in a thoroughly congenial and characteristic manner, speaking the Scottish dialect with perfect correctness. He afterwards assumes the part of Trapbois the Miser of Alsatia, and presents a startling picture of senile avarice. Mr.Beverley's scenery illustating old London possesses all the requisite vraisemblance. We see Fleetstreet and the rising of the city apprentices; the sanctuary at Whitefriars, called Alsatia, with its revelry and ruffianism; old London-Bridge; Greenwich-park, as it was in the days of Elizabeth; and the Tower of London, with some of the latest memorials of Elizabeth's State prisoners. In the Tower "The King o' Scots" resorts to a contrivance which enables him to substitute his own face for one in the capital of a column: his wise majesty is thus enabled not only to hear but to see what passes, besides vastly amazing the Drury Lane audience with his shrewd and humorous comments. From this situation to the denouement is but a few steps. The King descends, threatens Nigel (who is a prisoner in the Tower) with the "punishment of the maiden" (the terrible rack mentioned in the novel), points out Margaret as the maiden in question, and, with a variety of characteristic jests, brings the play to a conclusion. After Mr. Phelps, we cannot too highly praise the acting of Miss Fanny Addison, as Martha Trapbois, and Miss Heath, as Margaret Ramsay. Richie Monoplies is quaintly impersonated by Mr. Cumming, and Captain Colepepper, of Alsatia, is a Bardolphean bit of acting, capitally done by Mr. MacIntyre. Mr. Addison's Geordie Heriot is also good. The energetic manager of the LYCEUM (Mr. E. T. Smith) has made a bold venture in producing an old and unsuccessful play by a famous dramatist in a re-written form. When Sir E. L. Bulwer (now Lord Lytton) produced the poetical and semi-historical play of the "Sea Captain" at the Haymarket in 1839, the piece was found ungenial to the tastes of the play-goers of the period; and although it struggled on through many nights, it was withdrawn from want of popularity. The play was in fact a bad melodrama, overwrought with the flowery language which was the "Bulwer" for poetry in the days when the author of " Pelham" and "Richelieu" was the accepted brilliant novelist and dramatist of the age. The "Sea Captain" has been entirely re-written and even re-modelled, and it now sees the light once more, under the new title of "The Rightful Heir." The plot turns upon the almost fatuous devotion of a mother (Lady Montreville) for her second son, and neglect of her first. Rather than disappoint her second son (Lord Beaufort), and deprive him of the Montreville estates, she decides promptly to ignore Vyvyan's claims as her first-born son and heir, and rob him of his birthright. The language of the "Rightful Heir" is full of the Bulwerian fluency and glitter, but it is not exactly poetry, although it was thought so perhaps by a past generation. The acting was excellent, particularly that of Mr. Bandmann as Vyoyan, the Elizabethan sailor and hero of the piece. Mrs. Herman Vezin's Lady Montreville was perhaps rather too amiable, as the portraiture of such a proud, violent, and relentless being. Mr. Herman Vezin did justice to the part of Sir Gray de Malpas, and Miss Milly Palmer is an amiable | Eveline, betrothed to Vyvyan. The ADELPHI has re-opened for the autumnseason, with another English version of Dumas' romantic novel of "Monte Cristo." The management appear to have trusted to magnificence of scenery and" mounting" to ensure success But nothing can palliate the astounding improb abilities of the story of " Monte Cristo." As a romance, Dumas' accumulations of fictions and fancies, mixed up with quasi-historical incident, are wondrous enough-highly exciting and amusing; but reduced to stage representation, "Monte Cristo" does not make a first-rate drama. The play opens with the marriage of the sailor, Edmund Dantes, at Marseilles, and his arrest as a political victim; from this we pass to the cells of the Château D'If, where he has been imprisoned for 18 years; and after his escape, we see him, as Monte Cristo, overcome his three enemies one by one, in scenes that have the advantage of being varied. The drama is well put upon the stage, the scenery being by Hawes Craven, and the great scene is the view of the sea round the Château D'If, and the escape of Monte Cristo. A powerful scene after this is the Inn of the Pont du Gard, where a murder is attempted and a suicide is committed. Monte Cristo, a most stagey but effective character, with his numerous changes of costume and manner is efficiently represented by Mr. Fechter. Mr. B. Webster enacts the