John who was lying awake, was so much shocked by a view which he got of the altered visage of his deceased parent, that he sprung from his bed in a frenzy of horror, and ran naked into the fields uttering the most piercing and distracted cries. I was obliged to leave the young woman with the corpse, and the rest of the children, and pursue the boy; nor was it till after running nearly a mile, that I was able to catch him. The young woman had been seized with a superstitious terror in my absence, and was likewise fled; for, on my return, I found no creature in my dwelling but my dead husband and five sleeping infants. The boy next day was in a burning fever. O James! well may the transactions of that night be engraved on my memory for ever; yet, so bewildered were all the powers of my mind, that on looking back, they appear little otherwise than as a confused dream, and removed at a great. distance of time. Her heart was full, and I do not know how long she might have run on, had not one remarked that the company were now all arrived, and there was no more time to lose. James then asked a blessing, which lasted about ten minutes;The bread and wine were served plentifully around-The coffin was brought out, covered, and fixed on poles-The widow supported that end of it where the head of her late beloved partner lay, until it passed the gate way-then stood looking wistfully after it, while the tears flowed plentifully from her eyes-A turn in the wood soon hid it from her sight for ever-She gave one short look up to Heaven, and returned weeping into her cottage. POOR LITTLE JESSY. A Scottish Song, by John Miller. What gart me greet, when I partit wi' Willie? While at his gude fortune ilk ane was so fain, The neibours upbraidit, and said it was sillie When I was sae soon to see Willie again, He gae me his hand as we gaed to the river; For O! he was aye a kind brother to me, Right sair was my heart frae my Willie to sever, An' saut was the dew-drop that smartit my ee, It wasna' the kiss that he gae me at partin' Nor yet the kind squeeze that he gae to my hand, It wasna' the tear frae his blue ee was startin', As slaw they were shovin' the boat frae the land. The tear that I saw o'er his bonny cheek strayin' It pleas'd me indeed, but it doubled my pain. For something within me, was constantly sayin' Ah! Jessy, ye'll never see Willie again. The bairn's unco wae to be taen frae its mother, The linnet laments when bereav'd o' its young, But Oh! to be reft o' a only kind brother, That feelin' can neither be paintit nor sung. I dream'd a' the night that my Willie was wi' me, I hae nae body now to look kind an' caress me, I dinna ken what's to become o' poor Jessy, A FRAGMENT. And ay she sat by the cheek of the She told it for a meed. I once had a son, but now he is gone, is dear blood streams where the cormorant screams So hard his lone bed, and unpillow'd his head, Say what can restore the form that's no more, Yes, a wild mother's tears, and a wild mother's prayers, A spirit may force from the sky. When the sun had rose high, and the season gone bye, I prayed to Heaven, both morning and even, One evening late, by the chimney I sat, I dream'd of the times that were gone, Of it's chirrup so eiry, the cricket was weary, The fire burnt bright, and I saw by the light, A white birchen wand he held in his hand, He look'd at the flame, as forward he came, I knew him full well; but the tones of the bell So stunn'd me, I strove, but I neither could move Blood drops, in a shower, then fell on the floor, His form still grew, and the flame burnt blue, That my head whirl'd round, the walls and the All darken'd, no more I could see ; I waken'd e're day, but my son was away, Though my blood was boiling, and my heart re- To see him again still I pray'd. And oft has he come to my lonely home, In guise that might adamant melt, He has offer'd his hand, with expression;so bland, But that hand could never be felt. I've oft seen him glide so close by my side, On his grave-cloth the seams I could trace; The blood from a wound, trickled down to the ground, And a napkin was over his face. So oft have I seen that death-like mein, I long still to see it again. I wish Donald M‘Donald had kept clear of the rock on which the Spy so narrowly escaped splitting bis Little bark-He would have been a valuable correspoudent. I showed his essay to John Miller, and John says, "I'll no do lad; it's far owr queer, the Latin's terrible.” Rustic Humour, and the Essay on Intemperance, are both come to hand, but they must lie till John Miller see them. anburgh: Printed and Published, for the proprietors, by J. Robertson, No. 16, Nicolson street.(price qd.) 1810 The Spy. