geneous mass of people, I must also object to. He seems to mistake the unity of previous disposition which gave rise to the meeting, and which of course will pervade the room, whatever it be, for a species of simultaneous and almost spontaneous feeling, created by an interchange of glances, and by some "pestiferous quality of the air which is contaminated by vice." The uniting feeling is the cause, not the consequence of their meeting and if there be any objections to the theatre on this ground, it may be as easily parried as would the blame bestowed upon an oratorio or a concert. That the theatre is a scene of vicious and libidinous exhibitions of the depravity of the human heart, is what I deny; and T. S. D. will surely not be displeased if I request him either to substantiate his position, or to forego the charge altogether. The purity of its ethics will advantageously vie with those of the pulpit; and the mode of enforcing the principal duties of life, assume a form the more impressive as they approach the energy of dramatic phraseology and sentiment. The company retire from a reputable theatre with as much decorum as they do from a Bible Society Meeting; and the splendid accompaniments of a fine production as it is exhibited at the theatre, is to the full, as likely to impress the moral of a didactic upon the heart, as is the less pleasing, less elegant, and less awful lecture from the pulpit.

Having thus replied briefly, though I trust satisfactorily, to his allegations against the theatre, and proved that when divested of the eloquent indis. tinctness of diction in which he has involved his assertions, that they are not tenable in themselves, but totally unsupported by facts and vouchers. I shall now, as briefly as possible, make a few comparisons between this and some few other of our most popular amusements.

Concerts and oratorios are at present much in request, and indicate an increasing taste for the most persuasive and most syren-like of all the fine arts. That the evident tendency of music is to soften the heart, to melt the soul into tenderness, to relax the frame, and to unman the man, is what universal experience has embodied as fact in the very modelling of the language of every refined and tasteful country: nevertheless the disposition, the state of feeling

the usual character of the emotion must have been previously formed for it, and for music too of a particular and definite character in preference to music of any other character. It is true that a soulless coward may be wound up into a phrenzy of bravery, and the ferocity of the scowling wolf like heart-softened down into temporary inoffensiveness: but the general character remains unaltered, and the individuals return to their old feelings, and will usually be affected by a kind of music favourable to their respective dispositions. The present character of the English heart is marked by a deep-toned emotion, so intense that it scarcely knows when its enthusiasm is at a pitch sufficiently high. This lays the English people open to a deep, and perhaps, in some cases, injurious effect from music of the kind that Italy sent us the seeds of, but which we have so altered to suit ourselves as to be equalled by none under heaven-when our own feelings are the test. The effect is much stronger than the usual effect of theatrical amusements can possibly be; and if the latter be dangerous--the literary materials in the two cases being equal the former is considerably more dangerous.

With gaming and other censureable and ruinous amusements of that character, I shall not compare-degrade I should say by comparing-the theatre. I shall, therefore, for I fear I am transgressing your limits, and can scarcely hope to be complimented with an indulgence on the same ground as my opponentshall therefore compare the theatre with the modern dance, whatever name it may assume, and whatever restrictions the different classes of society may respectively place it under.

The dance collects in a far more in. discriminate manner, a mass of heterogeneous beings into a small space, than does the theatre. This, however, is of little consequence; we look at the degree of familiarity that necessarily must take place, the real interchange, not of glances, but of embraces, and the license that is given for more impropriety than can possibly take place in the theatre. From the Monday-night dance of low life, to the courtly ball-room, the same objections may be made. It is true that there may not be such a mixture of respectable and plebian at the same identical dance, or that the same room shall

contain at the same time a mixture of situations in life so heterogeneous: yet there will be the same evil spirit, the same "libidinous passion," the same real danger of infection, as T. S. D. imagines there is invariably exhibited in the theatre, but at the same time it has far more real license to act in its own way. If it were, as some of our more devoted religionists tell us, that they had "been nearly ruined at the play," how much more likely to be ruined were they at that kind of dance which was frequented by people in their own station? It is true there is not such a mixture of classes at the ball-room as at the theatre, but this circumstance so far as it operates at all, operates against the good effects of the dance, by removing one great source of restraint upon impropriety. The theatre may be

"A golden but a fatal circle

Upon whose crystal edge a thousand devils
In glittering forms sit tempting innocence,
And beck'ning early virtue from its centre,"

but what shall we say to the ball-room? Let both stand upon equal ground- and if we listen to Moore's description of the fashionable waltz, we shall perhaps see as much reason to condemn this as the other.

"At first they move slowly with caution and

may be placed. In every case where a party is formed-where one side has been ably defended, we should bear in mind the Roman maxim-" Audi alteram partem," and not form a conclusion which would vilify at least one half of our fellow-creatures, and would teach us to think them inevitably lost to virtue, to religion, and to God.