other Protean impersonator, Noirtier, admirably; Mr. R. Phillips as Danglars, one of the three enemies of Monte Cristo, fences well, and shews a comprehension of his author in his performance of this part; Mercedes, the betrothed of Monte Cristo, Albert de Morcerf, a young soldier, and Carconte, the reckless wife of Caderousse, could not be better performed than by Miss Carlotta Leclercq, Mrs. Alfred Mellon, and Mrs. Leigh Murray. Caderousse the drunken innkeeper, is played with great force and humour by Mr. G. Belmore. The old MARYLEBONE Theatre has been partly re-constructed and entirely re-decorated. Under the name of the RoYAL ALFRED Theatre, it was re-opened on the 10th ult., under the auspices of Prince Alfred, who was himself present. A new oriental drama was produced on the occasion, entitled "Pindee Singh." The piece consists of a series of tableaux of oriental life and manners, contrasting with the more artificial existence of Europeans in India. The double action is carried on amid the beautiful scenery of Oude, and the period is that of the mutiny. The fortunes and vicissitudes of the Maid of Oude, Pindee Singh, are portrayed with the attendant pomp and circumstance of a Rajah's Court. The rising against British rule in Oude is about to take place, and Pindee (who has become the wife of a British officer, and proves her European birth) elects to be the been put upon the little stage of the GALLERY instrument by which the English residents in | OF ILLUSTRATION; but without any other scenes Oude are made acquainted with the intended than one set scene, such as it is supposed was massacre. Pindee having performed deeds of used in the time of Shakespeare. Mr. Lemon valour and heroism in leading on the British impersonates Falstaff, appropriately dressed for troops to victory, is rewarded by being placed the part, and several professional actors on the abdicated throne of the fugitive Rajah, sustain the other parts. Mr. Herbert Crellin is who has been defeated. Miss Amy Sedgwick, the the Prince Hal, but although he looks the directress of the Prince Alfred Theatre has, young Prince well, he is deficient in the increated for herself a fine part of the melodra- tellectual adornments of the character. For matic heroine type in Pindee Singh, and Mr. instance, instead of encountering the rough wit Niel Warner proved his great capacities as a and humours of Falstaff with a finer wit, he melodramatic actorin the part of Khan Merab merely makes himself the foil of Falstaff. Mr. Khan, Rajah of Oude. The company needs Crellin does not appear to have studied the strengthening to render it a thoroughly capable part fromthe key note of Prince Henry's characcorps dramatique. "I know you all, and will awhile uphold ter The "Readings in Costume," by Mr. Mark Lemon, introducing a new class of comedians The unyoked humour of your idleness !" to a new class of audience, have been attended If, however, the Prince has a somewhat with that legitimate success which generally inadequate representative, Falstaff has a highly attends genuine art. Mr. Lemon has founded appreciative one in Mr. Mark Lemon, who reads an entertainment in which selections of great the part splendidly, giving due effect to every plays may be acted by a regular company, while word, and bringing out the unctuous humour the chief character is made an intellectual study. in a way seldom done by regular comedians. In this way the 1st part of King Henry IV. has--E. H. MALCOLM. SIL KE BOR G. (A PICTURE OF DANISH SCENERY.) FROM THE DANISH OF HANS C. ANDERSSEN, Through the woods and across the fields we drive into a pleasant homestead; then out again, and we are upon the highest point in Denmark, upon the Himmelberge. Covered with heath and broom, it slopes away in gentle undulations down to the great Binnensee and to the Inulsee, whose tranquil waters are cut through by the largest of Denmark's rivers, the Gatenau, uniting lake to lake, and here for miles away, between forest and heath, flowing onward toward Silkeborg, Beneath us, upon the opposite shore of the Inulsee, lies Dünersvold, the scene of the legend of Laven's Castle. Superstition still sees the glitter of gold and copper vessels beneath the clear water; the boatman believes he hears the ring of metal when he strikes his staff upon the ground. Long ago, when Jutland consisted of numerous petty kingdoms, a king ruled here, whose fairhaired daughter one night eloped with another king. Bearing her before him upon his steed, he dashed boldly across the heath, buffeting the frowns of the night storm. Pursuers and pur sued with equal haste, sought to reach the boundary oak, where