ture. and dwell together. Mrs. Simpson is a little green-eyed in her matrimonial views. Mrs. Bromley is a dashing, handsome, unexceptionable creaMadame La Trappe, a lace dealer (smuggled), catches the two wives at conversation, and unfortunately confesses that she is presenting a bill at Simpson and Co.'s, received from a lady in Harley-street. Mrs. Simpson's eyes immediately become the colour of peas. She pushes her interrogatories to ascertain that Madame La Trappe had often seen a gentleman (in truth Bromley)-a gentleman below-parading before the Harley-street house. Mrs. Simpson comes down like a forty-pounder on poor Mr. Simpson :---who is twitted by that rogue Bromley for his gallantries. Simpson has Bromley's pocket-book to take care of, and leaving it carelessly on the desk, Mrs. Simpson, supposing it to be her husband's, very prudently probes it, to the discovery of a miniature of the lady in Harley-street, of whom Bromley is in truth a follower, under the name of Captain Walsingham. Bromley had written innumerable letters to the lady, a Mrs. Fitzallan, all of which had been returned. At this time, Mrs. Fitzallan is announced, having been an old schoolfellow of Mrs. Bromley. Mrs. Simpson recognizes her likeness, to the vast life of a humourous scene. Bromley is discovered to be a married man, whom, however, Mrs. Fitzallan, in tenderness to his wife, does not expose. Mrs. Simpson learns her mistake, and the piece pleasantly ends, with casting the blame on Captain Walsingham. The acting is worthy of the lively construction of the piece. Mr. Terry is mercantile, to the shake of his head, and the correct drag of his features. Mrs. Glover is portentous in her jealousy; and Mrs. Davison graceful still, in Mrs. Bromley. Mrs. Orger, as the Lace-smuggler, would make any wife jealous. We thought Mr. Cooper, perhaps, a little harsh, but he is getting more into our favour lately. If Mr. Elliston would give us many such pieces as this, it would, as Johnson says, be needless to praise and useless to blame. It is, without exception, the smartest production of the day. We do not know the author or adapter. COVENT GARDEN. The Pantomime. The pantomime at this house is, in comparison with that at the other, what Mathews would call "quite the reverse." It is, perhaps, one of the most attractive pieces in point of scenery, rapidity, pantomimic-acting and trick, that ever made Christmas merry. Harlequin and the Ogress, or the Sleeping Beauty of the Wood, tells its own story. But even we cannot describe the magic of the scenery, the exquisite beauty of the combined genius-productions of the painter and the mechanist; we shall attempt, however, to describe the opening plot, which has, at least, the merit of being comprehensible. The first scene is an interior of an Egyptian cavern, and the Fates are seen spinning the destiny of the Sleeping Beauty. They sing and spin pleasantly enough; and the Ogress, their mistress, comes in attended by four little winged goblins, and carries away the ball of the Beauty's life-thread, intending to have the end of it fastened to her finger, which will insure her nap for another hundred years. The second scene is a wood, a cedar wood, full of ample foliage, and romantic to the very curl of the leaf. A hunting prince appears, attended by a whimsical follower, and expresses by the usual eloquent action that he has lost his way. Fairy voices strike up alternately on each side, much to the perplexity of poor Grimaldi, Jun. who scampers from voice to voice, till he fairly becomes confounded. Suddenly, when the prince is despairing of his way, the forest flirts into one of a tinsel-blue foliage, and the fairy Blue Bell comes forward, and offers the prince a flower, which will not only lead him out of the wood, but will awaken the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood. At the motion of the fairy's wand, the back of the forest opens magi-. cally, and shows the castle in a beautiful sunlight, with a drawbridge leading to it. The prince enters it with his follower. The third scene exhibits the portal of the Beauty's castle- and Old Grimaldi, in a kind of burlesque tyger-patterned dress, shows himself as keeper, to the vast delight of the audience. The Ogress enters, and prevails on him to undertake the fixing of the thread on the finger. The apartment of the sleeping lady is beautiful. All are asleep-fast! The butler, cook, waiter, attendants, all! Grimaldi enters, gets a musingly fuddled over a bottle of wine, and drops down without accomplishing the task committed to his care. The prince enters, awakens the princess-and at the very moment, the room turns from pink to blue, and the Ogress and Blue Bell confront each other. The usual changes take place, and the pantomime proceeds. Several beautiful scenes