LADY MORGAN ' S DRAMATIC SCENES.

THESE Dramatic Scenes are, in fact, the dramatic portion of three novels, or novellettes, the details of which Lady MORGAN has been unwilling to fill up; whether because, as she says, she considers the world too busy to give time to literature, and has, therefore, pre- pared " a thing that may be read running or dancing, like a puff on a dead wall, or a sentiment on a French fan or whether, being too idle or too occupied to put labour into the work, she has thought that it may do for the public as it is ; and that, in the or- dinary exercise of its fully, it would take the novelty for a stroke of genius,—especially if ushered in by an ingenious theory, such as that which prefaces these Scenes. Lady 1CIORGAN would make it out that the English are too busy to read; that there is an end of bookselling and bookmaking ; and, in short,. that such is the "movement" in place of "meditation," that we are the heroes of our own novels. If this were so, we do not see how Lady MORGAN would mend the matter by publishing dramatic scenes insteacrof dramatic romarices : both make a book ; each are read with the same rapidity ; and if the world is too excited to read a continu- ous narrative, they will be too restless to make out scenes which, in point of fact, require more to be supplied by the reflection of the reader than most other works of imagination. Dry lists of characters are tedious; stage directions are uninteresting; and it is impossible to form a correct idea of a dramatic character merely from a dialogue without an effort of imagination.. No: the pre- face belongs to the noble science of " Hounbogherie ;" and the only real sacrifice Lady MORGAN has made to the necessities of the times, is to dock a volume from the orthodox number of three. It is not only a sacrifice to herself, but also to the reader : the third volume is wanting. We are no lovers of philosophical "blarney," and consider all Lady MORGAN'S whipped prose as so much froth, and really com- posing no essential part of the trifle, in the preparation of which she is a true professor. Putting the " blarney " aside, Lady MORGAN has wit, humour, and a keen sense of character, both individual and national : her satire, without being very ill-natured, is very severe, and very, amusing : her writings abound in strokes of genius which cannot be mistaken for the elaborate efforts of a mere sentence-manufacturer. On the contrary, where she pro- poses to be clever—where she sits down determined to be brilli- ant—there she fails; there, at least, so much of affectation and false tone go to make up the effect, that we-cannot but consider such passages as the blots of the book. They are, however, not numerous in this work.

The Dramatic Scenes are formed into three pieces : the first and principal, " Manor Sackville," is an Irish national drama; the second, " The Easter Recess," is a sketch of the inanity and heart- lessness of high life. "Temper" is what the French call a pro- verbe,—that is, a simple dramatic illustration of some moral apophthegm : it is amusing, but hardly worthy of ranking with the other two ; and these are by no means of equal value. Manor Sackville is a series of scenes from the moving drama of Irish agitation: it is only of yesterday,—nay, it may be acting at this moment. It is watching an Irish community in a glass hive. An Irish community is always in a bustle ; but here the confusion groups itself round a wealthy gentleman of fortune and high cha- racter, who has just arrived to live upon a large Irish estate to which he has succeeded, with a determination to improve the country, and, if possible, heal its distractions. He is opposed by every description of intrigue : the Church sets its face against his toleration, the Orange magistracy against his Liberalism, the saints against his want of vital religion, fhe Liberals against his enmity to agitation ; and though he is the friend of the poor, and his best hopes are for their relief, they are easily persuaded by one or other party that his professions are all pretence, and that his great object is to cheat them into the surrender of their rights. His dependents have other reasons for combining against him— an absentee landlord being the most convenient master. The drama ends tragically. Mr. Sackville, the benevolent English proprietor, is waylaid and mobbed in a neighbouring market- town; and, in endeavouring to cross the country in his steward's gig in the evening, is stopped by a party of peasants in am- bush, whose object, however, is not himself, but his Orange steward. This man—a consummate villain—is murdered, and Mr. Sackville himself only escapes through the interference of a White- boy of the party, whose pardon he had interceded for and actually had in his pocket. It is not the tragedy, however, that we admire : the tragedies of Ireland have been of daily occurrence; the colours of which they are painted are to be found in every newspaper. A little arrangement and a little local knowledge is all they re- quire in the artist. But those traits of familiar life, dashed off with humorous force, and which, while they amuse, thoroughly let the reader into all the byplay of a society, are not under the command of an ordinary writer. A good brush will, at any time, and in any hand, daub out an Irish tragedy --even Sir ROBERT PEEL, a man as destitute of imagination as any door-keeper of the House of Commons, can electrify a sleepy audience of legislators with the details of an Irish tragedy—but it requires an EDGE- WORTH or a MORGAN to set before us that curious compound of inconsistent ingredients, a true Irish comedy. It will not be easy, in our space, to give specimens of the true merits of these pages; for, whatever Lady MoRGAsr may think, they are not writ- ten in short-hand. But, at the risk of the characters of the speakers not being well understood, we will quote a part of the dialogue of Mrs. Quigley, housekeeper of Manor Sackville, and Mr. Galbraith, sub-agent to the estate. It will be seen that the arrival of the English family greatly disturbs their own domestic arrangements, and that they have entered into a little conspiracy to make the stay as short as possible. Mr. Galbraith, an ignorant, bigoted, but cunning villain, has also more extensive arrangements on foot for the furtherance of his plot; and is in league with some scoundrel sub-sheriffs—themselves the tools of Orange magis- trates—to make the country too hot to hold the new comer, in which they eventually succeed.