Though I have drawn a comparison between the possibility of causes of de moralization at the theatre and at the other two classes of fashionable amusements, music and dancing; yet, I would not be understood in reality to censure the latter, or to bellow forth with the ferocity and misanthropy of an anchorite, the wrath of Heaven or the curse of souls eternally lost, against those who introduced such amusements and gave to our race a new source of earthly happiness. No: on the contrary, I think the man who enlarges the sphere of human pleasure by rendering it more easily attainable, like the man who teaches his fellow-men to make an acre of land bear a grain more wheat, deserves better of society than he who gives it a I am useless or an unamusing book.

mere

far from thinking that any really virtuous human being can be injured in his principles, either by music, by dance, or even by masquerade,-the object of more inveteracy of opposition than all; there is always a pre-existing disposition towards these amusements, and though there may be some vicious characters who make them a 66 meeting-house," where they "interchange glances" and "breathe a contaminated atmosphere," the same may also be said of a place of worship:-let T.S.D. witness our churches and chapels on a Sunday evening, and then say whether it is not so, and whether too, it would be a legitimate mode of argument that should scandalize the house of God on that account. The virtuous portion of the community who attend on such occasions do not carry their thoughts or allow their feelings to run into guilty excess, either of action or emotion. With the occasion passes away the feelings of the occasion; and so far from creating any thing like irregular propensities, it makes the charms of the domestic, or the regular scenes in which the individual is daily engaged, enjoyed with a zest that is improved by this casual indulgence and amusement.

The wholesale and indiscriminate censure which T. S. D. has indulged in, concerning the general character of plays and of play-writers, requires substantiation by an appeal to irrefragable authorities. I have often heard the like before; but when closely pressed, the calumniator has failed to prove the charge.

For the present, I have no more to say, not wanting materials, but room. T. S. D. has promised to reply to any one who took up his gauntlet.-I am the man-now for the combat!

COMMON SENSE.

It was a glen so wild and rude
Amid that mountain solitude,
It seemed as if no hunter there,
Scar'd the swift Chamois from its lair;
But left them undisturbed to reign
Sole dwellers in that dark domain:
For tangled wood and fallen rock,
And mingling torrents seemed to mock
The thought that mortal e'er had trod,
Its trackless paths and blasted sod;
Yet far within its wildest dell
The legends of the hunters tell
There is a cavern, dark and rude,
'Mid the lone valleys mountain flood,
That checked and ruffled in its course,
Wakes its dark waters gathering force,
And rushing pours its madden'd tide
Of foam-wrought waters, down the side
Of the dark rock; and sweeping all,
That had opposed it in its fall,
Dashes around the cavern grey,
A waving sheet of foam and spray.
Lichens and weeds and moss had grown,
In dark luxuriance on its stone,
And o'er the entrance waved and twin'd
Their tangled verdure. You might find
In that dark cave a fading trace,
Of mortal dwelling in that place,
A couch bewed from the living stone,
And yet the scattered ember's strewn,
On the cold hearth, and near the cave
Was raised a rude and stoneless grave,
A stranger dwelt there. Tale or name
Of him they knew not; save he came

From some far distant land, to dwell
Within that wild and lonely glen.
He seemed to bear some hidden grief
Within him, yet sought no relief;
His garb was strange, yet bore no trace
To mark his Country or the place,
Where now he dwelt; its loosen'd fold
Oft showed a form of graceful mould,
And if perchance the mountain gale,
Raised the dark plumage that did veil,
His countenance from them, pain and wo
Clouded his high commanding brow,
His cheek was pale, and there did seem
In his dark eyes, a fitful gleam
That with unearthly brightness spoke
Of wildered brain, and proud heart broke.
The peasants shunned him. One alone
Of all who had his coming known,
Would wander near the glen, and she
Made him her young hearts deity;
He frowned not on her, but no word
From him of love Claudine heard..
And she might never dare to speak
The love that withered on her cheek
The fading roses, and she died
For that cold heart of scorn and pride.
The new moon shone upon her grave,
But when upon the still lake's wave,
Its waning cresent faintly shone,
The outlaw of the glen was gone
For ever from this earth. Her grave
Was raised beside his lonely cave,
They found him cold before it; and
Some half traced letters in the sand,
"That he might sleep with her whose
Love"

Had been a sunbeam to him." Wove
With some few flowers a silken braid,
Upon his lifeless heart was laid;

And one who mourned her death could tell, 'Claudines' silken fillet well.

They laid him with her in the tomb,
And from that wild glen's sullen gloom
They past away. And step or sound
Is heard not in that glen around.
The falling drops of the sparkling spray
That are dashed from the mountain stream

And I stood, all alone, on that gentle hill,
With a landscape so lovely before me;
And its spirit and tone, so serene and still
Seem'd silently gathering o'er me.

Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood
By its winding banks was sweeping,
And just at the foot of the hill where I stood,
The dead in their damp graves were sleeping.
How lonely and lovely their resting place seem'd!
An enclosure which care could not enter:
And how sweetly the grey lights of evening
gleam'd,

On the solitary tomb in its centre!

When at inorn, or at eve, I have wander'd near,
And in various lights have view'd it,
With what differing forms, unto friendship
dear,

Has the magic of fancy endued it.

