Ye see them not--but I do see them wellJ They fix their eyes on me I cannot stay. I shall now give a short analysis of the Electra, which is justly considered one of the finest plays of the Greek stage Sophocles was not a man of so sublime a mind as Eschylus; but what he wants in loftiness and fire of spirit, he compensates by a delicacy of taste, and a tenderness of feeling, which, if they do not render him the greatest of the ancient poets, make him at least one of the most interest ing of them. Nature had endowed him with an imagination which was ever under the guidance of a sound understanding; not overleaping her own boundaries; nor irregular and er ratic in its course, and astonishing by its blaze, like the comet; but, like the evening-star, steady in its progress through the fields of light, ever brilliant, and ever beautiful. He is always in the elementary of our nature -therefore he always takes possession of the heart; and though he does not reign there with absolute dominion, like Shakespeare or Homer, he is a guest whom we receive with pleasure, and dismiss with regret; and if he does not fill us with the idea that he is the greatest poetical genius of the dramatic writers of his country, he has certainly produced better plays than any of them. Less impetuous and less daring than Eschylus, and less pathetic than Euripides, he knew how to turn his talents to account better than either. His mind could grasp his subject, and mould it according to his will, which generally led him into the path of nature; and he seldom so far loses sight of the whole, as to say more in any one part than is necessary to the developement of his plot or his characters, nor less than is required for perspicuity. Like the statuaries, he seems to have fixed in his mind a standard of ideal excellence; and if he does not, like some of them, always reach it, he comes nearer it than any of his competitors for dramatic glory; and it is not easy for us to conceive, that the tragic art should in a few years have made such advances to perfection, as appears in some of the pieces of this elegant writer. The drama was then like a rich field newly broken up by the plough, and its fertility was amazing. Sophocles produced no fewer than a hundred and forty plays. Only seven of these have survived the wrecks of time, or the dilapidations of barbarian or monkish ignorance; but these are so skilful in design, and so beautiful in execution, are such masterpieces of art, and yet such faithful exhibitions of nature, as to make us greatly lament the loss of the whole. E. It is too plain. O. These are the ashes of the young Orestes. E. Give me that treasure: I conjure thee, stranger, By all the gods, deny me not that boon. (It is given to her, and she proceeds.) Ye dear remains of my beloved Orestes, Vain were the hopes that shone like thee in brightness, When I did send thee hence! Then didst Like a sweet flower, in infant loveliness; Oh! would that I had died when I did send thee Into a foreign land did rescue thee have lain In the same grave with thy beloved father: hands ther In the analysis of the Electra, it will be only necessary to mention the incidents in which it differs from the Chaphori, as the main story is the same in both. The great difference of the dramatic manage ment lies in the recognition; and the lock of hair, of which so important a use is made in the one, is barely mentioned in the other. Another character is besides introduced, Chrysothemis, the sister of Electra, a woman of a gentle and timid mind, subdued by the tyranny of her mother and Egysthus, and well contrasted with Electra. Clytemnestra, who in the play of Eschylus seldom appears till the scene of her own assassination, is here much on the stage, and, by the bitterness of unmerited reproach, exasperates the haughty spirit of Electra. During a dialogue between the mother and daughter, composed of mutual recrimination, the tutor enters, and informs them abruptly that he was sent from Phocis with the intelligence of the death of Orestes, who had been killed by a fall from a chariot in the Pythian games. These tidings While yet an infant! For I was to thee produced in the mind of Clytemnestra A nurse, a mother-I was all to thee. How joy did dance through my delighted an unnatural joy, that she was at no veins, pains to conceal, and plunged Electra When, hanging round my neck, thou didst into despair. She had hitherto endured life, merely from the hope of the return of Orestes; and this was a blow so terrible and so unexpected, that she sank beneath it. After Clytemnestra had quitted the stage, and a conversation of some length had passed between the sisters, in which Electra, in the simple and affecting language which real sorrow always suggests, mourns the fate of Orestes, he himself appears, disguised as a traveller, and an attend -ant bears a small casket. I transcribe this scene, which is perhaps the finest of the Greek stage. Thy ashes from the pile, as it became me; O. The little casket that thou seest contains *** pronounce, With music in my ear, the name of Sister. " For it were good to mingle ashes with thee, O. How shall I address her? This is more ⚫ utterance. E. What grievest thou for? I understand O. Oh, lady art thou not the famed E. I am Electra, but most miserable. Thou hast no sorrows, stranger; why weep'st thou? O. Because I pity thy calamities. I The ashes of the dead. walk to 201 gít To 90. Whose murderers 2# sú v 0. Thou art of none dishonoured. My brother's ashes? And shall I not mourn? E. Where are they then? Oh! give me O. The living need no tomb. E. What meanest thou? O. I only speak the truth. E. Oh! lives Orestes? O. Lady, he lives indeed, if I do live. E. Art thou Orestes? O. Take that ring: observe it. E. Oh! happy hour! O. Yes, happy hour indeed! E. Light of my life! and art thou come at last? O. Expect no other brother. E. Do I clasp From these gentle feelings, Electra rises to the true sublimity of her character, and, like a demon, instigates her brother to the murder of their mother. When their plans are fully arranged, Orestes enters the palace, and, from behind the scenes, Clytemnestra is heard crying in a loud voice. "Cly. The royal halls are full of murderers ! Where are my friends? E. (To the Chorus.) Hush! hear