The foregoing citations afford fair specimens of the style in which Mr Leighton has executed his task, while, from a careful study of the entire series, we can assure our readers that although the Latinity was not designed to abide the tests of a stringent scholarship, the work is stamped on every page with an imprint of unfailing cleverness, of genial humour, and of tender hearted humanity.

Theodore and Maria, or Failure upon Failare; being a Scoto-Australian and domestic comedy, made out of the Western Bank Failure of 1857-58. By THEODORE ST Bo.'

THIS little drama is a perfect photograph of Edinburgh life in some of its darker phases. Dr Garlic, the swindling physician, Mr Buggins, the time serving clergyman, Maria, the sinister shrew, Dame Durden, the sympathising mother-in-law, and poor Theodore, the hood-winked husband-are they not always with us, meeting us in private society, in public thoroughfare, in market-place, and in Church? The author, Theodore St Bo', writes a direct, pithy, clear, and business-like English style, in many passages, not unworthy of Defoe. The moral sentiment of the play is manly and uncompromising; the exposure of professional treachery and domestic intrigue is withering; while the stern austerity of the author's manner sometimes melts into uproarious festivity, as in the song of Caller Ou, or Scotia's Oyster Lassie, and in other gay lyrics, with which the text is interpersed.

The following may be presented as an example of our dramatist's graver and more impassioned strain :

"ACT II.

SCENE I.-Theodore's house,—Maria reclining on a sofa,—Theodore. Enter Dr Garlic.

"Dr G. How do to-day, and how is your good wife?

Let me feel your pulse and put out your tongue.

I'm pleased to find you're getting slowly round.

What a dear, sweet, amiable creature

For a wife you've got, Mr Theodore.

Theo. [Staring wildly, first at one and then at the other alternately, but speaks not.]

Mar. Doctor, you surely are an Irishman

Or travelled much in the Green Isle, and licked

Perchance the Blarney-Stone of Erin.

Dr G.

Oh no, I'm such a man to speak my mind,

I never say but what I really think.

I would impress upon your mind this fact,

Oh! no.

That, ever since we've been acquainted, impressed
Have I become with your most amiable
Disposition and tenderness of heart;
And sure am I no wife could you excel

In all the virtues and the graces of

The milder sex.

Theo.

A truce then to this stuff.

How's my wife, Sir, that's the point at issue.

Dr G. Well, Sir, I have just stated, she's getting
Gradually better. By to-morrow

Or the day after, we'll see the effect

Of the pills, the mixture, and the blister.

And confident I feel that a few days

Will find her quite restored or convalescent

I'll call again this very afternoon.

Theo. Whatever does this fellow mean by all

This puffing, praising, oiliness of tongue?
'What a dear, sweet, amiable creature

For a wife you've got, Mr Theodore.'

[Exit.

There's something more than meets the ear,' methinks:
I can't exactly fathom him-he's deep-
Or shallow-yet he's not a fool-a rogue
He may be and if a rogue, a deep one.---
Damnation seize the rascally old cur,-
A meddling whelp of discord and of strife.
For what else can he mean by meddling thus
In family affairs, which lie beyond
His reach. But I will prove a match for him,
I swear by all the powers that reign within me.
Mar. Now, Theodore, why go on raging thus?
You would persuade one you were not yourself.
Pray, then, be calm, and see there is no need
For venting thy ill-natured spleen on him,
Now that his back is turned. I know you deem
Me neither sweet nor amiable, for

You have told me so repeatedly, and,

At all events, it cannot be my blame

That people either think or call me so

People will think, people will judge, people

Will speak, and what of that? are tongues not given
To speak? Then bottle up your wrath, or vent
It not on me-I'll none of it.

Theo.
You damned,
Provoking good-for-nothing wretch, is that
The tone you use to me? Think not I'm blind.
If he got no encouragement to meddle

In people's private matters and affairs,

D'ye think he'd venture on such tender ground?
If that be Therapeutics, then I know

Naught of Therapeutics-I leave the room.

[Putting on his hat. Exit.

Mar. And I will go about my household matters.

[Smelling.] The gas escapes-quick-haste then to the meter,

A word just now and then makes life the sweeter."

From the passage just quoted it may be safely inferred that Theodore St Bo' is not only a successful author, but a practical man of great insight, strong will, and noble aspirations.

Poems Serious and Comic. Printed only for Private Circulation By MRS CARNEGY RITCHIE.

among friends.

We have used the privilege of friendship in recommending this book to a wider circle of readers than that for which it was originally intended. The volume contains in all thirty-three poems, many of which exhibit fancy, taste, delicacy of feeling, and command of language which raise the authoress far above the rank of an ordinary drawing-room versifier.

The "Lines on Lady Jane Grey asleep the night before her execution," and the song of "Amy Robsart to Leicester" are worthy of Mrs Hemans. We extract the latter for the gratification of our readers:

"AMY ROBSART TO LEICESTER.

A SONG.

