls,
The gadding ivy o'er each buttress crawls;
And in those chambers where the fair reclin'd,
Crows roost, and jackdaws chatter to the wind.

Ruins of Roslin.

Edinburgh, April 28th, 1819.

I HAVE been spending the two last days at Roslin, about nine miles from Edinburgh. After an early dinner, I began my walk with a couple of intelligent friends, who are almost as great enthusiasts of nature as myself. We arrived at Roslin just time enough to make our arrangements for our next day's excursions. In the morning, leaving my companions in the arms of Morpheus, I sallied out early enough to see the stars which spangled the firmament "'gin to pale their ineffectual fires." After strolling about for some time, I beheld the first rosy beams of the dawning day, and then walked to an eminence, to enjoy a country covered with hanging foliage, and either swelling into

lofty hills, or sinking into deep dells, with the most delightful variety. There was a breathless stillness in the air; the mists had not yet disappeared from the valley below-but the fog soon drew up, and, like the rising curtain of a theatre, displayed the hitherto concealed beauties of the landscape. I discerned the rich openings of the valley unfolding its charms before me. Proceeding onwards, along the banks of the Esk, I soon found myself in a landscape through which flowed a crystal rivulet; it meandered amid the flowery grass, and, at length, rushing over the rocks, it wandered murmuring through the beautiful vale. The scene before me appeared with all the fresh bursting brightness of novelty! I took a hasty sketch of it; but I felt that the best picture would do no more than merely recal to life a few of those images whose floating variety keeps a picturesque region as magnificently changeable as the great sea itself.

After a breakfast in the true style of Scotch profusion and luxury, which the great novelist appears to take such delight in describing, we accompanied a cicerone to see Roslin chapel, which is in fine preservation. As the Scotish history recals no classic allusions, and is involved in the darkness and barbarity of the feudal times, the view of this splendid relique, however perfect, does not give half the pleasure which the most ruined pile of Roman magnificence inspires into the admirer of those former masters of the world. The guide, of

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