MR. GALBRAITH (taking the widow's hand). Widow Quigley, I intended long ago, ma'am, to spake to you about your bit of land by Jones's Fort. For the riot is too high, ma'am ; and so I shall tell Mr. Sackville. And so they arrived" the day before yesterday, did they ? A desolate ould place they found it, I'll be bOund (chuckling), and great com- plaints, I'll engage; and the damp, and the rains, and th' ould furniture !

Mits. QUIGLEY (impatiently). Not at all, Sir. They're highly delighted with every thing—that's the qua- lity themselves ; but as for the English ladies' maids, and the furreigners,—but I'm not come to that, nor within a mile of it, Mr. Galbraith. Well, Sir, your gig had'at drawn scarce from the door, Monday morning, when comes a waggon and ears from Dublin, with wine and groceries, and the Lord knows what be- sides—chany oranges and fruit, Sir ; and it was night before all was stowed away. And I was putting on my night-cap, Mr. Galbraith, and stepping into bed, and Judy taking. over the turf, and Jemmy Malone locking up the great

• door, when, to my enure surprise, drives up, Sir, a coach and four, stuffed inside and out with gentlemen and ladies. Upon my credit, you might have knocked me down with a pin. So Sir, I dressed in the best I could find, and hurried - -down to receive Mr. Saville, and my Lady, and Lady Julia, and made my best curtsey, Sir, and said as how you were ;last gone, and never expected them till Thursday evening. And to be sure it's them that took an ; and such airs, • and the half of them without a word of English in their mouths; and such • jabbering and calling for lights here, and fires there; and asking me if I was

- the-Irish cook, and what there was for supper? And one would have tay, and another would have coffee ; and when I said you had the kay of the cellar, off with the heads of the bottles out of the hampers. And such squabbling, and turning up of noses ; and every thing was so dirty, and this, and that. It was three in the morning before I. could get them to bed. And who do you think the great quality was? why, Sir, no quality at all, but the out-of-livery ser- vants; Sir, and a young woman as called herself my Lady's own chambermaid, and her assistants in silk pelisses, trimmed with fur ! Well, well !—Well, Sir, and the gentlemen—there was the French cook, that takes his coffee without crams, and another furreigner, a mighty swarthy cratur, that seemed to be the whipixr-in of the whole pack, and takes the greatest of airs upon himself. And would you believe it, Mr. Galbraith, they bad the impudence to say, that Eng- lish pigs have better styes, than the ould servants' hail: and they took posses- sion of the second best dining-room for themselves, and have written over the

- door "Steward's roam No entrance for livery or Irish-servants! " And so,

MRS. Q UIGLEY.

Och ! Sir, you don't know them at all at all.; Why, in regard of the ould furniture, Sir, the oulder the better, it seems ; and the worse every thing is in the place, the more they laugh at it. The divil of such giggling and romping I ever seed in the place, since I first come to it. Himself, indeed, is a fine, sancy, comely, gentleman, and surely has a fine air with him, like a lord; and no more like the late gentleman, than if they were neither kith nor kin. But as to my Lady, and Lady Julia, and them young officers, that they found on the road, I hear, watching the sale of the tithe-pigs, and nobody to buy them— why, Mr. Galbraith, they're no more the breeding nor ways of real Irish gentry, than little Judy there. Nothing high nor genteel, like -Lady Blackacre, and the Reverend Mrs. Polypus ; but going on with their game, and their skit, and skelping about the place, Sir, like mad ! Why, they weren't five minutes in it, Sir, when they were all down in here upon the top of me ; and I, taking my tay in pace and quiet, after receiving them in great state in the hall, and show- ing them the rooms to dress for dinner, which wasn't ordered till nine; what do you think of that, Mr. Galbraith ?

Mr. GALBRAITH.

Why, ma'am, Mr. M‘Keiv, th' attorney of Dublin (Clerk of the Crown, and Sub-Sheriff Jones's Dublin agent), always dines at six. The Honourable and Reverend dines at seven, to a moment ; and turned away his French cook for being five minutes before the time. So it is but raisonable that the London Quality should be more foolish nor they. Well, ma'am, give me my comfort- able bit of mutton at four, like the late ould gentleman ;—but go on, Mrs. Quigley. MRS. QUIGLEY.