follow, and much mirth is kept alive by the two Grimaldis. It is curious enough to see the son grinning at the grin of the father. The Harlequin is extremely good-and so is Pantaloon. Columbine is too much of a real woman; we wonder what her weight is. There are but few tricks. The coach-building, by Grimaldi, at Brighton, is ingeniously contrived, and Joe puts together his odd materials with his old quiet humour and busy intensity. No one can be at a loss like Grimaldi. No one can suddenly hit upon a remedy like himself. He really seems never to have had a notion before how he was to make his carriage, but appears to build on the inspiration of the moment. The scene of the Pyramids is fine -and it is whimsical enough to see the rapid scampering clown bolting about in the presence of those tremendous kingly monuments. Water loo Bridge, by lamplight, is capital; so is the scene of a village near Lon don. But the grand display of scenery is the panoramic view of the King's progress to Edinburgh. The shores pass as they recede from you in a coach; and you really seem to steam away from Greenwich to the braw city. Night gradually comes on (as the music and the shadows plainly tell you), and morning breaks over the Calton Hill bravely. The pantomime concludes with a beautiful scene of the palace of the fairy Blue Bell. The fault of this pantomime is a deficiency of broad humour; though, to be sure, Grimaldi's face will twist the hardest and sternest countenance, and is a whole pantomime in itself. We miss, however, the racy fun of the scenes in Mother Goose; the real bustle and opulent nonsense of the clown! But we must not be exorbitant. Artaxerxes.-Miss Paton. This lady, though evidently very unwell, has appeared in the laborious and difficult part of Mandane. She has execution sufficient for the skilful and exquisite songs of the opera, but her voice decidedly wants fullness and physical power. We were in pain for her during her singing of some of the most elaborate songs, and that is a pretty strong proof of her not being really competent to the task. She looked extremely interesting-but she gets thinner, we fear. The recitative of this opera, beautiful as it is, is too much. TRANSLATIONS FROM THE SUPPLEMENTAL ILIAD OF QUINTUS CALABER. (Concluded from our last Number.) AS QUINTUS CALABER is not in every body's hands, (for, if presented to the notice of school-masters or college tutors, he would occasion an inflation of the nostril, an elevation of the eye-brow, and a flickering curl of the upper lip, very unfavourable to the chance of his obtaining a hearing) the reader of the LONDON will, perhaps, bear with him a little longer. Be sides, he has not yet fully had an opportunity of vindicating his epic pretensions in the knowledge of front and back wounds, and those dexterities of martial dissection which are pointed out to the rising generation as among the most surprising merits of Homer, and are understood as conferring on the Iliad a distinction so vastly superior to the tame and unin teresting Odyssey. I use the language of orthodox critics, not my own; for I have the misfortune to be a heretic, and my perdition is classically sealed. There might, moreover, be some slight curiosity to see how Quintus and Virgil have treated the same inciVIDA. dents. THE STORMING OF TROY-DEATH OF PRIAM-CAPTIVITY OF ANDROMACHE MEANTIME the Trojans feast in every street Each, grasping in his hand the brimming bowl, Then sinks o'erwhelm'd th' internal man: the sight So spake some Trojan mazed with wine, nor knew But he restrains the thronging rush: then wide, As roused by hunger from the mountain rocks So slid Ulysses from the steed: the rest To Troy's doom'd walls they shape their dauntless way. Prepared to aid their chiefs and pile the streets with slain. But when the mightier army enter'd Troy, And dismal flames bring transport to their souls: Others with amputated feet now trail'd Their bodies midst the dead, and piteous wail'd; Where keenest Mars's wound and bitterest is the smart. The howl of dogs throughout the city rose, O'erhangs the scattering cranes, they rend the sky So here and there the Trojan women flew, So thick, so mingled, their lamentings grew. Some starting from their beds; some prostrate thrown With the slight sark, and careless of the zone, Roved wildly forth, nor heeded, mazed with dread, Their bended hands supply the veil of modesty : And smite their breasts, and thrill with shrieks the circling air: And aid the spouse or son, who bleeding lay, The general cry of consternation scared The children's sleep, whom sorrow yet had spared: Blush'd with new tinct and swam with mantling blood. As the gaunt wolves, or fleet hill-panthers, run Nor bloodless to the Greeks the combat sped; Achilles' son, with battle-searching lance, |