The Hubble-Shue

Harry, harry, hobillischowe!
Se quha is cummyn nowe.
The Crying of ane Playe.
INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.
If originality be a test of genius, the authoress of the Hubble-Shue bids fair to rank highest amongst the dramatic writers of the last century. This rare merit even the most fastidious critic must allow: but her histrionic essay is, in another respect, equally remarkable. We are told that obscurity is one of the sources of the sublime; and who will presume to deny that this drama is not sufficiently obscure? Perhaps the most remarkable feature in it is that singular, partially intelligible mystification, which we in vain look for in other writers: thus, when Gustard enters with his sword drawn, is it possible to figure any thing more intelligible and natural than that the cat should run in beneath the bed? But, on the other hand, who was Gustard?—why was his sword drawn?—what did he want?—how came the cat there? are questions, the solution of which is not easy. Then we have the interesting Lady Gundie, who flits across the stage without saying a word, like one of the phantom kings in Macbeth, leaving the beholder in a state of the most feverish excitement. In short, so much is left to the imagination, that the mind gets quite bewildered, and we regard with most profound veneration a drama capable of producing such extraordinary sensations.
Her name, it is understood, was Carstairs. She was by occupation a governess, and was nearly related to the Bruce Carstairs, a family of great respectability in Fifeshire.
Where there is such a variety of sweets, selection is difficult, but we will do our best. There is one charming little song entitled The Basket of Flowers, in which the sentiment and versification are alike admirable. There is a touching simplicity about it, with which the reader will doubtlessly be enraptured:—
Profusely gay, they catch the eye,
This one I chuse and most admire.
&c.
Such as the rose may Mary be,