To be sure, Sir, but as I was saying in burst the whole set, and my Lady at the head Of them, romping and laughing ; and "We're come to pay yon i

vit, dear Mrs. O'Quigley," says she. " -Your Ladyship does me much honour madam," says I, curtseying, and Judy looking like a stuck pig. " But, ,plaze i your Ladyship, mrname s Quigley, and no -0, my Lady." "0 dear,' says she, " but you're Irish, ar'n't you ?" (Mimicking the English accent) ; "at least, I hope you are." "To be sure she is," says the young lady, putting up her quizzing glass. " Don't you see her dear old Irish' face, and her old Irish wrinkles? I do so like her Irish fare; and won't you tell us all sorts of stories about this old castle Rechrent," says she, "and about O'Rourke's noble faste," says one of th' officers, ' " That will ne'er be forgot, By them that was there, and by them that was not."

And then, Sir, they all set up a laugh. "And I do so like her old Irish cap," says my Lady—(my bran new French cap, Sir, that same from Ennis by the fly that day). But nothing should serve her, Sir, but she must try on my cap ; and dashes down her own iligant bonnet,—there, Sir, on the floor ; and runs off to show it to Mr. Sackville.

now, Mr. Galbraith, I'll quit the place; and it's only for you that I didn't quit it long since.

MR. GALBRAITH*.

Tut, woman, don't make a Judy of yourself. Quit the place ! for what ? Sorrow a foolisher thing ever you did than that same, Mrs. Quigley. What does it matter, ma'am, for a few weeks? and you mistress of the place, I may say, for the rest of your days, with your tribute fowl, and your tribute eggs, coming into you, and your little taste of building going on, down below in the town. Ah ! be aisy now, Mrs. Quigley, and let them above, there, have their run. I'll engage they'll be sick at heart of the whole thing, before the month is out.

Mits. QUIGLEY (composing herself). Well, if I thought that, Sir; if I was sure they would not stay over the Christmas—

MR. GALBRAITH.

If you were sure of it ! Why, then, I think we have made purty sure -of that, ma'am, if the want of every convenience in life,—if a tight pattern of beds, and the clearing out of the ould lumber-room in the castle wing, down to the sitting-rooms, by way of furniture,—if hard bottomed chairs, and ricketty tables, and not a pot fit to bile a potato in, that ha'u't a hole in it as big as nay head, will do the business. What, betwixt the young mutton, and the ould poultry, and Mr. Brazier's sour beer, and your own sweet vinegar, and beef as tough as a suggawn, the divil's in it if they arn't soon tired of Ireland and Manor Sackville.

Ma, GALBRAITH.

Ha, ha, ha! well to be sure ! And then, ma'am!

" Mits. Qu IC LEY.

And then., Sir, up snatches Lady Julia my poor Mungo, hugging and kissing i him. " And this s a real Irish cat, my Lord Fitzroy," says she, "did you ever see such a dear quiet sowl?" "And what do you call it, Mrs. Quigley ? " says she. "Mango, phase your Ladyship," says I, "in regard of the black man in the play." " Mungo !' saysshe, "why don't you call it Knockycrockery? "

says she : " -always call it Knockycrockery, says she; and away she gal-. lops off with my poor pusheen; and the young lord galloping after her ! and Mango, frighted out of his life, and the tears in his eyes, mewing like mad ! the cratur of the world !

MR. GALBRAITH.

Ha, ha, ha, ha! I think it might make a cat laugh, instead of cry, Mrs. Quigley, as the saying is.

Mae. Quictny (angrily). Och ! Sir, but it was no laughing matter at all, as you shall lame for just is I was quietly satectagain, and titling any tay, I heard nay poor cat moaning and mewing, like a Banshee, outside the door, Sir ; and when Judy ran to let him in, in he bounded like a wild cat in a bog, with a turf at his tail; and would you believe it, Sir, my iligant bran new cap tied round his poor black face; and before Judy and I poked him out from under the press, troth, you wouldn't have picked my cap out of the guthur. MR. GALBRAITH (wiping his eyes). Well, Mrs. Quigley, I declare to you, ma'am, I think it all mighty comical ; and they are just the sort, for any money. Sure, you would not have them like them Scotch .Macaskys, _that have come in for the 11Iullavaly property. "Grim growdies, that never made their mother laugh," as the saying is; and that goes about spying, and prying, and calculating, and minding nothing but the main chance, ma'am. But in regard of the dinner—all the French cooks in the world cannot serve a good one, with bad materials, and nothing to cook then in ; for I take it for granted (slyly), you didn't lave an ould stew-pan in the place ?

MRS. QUIGLEY.

Och ! Sir, they wasn't beholden to me, nor the place neither, Sir. Sure, a whole cart of coppers came down from Dublin—they call it a batthery ; and fish in ice, Sir, by the mail ; and pheasants from their place in Wales; and venison from the Lord Lieutenant's ; and a whole carcass of donny Welsh mut- ton, Sir, from Holyhead?

MR. GALBRAITH.

See there ! well, they're fine people, surely, and don't spare money: But they can't roof the house, nor stop the rat-holes, nor make tight the windows and doors, all in a month or six weeks; and for the mild furniture, some a it since King William's time of glorious memory, and before. Mns. QUIGLEY.

Tle ould furniture! Why, Sir', my Lady stood staring at my odd spider-