I.

"Is it for thee I've decked my fairest bower,
And spread it o'er with every lovely flower?
And yet thou stayest only one short day,
Leaving me sad, to mourn that thou'rt away.
I know thou goest to a gayer scene,
Thou goest to attend fair England's Queen,
Midst gallant lords and beautuous ladies bright,
And pomp and splendour dazzling to the sight.

II.

"But thou hast promised I too should be there,
And said thou knew'st not any half so fair
As thine own Amy in that courtly place,
Whose halls are filled with loveliness and grace.
Yes! thou hast often said this, yet I'm left,
Of every earthly hope and joy bereft
With none to soothe or to allay my grief,
None to my burdened heart to bring relief.

III.

"Alas! why did I leave my own sweet home,
Where, loving and beloved, I used to roam;
With friends and parents, to my heart so dear,
I knew no fonder love till thou wert near.
Ah! when I think of those sweet, happy hours,
So calmly spent amidst my native bowers,
How sad appears my present lonely life,
How sad my fate-a fond but widowed wife!

IV.

"But I will try my sorrow to restrain,

For though we part, and ne'er may meet again,

Theo.

A truce then to this stuff.

How's my wife, Sir, that's the point at issue.

Dr G. Well, Sir, I have just stated, she's getting
Gradually better. By to-morrow

Or the day after, we'll see the effect

Of the pills, the mixture, and the blister.

And confident I feel that a few days

Will find her quite restored or convalescent

I'll call again this very afternoon.

Theo. Whatever does this fellow mean by all

This puffing, praising, oiliness of tongue?
'What a dear, sweet, amiable creature

For a wife you've got, Mr Theodore.'

[Exit.

There's something more than meets the ear,' methinks:
I can't exactly fathom him—he's deep—
Or shallow-yet he's not a fool—a rogue
He may be and if a rogue, a deep one.-
Damnation seize the rascally old cur,-
A meddling whelp of discord and of strife.
For what else can he mean by meddling thus
In family affairs, which lie beyond

His reach. But I will prove a match for him,
I swear by all the powers that reign within me.
Mar. Now, Theodore, why go on raging thus?
You would persuade one you were not yourself.
Pray, then, be calm, and see there is no need
For venting thy ill-natured spleen on him,
Now that his back is turned. I know you deem
Me neither sweet nor amiable, for

You have told me so repeatedly, and,

At all events, it cannot be my blame

That people either think or call me so—

People will think, people will judge, people

Will speak, and what of that? are tongues not given
To speak? Then bottle up your wrath, or vent
It not on me-I'll none of it.

You damned,

Theo.
Provoking good-for-nothing wretch, is that

The tone you use to me? Think not I'm blind.
If he got no encouragement to meddle

In people's private matters and affairs,

D'ye think he'd venture on such tender ground?
If that be Therapeutics, then I know

Naught of Therapeutics-I leave the room.

[Putting on his hat. Exit.

Mar. And I will go about my household matters.

[Smelling.] The gas escapes-quick-haste then to the meter,

A word just now and then makes life the sweeter."

From the passage just quoted it may be safely inferred that Theodore St Bo' is not only a successful author, but a practical man of great insight, strong will, and noble aspirations.

Poems Serious and Comic. Printed only for Private Circulation

among friends. By MRS CARNEGY RITCHIE.

We have used the privilege of friendship in recommending this book to a wider circle of readers than that for which it was originally intended. The volume contains in all thirty-three poems, many of which exhibit fancy, taste, delicacy of feeling, and command of language which raise the authoress far above the rank of an ordinary drawing-room versifier.

The "Lines on Lady Jane Grey asleep the night before her execution," and the song of "Amy Robsart to Leicester" are worthy of Mrs Hemans. We extract the latter for the gratification of our readers:

"AMY ROBSART TO LEICESTER.

A SONG.

I.

"Is it for thee I've decked my fairest bower,
And spread it o'er with every lovely flower?
And yet thou stayest only one short day,
Leaving me sad, to mourn that thou'rt away.
I know thou goest to a gayer scene,
Thou goest to attend fair England's Queen,
Midst gallant lords and beautuous ladies bright,
And pomp and splendour dazzling to the sight."

II.

"But thou hast promised I too should be there,
And said thou knew'st not any half so fair
As thine own Amy in that courtly place,
Whose halls are filled with loveliness and grace.
Yes! thou hast often said this, yet I'm left,
Of every earthly hope and joy bereft
With none to soothe or to allay my grief,
None to my burdened heart to bring relief.

III.

"Alas! why did I leave my own sweet home,
Where, loving and beloved, I used to roam;
With friends and parents, to my heart so dear,
I knew no fonder love till thou wert near.
Ah! when I think of those sweet, happy hours,
So calmly spent amidst my native bowers,
How sad appears my present lonely life,
How sad my fate-a fond but widowed wife!

IV.

"But I will try my sorrow to restrain,

For though we part, and ne'er may meet again,