the forester's house, near Silkeborg, now stands. The ford in the stream, where, hard pressed, he sank with the maiden, is, to this day, called by the people, the "King's Deep." We follow the chase in the legend, when from the Himmelberge we suffer the eye to range over lake and forest toward the northwest, uutil it rest upon the red roofs of the little town of Silkeborg. Here is our route. We cross the Yoke Auring, as the peasant calls this mountain, and which we have already seen from the Himmelberge, rearing its heathbrown summit above the forest. In long reaches, and above the highest tree, like a towering rampart, the work of Cyclopean hands, rises the "Yoke," whose loftiest crest has but the breadth of a waggon-track. From here, away between the tree-tops, we see heath, moor, and a solitary field of buck-wheat, sprinkling with red and white blossoms the sandy soil. A rustic seat of birchen boughs invites repose, where, by the prospect that opens before us, we are transported to those picturesque regions of Scottish scenery around Loch Catrine and Loch Lomond. What solitude! what earnest reality! The bright sun-light, in its changes, may indeed enliven the scene; yet, like the mourner's face when he smiles, it loses nothing of its impressive seriousness. What stillness-no sound in nature! As if one had lost the sense of hearing; while yet so acute the flutter of the gnat's wing is heard. Here night lowers deep and mysterious! In the forest over-head is heard the cry of the horned owl; below, a whistling in the reedbrakes, it is the howl of the otter, the sweetwaterlake dog, that, wounded by the solitary hunter, attempts to swim to the opposite shore. There we hear the death-cry of the king-eagle perishing in unequal conflict. Not many years since, a huge pike was discovered in the stream, to whose back, with firmly imbedded talons, clung an eagle; both, thus closely united, floated a lifeless mass upon the waves. From the "Yoke" we descend through the forest and over the sandy soil, where the drift sand, in its gyrations, has covered the heath flowers. We come now to the quaking moor, where coal-black storks build their nests in trees, as a Parian race condemned to the marshes and abhorred by the white storks. Farther still our road lies through the wood. Black heath hills rear themselves like islands amid the billowy forest sea. Here we discover tracts, as if cut from that Black Forest so world-renowned by the " Village Tales." Dry branches that have fallen to the ground, mingled with heath and leaves, crack beneath the wheels that here beat a fresh path. We encounter objects of deeper interest: ancient pit-falls of the days when the wild boar invited the chase; old people still are living who relate how in their childhood howling wolves roamed through these forests. Here we see giant graves, or cairns encircled by slender birches, the seeds of which, driven hither by wind and weather, have germinated, and now luxuriate upon these sepulchres of antiquity. Forest tracts, unbroken by road or foot-path, encircle deep lakes. Upon one of these is seen a small floating island, shaded by a solitary tree that bends low upon it. Hither and thither it drifts, the sport of the wind. They tell us that a stranger once came to this dark, still water: deeply impressed with its melancholy character, he returned to seek death in its unfathomable depths. sombre juniper, reminding one of Italy's cypress; and the christhorn, summer and winter clothed with prickly, glossy evergreen leaves. In the west the forest ceases, it lacks protection against the winds. Trunks and branches incline toward the east, and each tree seems pruned as if with a knife; the wood degenerates to bush, which finally disappears in the melancholy earth. Every thing seems rolled together by the wind, boughs and twigs inextricably interlaced, and covered with white petrified moss. We look down into a long, deep heath valley. There stands a solitary clay hut, thatched with broom, above which a wreath of smoke is curling, betokening human existence. Superstition relates to us, that in the "Deep Vale," the name by which this region is known, there stands a large square stone, bearing an inscription which no one has yet deciphered; that beneath this stone lies as much gold and silver as would cover a full-grown man-treasure to ransom a captive king. Two women who once passed through this valley, saw the stone, but could not read the inscription; and when they had returned with others, the magic emblem was no longer found. Subsequent to this, a peasant seeking his horse that had strayed into this sequestered nook, discovered the