ye not a voice? Cho. Yes, sounds of woe, that shake my Cly. I am murdered! Oh! where art Cly. My son! my son!. E. Thou hadst no mercy On him, and on my father thy own husband. MR EDITOR, YOUR readers must have remarked in the newspapers, for some years bygone, accounts of an yearly festival in memory of Shakespeare, held at a place called ALLOA, situated, I believe, somewhere on the banks of the Forth; a town which I think I have once or twice heard mentioned, though on what account I do not at present recollect, if it was not in consequence of this very club, or a famous STEAM BOAT, on a new plan, that was there constructed. Curious to learn how the anniversary of Shakespeare first came to be celebrated in such a remote corner of our country, I have made every inquiry I could anent it, in order to lay the account before your readers; but to very little purpose. I have been told that this poetic union had its origin about sixteen years ago, and was first set on foot in opposition to a Musical Club (it must be an extraordinary place this Alloa)-which was established there at the same time. The latter, however, like its own enchanting strains, died away, and has left no trace behind; but the poetical brotherhood continued stedfast, flourished, gained ground, and promises to be permanent. The members have a hall, a library, and a store of wines, spirits, &c. To this store or cellar every one of them has a key, and is at liberty to treat his friends from it to any extent he pleases without check or control. There is something extremely liberal and unreserved in this, and were we members of this club, we would certainly prefer this privilege to any literary one that can possibly: be attached to it. The festival this year, I am told, lasted eight days complete; and my informer assures me, that (saving on the 23d, the anniversary of their patron's birth) during all that time every man of them went sober to his bed. I believe the gentlemen thought so, which was much the same as if it had really Their principal abeen the case. 2 musements are songs, recitations, literary toasts, and eulogiums; and the meeting, it appears, was greatly enlivened this year by the attendance of a Mr. Stevenson, a young professional singer, whose powers of voice promise the highest excellence yet attained in Scottish song. I have likewise been so far fortunate as to procure the sole copy of a poetical address delivered by the President, on his health being drank, which gives a better definition of the club than any thing I could possibly have obtained. It would surely be a great treat to your readers, could you proeure some of their eulogiums literally as delivered, that we might see what kind of ideas the people of that outlandish place entertain about poets and poetry in general. The following appears to be somewhat in the style of the Poet Laureate, Brethren, know you the import of this meeting? " This festival, in which from year to year These many fleeting years; each in his place; us With kindred joy, and that gray bust of him, Our patron bard, with flowers and laurels ⚫ crowned. There is a charm in this a something blent With the best genial feelings of the heart; Each one will own it. Turn we to the past: Survey th' events and changes that have been In lands and nations round us, since we first Joined in poetie unity. That view Is fraught with tints so grand, so wonderful, That Time's old annals, though engraved y.with steel, And cast in blood, no parallel unfold.---- Of home commotion never force the hands Of Brethren to resume them! Times indeed Are changed with us!-The sailor's song is hushed, Pale discontent sits on the Labourer's brow; Changes must happen-but in silence still With retrospective glance, gives to this day, Ourselves are changed in feature and in frame Since first we met.-Then light of heart we were, Ardent and full of hope, and wedded all And families sprung around us. Thus our joys, Our loves, and feelings, like ourselves, are changed, Softened to sadness mellowed to a calm U This day we celebrate.-O! be this day And long may we, my Brethren, though divided To the four winds of heaven, meet again, No glimmering light to rage supplies a mark, Save the red firebrand, hissing through the dark; And oft the beams of morn, the peasants say, The blood-stained turf, and new-formed graves, display. Fell race, unworthy of the Scotian name!] Your brutal deeds your barbarous line proclaim; With dreadful Gallas linked in kindred bands, The locust brood of Ethiopia's sands, Whose frantic shouts the thunder blue defy, And launch their arrows at the glowing sky. In barbarous pomp they glut the inhuman feast, With dismal viands man abhors to taste; And grimly smile, when red the goblets shine, When mantles red the shell-but not with wine!" LEYDEN. THE village of Kirk-Yetholm, in Roxburghshire, has long been remarkable as a favourite haunt of the Scottish Gypsies; and it still continues, in the present day, to be their most import NOTICES CONCERNING THE SCOTTISH ant settlement, and the head-quarters, of their principal clans. The original causes of this preference may be readily traced to its local situation, which afforded peculiar facilities for the indulgence of their roaming and predatory habits, and for the evasion of legal restraints and penalties. Though remote from the principal public roads, they obtained, from this station, a ready access to the neighbouring districts of both kingdoms, by various wild and unfrethe days of the border forays, except quented by-paths, little known since to themselves and a few cattle-drov ers. The hills and waters, also, teemed with game and fish, and the upland farms and hamlets required a constant supply of tinkering, crockery, and horn spoons, and abounded with good cheer, -while magistrates and constables, and country-towns, were few and far be tween.All these were advantages of no trivial nature to the vagrant community, and they seem, accordingly, to have been neither overlooked nor left unimproved by the colonists sof Kirk-Yetholm. o balza The village itself lies quite embosomed among the Cheviot hills, and besides its claims to celebrity as the modern metropolis of the Lordis of Littil Egipt," it is not undeserving of some notice, also, on account of the |