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 24. ON the N the evening of Saturday last, when the Theatre Royal opened for the present season, 'I went to see the play of the Clandestine Marriage, accompanied by a charming young lady from the country; a friend of my own, who thought it excellent sport to go with the old Spy, and his new acquaintance, John Miller, to the Theatre. We placed ourselves about the middle of the the pit; but, unluckily, as John was last in coming in, the young lady sat between him and me, which deprived me of the pleasure of hearing all his remarks as the players proceeded. I sometimes, however, made a long neck, to ask, and listen to his opinions of their various merits. John had read plays, and formed a notion how the authors meant them to be acted; but he had never before seen a performance on the stage; consequently I knew that pure and simple nature, who is a better monitor than many are aware of, or willing to believe, would direct his observations. After the curtain rose, Mrs H. Siddons, as Fanny; and Mrs Turpin, as Betty, main. tained a conversation of considerable length. When the latter retired, I asked John what he thought of the new actress ?-Is it the black quean wi' the muckle earrings that you mean? said John, Ifyon be she I think she's ablins nae grit rug atit: but NUMB. XIII. I'se warranthey're e'en dauntit an' blate at' the first, an' as mony fo'k glowrin at them. Mr Brook then entered as Lovewell, and having some long speeches to recite, hurried through them in a sort of tremor, without exciting the smallest degree of interest. How do you like that man, John? said I, That is another new actor. Is he said John: I fear they'll no eek muckle to their credit by his abilities. He speaks no that ill, puir chiel, but he has unco glazed, empty-like een: I doubt there's little mair in him than what has been supplied by the pan an' the spoonHe has hardly drunken enough of soddy water I'm thinking. The young lady was like to split with laughing 'Pon my word, Gentlemen, said she, I think they do very well-I think they do very well indeed. You Spies are a sad set. As I intend, in this day's Paper, to make some general remarks on the merits of the principal actors, who form our present company, I cannot give all John's remarks at full length; but I intend to amuse my readers with them occasional ly. He was particularly delighted with Terry and Berry, but as he had no bill, and neither knew any of their names, nor gave himself any trouble about them, he called the former the auld silly luord; and the latter the droll merchant. He called Mrs H. Siddons the dartie. Mrs W. Penson the brazen faced gypsie, and Mrs Nicol the auld desperate creature. Mr Mason was the bit burklin Frenchman wi' the fause tail; and Mr Siddons, who acted the principal character in a capital after piece, the lang fallaw wi' the goud breeks. When all was over, I asked him which of them he liked best. He answered, that he liked Fanny, and the lang man wi' the goud breeks, as weel as ony o' them. The auld luord did no that ill, said he, but he made himsel o'er weak, and o'er brisk, in too short a space o' time: Yon was na possible; an' he has rather o'er mony capers and twirls wi' his fingers and his cans; yon's scrimply natural: however they're surely the best anes. I said I feared that the amiable qualities ascribed to the characters they represented, had made him partial to them; but he ought to consider, that the person who performed a bad character to the life, had much greater merit than he who performed an amiable one. John said there might be something in that. Speaking of Mr Brooke, I said, the want of action, corresponding to the situations in which he was placed, was his worst fault. I fear, said John, he'll be like the Englishman's fiddle, he'll turn out to be useless, that'll be his warst faut. As for the black quean wi' the little mouth and the muckle ear-rings, continued he, we haena seen her fairly try'd yet; it's a quastion what she may do. With regard to the company in general, I think I may safely aver, that if ever the manager of a theatre deserved the patronage of the public, that patronage is due to Mr H. Siddons. I do not assert this to be in consequence of the superiority of his talents as a performer, though these are far from being despicable, but he is a man of genius; and a character, in every point of respectability, as far a bove the common run of stage-playersas the nobility are above the common vulgar. His own, and his wife's private behaviour are marked with probity, discretion, and good breeding; and, in their public capacity, with a proper degree of firmness and deference to all. It must also be allowed