stone and laid his halter upon it, when lo! it sank before his eyes. At some future period, however, such is the popular belief, when the Danish King shall have become a prisoner, the stone will be found, the inscription read, the treasure raised, and the sovereign redeemed. Tracing now our route toward Silkeborg, which we shall soon reach, let us linger a moment upon this spot in the wood. A narrow foot-path guides us to a broad lake, whose deep blue waters, smiling tranquilly in the morning light, kindly invite our approach. Huge forest trunks, half concealed by thin dark masses of foliage, incline over the banks like green swelling clouds, and in the clear water beneath we see the finny tribe sporting in sun-light. Groupes of snow-white lilies repose like blooming islets upon its mirror surface; and high above the forest, upon the arid heath, rises the sun-lit spire of the village church. Toward the north the forest ceases upon the shores of the "Long Lake," through which flows the Gertenau; and here, near its margin, is situate an ancient steward-tenement; also a small house, for many years devoted to the purposes of eel-fishing-almost the only source of revenue derived from this river, where fish in Woodland solitude, here is thine abode! Here where the eagle builds her nest; here where the wood-doves coo; where the part-greal variety abound. These structures, then the tridge springs whirring from the heath-broom. Truly has it been said, this region has but a needy soil; oh! yes, needy in all that man would force from it; but in its own vegetation, how rich, luxuriant, majestic! That primitive plant of the forest, the fern, shoots upward to the height of man, with its fine green plume-like leaves; whortleberries, raspberries, spring in superabundance from the earth; here grows the only ones, belonged to the so-called Reitergute. The ground and lands throughout a broad circuit, remained wild and uncultivated; a deep, sandy road, in winter almost impassable, led over them to districts in the west. On a point of land where the river disembogues, are still to be seen the remains of red walls; and not many years since were discovered heregraves and the subterranean passages of an ancient structure. Here stood Silkeborg of the olden time, which has bequeathed a name to the present town and lands adjacent. The legend informs us that a certain bishop, Peter, who had determined to build a castle, was once traversing the "Long Lake;" the wind blew from his head the silken cap, and on the spot to which it drifted he ordered the construction of "Silk Castle." Silkeborg, Silk Castle, was built here. This fortress has been twice destroyed, once by lightning, and later by the Swedes, who left not one stone standing upon another. During the long interval that has elapsed since the occurrence of these events, but few strangers have ever visited these scenes, except such as were compelled to trace their dreary route obliquely across the country; or sportsmen, who found here good duck and other shooting. Here among the sand-hills, beneath spreading boughs of birch, or amid heath-broom, blazed the fires of the roaming gipsy. Tree, shrub, and every species of vegetation, were often swept away by the devasting element, and this kind of incendiarism became free to all. The wind chased the smoke and eddying flame-surges before it; the solitary bush blazed up, and farther and farther spread the wild conflagration, until the moor or barren sand set bounds to its fury. But few of Denmark's people were acquainted with the fairest region in the heart of their country; and still fewer in the great, the scientific, even the gain-seeking world, conceived of the power that for thousands of years the Gutenau, with its volume of water, had been prodigally dissipating. The development and adaptation of material resources are bearers of the treasures of mind; they are boughs for the maturing fruit of intellect. Here, upon the shores of this deep river, has civilization traced its furrows and sowed its precious seed. Already, in the year 1840, had liberal proposals been laid before the Board of Revenue, by the former administrator of the domain of Binderböl, to render extensively available the situation of Silkeborg, as a manufacturing point, to convert the Gutenau into a navigable stream, and to project a new city; but the plan met with opposition. Four years later Drewsen, Denmark's well-known agriculturist, came here with his son. He recognized at a glance the importance of the site, and his two sons, Christian and Michael, were the persons, who by strength and perseverence, carried out his ideas. From Seeland, the