which I must inform you. My Tragedy, refused at Drury-Lane, has been twice performed at the Theatre Royal, W; first for the benefit of Miss Hargrave, and again by desire of the mayor of that town. This piece,-though unaided, for the greater part, by all the ornaments and advantages possessed by a London theatre, which consist of the most finished acting, magnificent processions, original music, splendid and appropriate costume, and beautiful scenery, and which have rescued many dramas from complete coudemnation on the first night of their representation,— notwithstanding the lack of such powerful auxiliaries, this Tragedy, affording ample occasion for their full display, succeeded, believe me, beyond my most sanguine expectations. The performers were all exceedingly perfect in their parts, and did everything in their power to support the piece; and I must do Miss Hargrave the justice to say, that such was the grace, energy, and pathos with which she performed on those nights, that I neither hope nor wish to see a more correct and charming representative of my heroine. With such a perfection of the imitative art, and so real a love for the character as she possessed, which threw a perfect enchantment over the scene whenever she appeared, it is no way surprising

that the piece gave the lie to the judgment of the Drury-Lane Committee by the unqualified approbation which it received from a crowded and delighted audience.

I will copy for your reading what the Literary Chronicle, (No. 388) says on the subject, that independent and impartial periodical, which deserves the highest encouragement for the readiness it has ever shown to bring forward merit, wherever found, to the notice of the public.

The lovers of the Drama at this once regally-honoured and still fashionable watering-place, have during the past week experienced a treat of no ordinary kind: first by the representation of a new Tragedy from the pen of Mr. (whose beautiful Poem entitled The Artist we in No. 386 extracted from Death's Doings); and secondly, by witnessing the personation of the principal female character in it by a highly-talented actress of the name of Hargrave, who, according to provincial rumour, is shortly expected as a star of the first magnitude to illuminate one of the metropolitan winter theatres. This Tragedy has been printed, but never before acted; and though we cannot find room to give the plot or allude to the chief incidents, we feel a pleasure in adding the following general observations, ardently hoping, for the author's sake, that the opinion here

given of its merits, may ere long be established by its successful representation in London. This Tragedy is full of specimens of dramatic as well as poetic beauty; but at the same time it must be acknowledged, that the author has considerably improved the latter scenes and the denouement by the most judicious alterations from the printed copy. The interest of the piece increases with every successive scene: there is no point where it flags for a moment. It is now carried on to a perfect climax to the very close of the terrible catastrophe, like a rapid and mighty river that continually swells in magnitude and grandeur, till it disembogues itself in awful sublimity into the bosom of the roaring deep. We neither fear nor hesitate to pronounce this Tragedy, as acted on Wednesday evening, one of the best dramatic pieces that have been written for many years. Miss Hargrave in Elwina performed admirably, with such a truth to nature and feeling, such a fearful and agonizing effect, as to draw tears from almost every eye, and spoke her the complete mistress of the heart of every one present.

'An author,' says a certain critic, may evince the very highest power as a dramatist, and yet his performance not afford a single striking quotation; on the contrary, he may possess very little of that metaphysical acumen which constitutes the tact of the dramatist,— and yet his works may furnish splendid specimens of poetry. Glover, in his Medea, is an example of the

Lifts not his fleshless arms with kind embrace

To welcome thee to thine eternal rest,

To those deep slumbers which the thunder-swell
Shall ne'er awake! No! darkness and the worm
Are their companions at this meeting hour;
And dust to dust is the sad spousal hymn!
And this is life!

And must we part? for ever, ever part,
My kind, my dearest mother? How the sound
Rends my poor heart, as slowly, heavily
They lower the coffin down! But there's a voice,
A heavenly voice comes on the evening air
With solemn tone, that consolation speaks
As now it utters, Blessed are the dead

That die ' th' Lord; from henceforth they shall rest
From all their labours. One last, lingering look
Upon thee in thy darksome narrow house,
Sweet mother, who so fondly in thine arms
My infancy didst cherish; on whose breast,
Lulled by thy voice, I've sunk so oft to sleep,
And waked to meet thy soft maternal kiss:
Then farewell, blessed mother! yes, farewell
For ever, and for ever!

No more when I, a wanderer through the world, Return heart-broken, or with hope elate,

To my loved cottage-home, wilt thou outstretch
Thine arms to welcome me, or kindly soothe

My grief-worn spirit, or partake my joy.
No, I must never, never hear again

Thy voice, my Mother!

O, ever hallowed be thy humble grave!
May no rude foot profane it: violets spring
Around the sacred spot; and in those groves
That spread their shade about yon place of tombs,
Ye forest minstrels a wild requiem chant

For the beloved dead!

Yes, though no solemn swell of organ dirge
For thee through dim cathedral aisles hath pealed,
Yet will the thrush, the ousle, and the dove
Mingle their rich and soothing minstrelsey
In yonder laurel-bowers, that bloom above

Thy new-made grave. And when the mournful train
Are all departed, and to solitude,

Silence, and dark decay have left thee quite,
They, like a band of spirits invisible,

Will sweet twilight requiem chant around
Thy last dim dwelling place; and plaintive winds
Shall join with them their soft inconstant song,
As mid the aspen leaves and elm-tree boughs,
Like virgin fingers o'er the harp-strings laid,

They wander for sweet music.*

* The Churchyard of L is remarkable for the singing of birds.