Sometimes it has seem'd like a lonely sail,

A white spot on the emerald billow;
Sometimes like a lamb, in a low grassy vale,
Stretch'd in peace on its verdant pillow.
But no image of gloom, or of care, or strife,
Has it ever given birth to one minute;
For lamented in death, as beloved in life,
Was he, who now slumbers within it.

He was one who in youth on the stormy seas
Was a far and a fearless ranger;

Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze,

Counted lightly of death, or of danger. Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept All the freshness of gentlest feeling; Nor in woman's warm eye has a tear ever slept, More of softness and kindness revealing.

THE SCEPTIC.

(By Mrs. Hemans.)

Yet few there are, so lonely, so bereft, But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left, And, haply, one whose strong affection's power Unchang'd may triumph thro' misfortune's

hour,

Still with fond care supports thy languid head, And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed.

But thou! whose thoughts have no blest
home above,

Captive of earth and canst thou dare to love?
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest
Within that hallow'd shrine-a parent's breast,
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie,
On one frail idol, destined but to die,

Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light,

Where sever'd souls, made perfect, re-unite?
Then tremble cling to every passing joy,
Twin'd with the life a moment may destroy!

If there be sorrow in a parting tear,
Still let for ever' vibrate on thine ear!

If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath

.

flown,

Find more than anguish in the thought-'tis

Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight;

There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust!
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care,
Think on that dread 'for ever'--and despair

THE STRANGER'S FAREWELL.
Gentle stranger, fare you well,
Heavenly blessings with you dwell!
Blessings such as you impart
To the orphan's bleeding heart;
Gentle stranger, fare you well,
Heavenly blessings with you dwell!

Ah! he leaves our pebbly shore,
We shall see his face no more!
Stranger, when you've passed the deep,
We shall think of you and weep!
Gentle stranger, fare you well,
Heavenly blessings with you dwell!
Blow, ye breezes, kindly blow!
Flow, ye waters, softly flow!
God above! his way attend,
Bear him to his journey's end;
Gentle stranger, fare you well,
Heavenly blessings with you dwell

There are few things wherein the generality of mankind seem more agreed, than that our present race of servants is greatly corrupted and degenerated. Many remedies have been proposed, many a remonstrance and pious tract laid in our kitchens as antidotes to the evil, but with little avail;-this tormenting gangrene still lurks there, the bane of our domestic eomforts. I have for many years suspected that the cause of this growing depravity in our domestics is not clearly understood. Let us, therefore, endeavour to ascertain the source, in order that we may apply some efficacious remedy.

It is tenaciously asserted by some, that the radical source of the infection lies in the education we are gratuitously giving to the children of the labouring classes in Charity and Sunday Schools; but I verily suspect that the real cause of the malady is not there: bad as our servants are, the best of them will be mostly found to be those who are best educated: let those who think otherwise, take the pains to investigate the case, and they will find it really so. Greater changes have taken place in the middle ranks of society during the last century, than in any former period; and any changes in these classes must materially influence the classes below them. Baron Montesquieu somewhere says in his Spirit of Laws, "that the people in any country are just what their laws make them; and it may be asserted with equal veracity, that servants and labourers in any country are just what their employers make them to be. Those who are old enough to recollect the state of society fifty years ago, when most of the labourers in our manufactories per formed their work in their own domestic dwellings, cannot but be struck with the wonderful change in the manners, habits, and morals, of this class of labourers and their children.

Had our manufactory continued in this domestic way, there would probably have been but little change in the habits of the labourers; and as a plea for the defendant, we should ever remember

that it was their employers and not the labourers themselves, who thus congregated them in large factories, places so destructive to the former simple man. ners, habits, and morals, of them and their children. The education now given to their offspring, has at least had one very salutary effect; it has so enlightened and humanized them, as to prevent their becoming so bad as they otherwise would have been; for had not the antidote of Charity and Sabbath Schools been so seasonably applied, no moderate government would have been sufficiently strong to have kept our working classes in subordination;-here then we may discover one material cause of the degeneracy of servants.

This improvement in our staple commerce has also produced another change in the state of society: perhaps there never was a period like the last fifty years, when such a number of labourers verged from the working classes and became masters; nor when so many mercantile men rose so rapidly by the acquisition of wealth, to a state of opulence; here we may perhaps discover another cause of the corruption of domestic servants.

Wealth acquired suddenly is eager to display itself ostentatiously at home and abroad: the gay circles and fashionable amusements then engross the thoughts and occupy the time of the mistress of the family: she has neither leisure, and it is now deemed vulgar for a mistress to attend to the affairs of the kitchen; the lack of her attention there, is now supplied by a competent cook, with high wages and the perquisites of the fat and the feathers; but these are strong temptations to dishonesty and extravagance. As cooks are thus quali fied to serve up a dinner without the care of a mistress, her presence in the kitchen is soon considered an improper interference the cook becomes pert and saucy, and thus, and thus, it becomes with servants in other departments.

But formerly household concerns were managed in a different way: the good lady of the house spent her mornings in instructing and assisting the servants in their several departments; this promoted industry, economy, and a submissive deportment in servants; they remained longer in their places, and the business of the house was conducted with more order and harmony:-and there are yet