last-named at once proceeded thither, superintended the new project, and the paper factory forthwith grew into life. The shores of the stream were at that time a desert of sand and moor; the ox-teams compelled to pass by this route sank deeply as they drew heavy loads of rubbish and débris from the tile-kilns. To perfect arrangements, nearly a hundred labourers, foregoing the necessaries of life, dwelt in this primitive region, far away from any inhabited district. With energy and sagacity did the young man accomplish his task, and even the King himself, Christian VIII., interested himself in the undertaking, and gave actual proof of his sympathy. Smith-shops, bakeries, and houses for the workmen, were soon erected. This, together with the eel-fishery and the old steward-tenement that bore the name of castle, and which, with the exception of its out-buildings, was in a dilapidated condition, was all that constituted Silkeborg. But the blesssing of God rested upon the spot; soon there came a busy throng, seeking in the midst of the land an emporium for Jutland. A city rose; day by day it grew with an impulse and rapidity, equalled only on the western continent. Beautiful streets have been laid out, and twostorey houses, breweries, and hotels, are already established; nor are fancy shops and fashionable dress-makers wanting. Plans for additional streets, a church, and council-house have been drafted and marked out; also pipes for gas-light (even Copenhagen is at present without them) have already been laid. Near the town where stands the forest, with its magnificent birches (than which none more beautiful are seen in Sweden, the home of the birch), down the slope toward the lake, is the neatlyenclosed church-yard. Overshadowing the young graves the trees incline their leafy boughs. The man, Michael Drewsen, who, by the onetoned music of the factory-wheels, has thus called into existence the younges of Denmark's cities, has built here, amid the heath-flowers, his burial-vault. A magnificent birch shades this, as we hope it will long remain, vacant resting-place. Day and night is heard the hum of wheels in the factory, where three hundred men earn their daily bread: here is actual life. It is pleasant and instructive to enter this living hot-house, to watch progressive developments; how the rags are purified, washed, cut into shreds, then gushing forth as snow-white pulp, to be gradually changed into broad sheets, which, finally becoming cool and quiescent, furnish us with a beautiful white paper. However superior the specimens of this article, displayed by England and France at the London Exhibition, this paper has competed with them and gained the premium. Even from yellow straw the industrious proprietor has acquired the art of extracting materials for paper-making, and we have been astonished at the results of the transition. Let us leave now the factory and town for a moment to the residence of the owner, a charming villa, liberally provided with English comforts, its garden-plot extending down to the river and lake, fresh and blooming upon the site of the old castle. A beautiful greensward covers the sandy soil, and during the season, is adorned with roses in rich profusion. In the rear of the conservatory are large purple clusters, pendent from their leafy vines; beyond is the lake, with its gleaming shores of white sand and heath, and the solitary house of the ferry-man, whose light skiff, with a few strokes of the oar, saves the traveller a détour of two miles by land, which he would be compelled to make to gain the opposite margin. From thence we must go to the mountain summit, Hvindingedal, that we may embrace at a glance the bird's-eye perspective of the entire uplands, from the Himmelberge as far as the "Long Lake," where the red roofs of Silkeborg gleam at intervals between the tree-tops. In the midst of the garden there remains standing an ancient lime-tree, that might have shaded the gateway of the castle. Alders and willows afford protection against storms from the north and west. On the opposite shore of the lake the waving reeds seem sporting with the ripples that wash, too, fragments of red walls, relics of the ancient fortress. A huge boulder, hewn with some pretension to architectural taste, belonging, perhaps, to a former archway, now lies upon a stone-heap, near which bloom Alpine exotics in rich luxuriance. impressive silence brood over the extended landscape, and here, too, as in mountain regions, the clouds sometimes lower upon it as they sweep across to the forest curtain. Here no warbler sings, and seldom is a vehicle seen upon the solitary road. From this, we