that he has nei ther spared trouble nor expense, in order: to give constant life and variety to that most rational of all public amusements. The new decorations, and the new scenery corresponding with them, are executed with much taste and precision; forming, upon the whole, a scene of lightness and elegance, such as an Edinburgh audience have not hitherto witnessed. His discernment, in the choice of the other performers, is also judicious and highly commendable: for though, as a company, they are far from being complete, and greatly defective in tragic characters, yet they are admirably well calculated for giving the proper effect to such plays. as best suit a Scottish audience, whose: taste is naturally gay, and fond of hum our. I am fully pers waded that there are several of the present company very excellent performers in their respective departments, but such a diversity of cha racters frequently devolve upon them, it is impossible they can be perfect in them all. Mr Berry, for instance, though a careless dog, posesses very great powers as a proper representative of bluntness and rusticity, in whatever situation of life these characters can be placed. Were he to study perfection in a few characters only, as some of the most famed performers on the stage have always done, and were we to see him in these only, and as seldom as we see J. Johnston and Emery, I have little doubt but that we would pronounce him even superior to these celebrated comic actors. I have seen Berry, in some instances, copy nature closer than any man I ever saw, but he is negligent and often incorrect in his parts; and when a player has the words, to think of, and is obliged to take them from the mouth of the prompter, it is impossible for him to deliver that sentence with the proper emphasis and expression. Siddons and Archer are the most equal performers; for though they seldom rise to superlative excellence in any characters, neither do they ever dwindle into insipidity. The same may be said of Mrs W. Penson, who is a most spirited actress, and seldom fails making the most of her parts. Terry, on the contrary, in some characters, or rather in some incidents, rises to as high a degree of perfection as any actor of the present age; but in many other instances he sinks into mere affectation and grimace. Berry gets stupid, and even Mrs Young often quite lifeless and stiff. When Mrs Young has youth and beauty to represent, she would do well to select such a dress as covers her neck; and likewise to use a little artificial colouring; these, added to her fine form, might tend still to render the delusion a little more complete. For wit and sly humour she excels; and even performs some of Mrs Jordan's favourite parts, in a more genteel and pleasing manner, than that huge lump of mortality does. Mrs W. Penson is mistress of more variety than any on our stage. The pert chamber-maid, the romping ignorant country girl; the shrew; the dashing affected belle, and the old witch, seem all alike natural and easy to her. She ça even counterfeit the manners of the other sex; for, her William, in Rosina, and Little Pickle, in the Spoilt Child, were charming, and the life of each piece. Mrs Nicol, as the old tyrannical maid, or housekeeper, posseses likewise a considerable degree of excellence. Where simplicity and goodness of heart are to be represented, Mrs H. Siddons is a most charming and interesting performer. Mrs Brooke has a most excellent voice, but I fear hers are not the songs that will take best in Edinburgh. If she would constantly sing some of those written by Burns, or some of the living Scottish Bards, she would secure approbation. Mrs M. Namara is well fitted for the gay trifler, and a number of secondary, as well as a few principal characters in the drama. She is certainly a substitute, in every respect, superior to Miss Fenwick, and Mrs Vining: for the uniform frigidity of the one, and the disagreeable whine of the other, spoiled the effect of many a good play last year. If she would speak a little quicker at times, when the rapidity or interest of the incidents so visibly demand it, her performance would be much more agreeable; for her slow pronounciation, which never varies on any occasion, sometimes incroaches on the patience of the audience. This should by all means be guarded against; for when the smallest spark of dissatisfaction with an actor is once kindled, it is often a hard matter to quench it. Her way of mouthing the words too, is not at all becoming. John Miller says, "She gapes like a gorlin." The audience at one time joined in a loud and protracted ruff, when she and Mr Siddons were acting-It was at length hissed to silence. "What do |