independent principles, which have hitherto guided, and shall still continue to guide us, we hold ourselves entitled to make just what use of this Tragedy we please. It is, therefore, our will and pleasure to reverse the order of the day; and, instead of dangling-year after year-at the heels of stingy and capricious managers, we hereby bid defiance to their well or ill-calculated pleas of rejection, and invite them to court us. It is not consistent with our avocation, to tell them how well the plot is managed, or what strong excitement in an audience the interest of the piece may be found to produce. Nor yet will we disclose to them, wantonly and prematurely, that strict knowledge of stage effect which the author of this Tragedy displays. Our sole purpose at present is to redeem the pledge in our last number, by exhibiting to our readers a few specimens of those poetical beautics in which the Tragedy abounds.

The following extract is from the opening scene in the first act, betwixt Wallace and Kirkpatrick:

Wall. But 'tis wisdom not to think

Too deeply on such matters. It embitters

The cup of misery-too sour already!

Kirkp. True, true;-I'll think of it no more-but go
And muse on comfort, and sweet liberty.

Why didst thou widow hope when I was born?
And make us turn from dark futurity,

To gaze upon the picture bright with glory!

But what is Scotland now? Let me not think of it,
But hide my face and weep!-You must not marry.
Kirkp. Not marry!

Wall. No!-while Scotland is enslav'd!

No man should marry till his country's free:
But let the sword of vengeance be till then
His blushing bride !—Are we in Caledonia-
And see the stranger stalk along her fields
As if they were his own ?-"Tis past endurance!
Oh, that my countrymen would feel their shame,
And once abate that discord of opinion,

Which mars the only good that wisdom aims at !
Then would the cause of independence rear

Its victor-crest-and see its joyous bands

Chase those proud spoilers from our ravag'd country-
Or crush them in their strength. But Scotchmen now
Forget their origin, and boast a spirit
Unworthy of their sires.

Kirkp. Alas, the change!.

The daring spirit of the North is dead,

Or only lives to haunt her children's dreams.
The patriot wakens in a land of slaves!
Where party jealousies, and bloody feuds,
Are still fomented by designing traitors;
Who spread distrust on Rumour's fearful wings,
Till Caledonia's secret friends grew cold,
And Freedom is abandoned in despair.

The proudest barons court the oppressor's smiles
With such alacrity, that Edward marvels,

In fortune's pompous vanity, how Henry

Paus'd-with the whole power of England at his back

And see a sovereign on the Scottish throne

Too proud to pay him homage.

Wall. I could tell him!

With this true sword, whose temper ne'er deceiv'd me!

I could tell Edward that our sires were men

Who gloried in their birthright!-Men who flew,
Like rock-bred eagles, to the song of battle;

And hail'd the mighty conflict in their souls

With the fierce joy that freedom's warriors feet!

They rash'd triumphant-like the mountain torrent
Exulting in its foam!-

We extract the following from the Second Act.-Graham is an ardent lover of his native Scotland; so is Floremma, his sister; but she is at the same time the lover of Wallace.

Flor. The storm increases-hark! (thunder heurd)

That awful peal might daunt the bravest spirit

And sober even madness.-There!-(flash of lightning) 0, Graham!
The harbinger of Heaven forbids your daring-
And frowns-

-(another peal.)

Grah. Away!the fears of womanhood-
That is the torch of Heaven to light my path-
And that deep thunder is the voice of God,
To cheer the patriot's valour on to battle!
What should I fear when Caledonia calls,
And heaven's red standard floats unfurl'd to arms?
My soul is mighty in the joyous hope

Of living glory-and my country's freedom.
But now I dream-O Wallace! wert thou here!.

Grah. And tender too-I wish he were thy husband.

Nay, blush not!-It would give me such delight

As woman feels when singled from a group

Of rival beauties by a monarch's favour.

But he is deep in love!

Flor. Indeed!-with whom?

She must be happy that

Grah. The mind of Wallace

Would make an angel happy in his love.
Eliza. And in his friendship-

Grah. I can boast that blessing

But wherefore wait I ?-He may need my help.
And brave Kirkpatrick. Come, Eliza, tell me
Eliza. Stay till the storm abate-and then-
Flor. Dear Graham!

If you but wait a moment, I will tell you.-
Grah. With all my heart!

Flor. But is he not in love?

Grah. Deeply in love.

Flor.

But what's her name?

Eliza. Has she no name but Beauty?

Grah. She has and rivals pant to gain her favour.

Flor. Then they must yield where Wallace is a suitor. Grah. They must indeed-now where is he?

Flor. First name her!

Grah. 'Tis Caledonia-widow'd Caledonia!

Flor. Oh, is that all?