turn back to the stream. Suddenly we behold energy and life; the factory lies beneath us, and a splendid bridge spans the river to the open, friendly town of Silkeborg. It greets us with a pack of barking dogs and the ringing blast of the postillion's horn. When at sunset the returning flocks move leisurely along, the plaintive notes of the shepherd-boy's shalm are heard; but the whole landscape glows charmingly in the rosy light of even. Yes! upon the stream, in the forest, upon the lake, and beyond, where the rich mineral waters from bubbling springs trickle down the face of the cliff-what infinite variety! what beauty! what fulness! And now the broad highway of the heath-limited heath-leads directly across it. Beyond the garden-plot, laden flat-boats traverse the long route by water to Randers. A tedious journey-a road without variety. Beauty and sublimity in nature on the Gutenau, are found only between Silkeborg and Himmelberge. How charming to glide in skiff or sail- Come hither on a warm summer day, when boat beneath drooping boughs of birch and the sun-rays burn upon the dark-brown plain, alder! As if torn loose from the shore, trees then will Fata Morgana display her magic grow here and there in the stream, overshadow- power, as in the desert wilds of Sahara. Far ing islands of the blooming lotus. How de-away toward the horizon you fancy yourself lightful to steer from lake to lake, or in the twilight of even-in the starry night-to glide by torch-light along the dark shores of heath and woodland! Denmark's river Gutenau, how beautiful art thou still! and most beautiful here before the old steward-lodge and "eel-fishery," stretching away, adorned with flower-isles gently undulating. With thee, as with the mountain-path, thy course has been cut through heights abrupt, to provide a new broad highway between forest and drift-sand. But a half-hour's ramble conducts us to where human ingenuity has struggled in vain against the fine sand that whistled through the air by the wind, towers fathoms high above wood and moor. Associated with this region is one of the most recent of popular legends. It is the story of an immense treasure that lies concealed here, and Peer Golddigger has squandered his entire fortune in his endeavours to discover it. He, indeed, dreamed where it should be found-on the spot where a tree, thirty yards high, was SO covered with drift-sand, that only a "pipe-stem" of it was visible. It was in the year 1780, we are informed, that this Peer, a Holsteiner, who, at Weile, had homestead and castle, came and dug and dug, until he was buried as a parish pauper. But the treasure that the mighty lord of Silkeborg has been buried here, must nevertheless be discovered. Meanwhile there burns above it a flame that no drift-sand can ever extinguish. The attempted barrier against these sandclouds by planting trees, struggling here and there for existence, as well as the recentlyconstructed highway, awaken thoughts on civilization and human industry. But solitude and gazing upon the mirror surface of the oceanan open gulf with wood-crowned islands. The groves-solitary trees, all are faithfully imaged in the water, so true, so real; yet is the whole but deception. What you are gazing at is only dry, arid heath; the same for centuries-only heath, They tell us that thousands of years ago mighty forests stood here; conflagration and western storms have destroyed them-no one knows! That these mountains, valleys, lands, were once the ocean-bed, elevated by subterranean fires-no one knows! They point out to us the peat moors, how they seem elevated upon the mountain-slopes. Cairns that link the present to a bygone age-to us, the days of yorecover the heroes of antiquity. Their names are unknown: they sleep in oblivion. Song and legend alone acquaint us with the former existence of deep, clear lakes, that have been converted into growing moors. The virgin sailed upon the dark water, and lost a golden ring; for this was the lake proscribed, when from the bottom suddenly rolled upward the | black mud; in a moment the lake was moor!' Upon the shores of that solitary islet, the river washes the crumbling ruins of a castle, perhaps at a time when Viking returned from his expedition to the English and Norwegian coasts, to his home on the Gutenau; or it may be a fortress of more recent date, when the Swedes occupied the country, when our Polish allies and Calmucks and Turks stormed and raged, and hung the priests of the people to oaks by their long beards. The spirit of oblivion, mightier than the storms of the Western Ocean that bow the forest without destroying, has extinguished for |