Grah. Why, is it not enough?

See, how she muses!-doth that tear speak joy,
Or mourn for Caledonia's faded laurels ?-

The hour is come that renovates their beauty.

And tell me where is Wallace ?

Flor. Stay, 'tis dark.

I'll send a guide.

Grah. Go, lead the blind, Floremma!

I want no guide. Name but his resting-place

If mountain-vale-moor-wood-or misty stream-
The haunt of witching elves at shadowy eve,

Or wizard cave, where midnight demons murmur
Their nameless orgies in the ear of night,
And startle at the cave's unchristen'd echoes,
So indistinct-they scarce believe them such,
But dread that spirits darker than themselves
Are whispering horror!.

Flor. Hush! You make me shudder.

Grah. A guide for me! I know the pathless wild

By intuition-like its guardian genius

And Wallace is our master. Canst thou name

A place unknown?-The giddy precipice,
Where fairies weave their beautiful illusion

To moonlight melody-and dance foot-wing'd,

Why, I have mus'd upon the evening star,

Till Heaven's bright herald told the noon of night.
And I have watch'd calm nature's awful sleep,
With as much transport as a mother gazes
On dreaming infancy-till morning smil'd
In blushing loveliness upon the world.

I know each scene of wild romantic beauty,

Where magic breathes-or strains of rapture break
On wond'ring ear-and still the heart's soft music.
I know each scene of popular tradition,
Veil'd by the hallow'd wing of mystery,
And peopled by the spirits of our fathers,

Who, bending from the purple cloud of vengeance,
Call forth their children to the battle-field.

And the following is in strict continuity with the foregoing:

But where is he?-

Flor. Close by the hill of storms!

Grah. Then is he safe!-The torrent's leaping foam
Shall light me thither. Fare you well!-but mind-
Speed with the dawn-and sound the name of Wallace
Join'd with revenge-and Scotland's independence!
And men will arm who never dreamt of battle-
And maids will weep 'twixt love and patriotism,
But hush their fears when Wallace waves his sword!.
And boys will burn to march beneath his banner-
For I have seen him kiss them when but babes,

And weep such beauty born to be enslaved! (going.)

Flor. (detaining him) O speak on still!-'tis music for the soul!
Grah. Yes! I have seen him weep when others smil'd,

To see the peasant lead his blushing bride

From Hymen's altar-to beget more slaves!.

Then would deep feelings hurry him away

From human haunts-to roam the mountain-wilds,

And startle Nature in her stormy dwelling.

There would he mark the eagle's sweep through heaven,

And wish for liberty's proud wings—to follow-
Then turn from thron'd sublimity---to gaze

On God's creation-stretch'd immense around!—
And ask what curse denounc'd the lord of all
To be the slave of Edward's damn'd oppression!

We should be weighed in the balance, and found alike wanting on the score of patriotism and of gallantry, were we, by any abstract rule, of-of we know not what to refuse a place in our pages to the following stanzas, chanted by ladies after Wallace's victory at the bridge of Stirling :

Weave, maidens, weave the Patriot's crown

Of bays that bloom immortally !.

For tyranny is overthrown

And Scotland hath the victory !—

The victory--the victory!

For tyranny is overthrown-
And Scotland hath the victory!

Prepare the bay-and wake the strain
To greet the brave triumphantly -
For Scotia's maids can burn like men-
Her men-like knights of chivalry!
Of chivalry-of chivalry-

For Scotia's maids can burn like men-
Her men-like knights of chivalry!
He comes!---he comes !---let music play
To glory's march harmoniously.
For joy shall sing his praise to-day-
And time shall bless his memory!
His memory---his memory!
For joy shall sing his praise to-day-
And time shall bless his memory!

(Enter Wallace at the head of his friends, marching on to Stirling-the ladies change the tune, and sing)

O blest be his march to the music of gladness,

Who comes in his might like the foam-rolling sea!

And throws from our bosom the mantle of sadness--( dropping the searves.)
For joy hath no bounds in the heart of the free!

Our spirit was broke

As we bow'd to the yoke,

And darkly in murmurs our country deplor'd,
When hope from the tomb

Snatch'd up liberty's plume,

And gave it to Wallace along with his sword!

The cottage was dreary---and lonesome the palace--
Our king was enchain'd in the dungeon of night!
When, bright as the morn, rose the banner of Wallace-
And Scotia, rejoicing, stood up in her might!

The claymore ye wav'd
O'er a people enslav'd-

And freedom reviv'd on the field of your fame!
Yet than glory more dear

Is your country's proud tear,

While blessing the hero that honours her name.

Every female reader will surely bless us for the next extract.-The scene is after a skirmish, at the outskirts of which Floremma is mortally wounded: