in the manners of the industrious classes, and might afford such an em ployment, and such a solace of leisure hours, as would save multitudes from "the worm that never dies"the worm of the still.

Mr. Owen is trying, very successfully, to introduce this innocent recreation amongst the other parts of his plan. But we must hasten to our conclusion, for this is a discussion that might lead us far indeed. The cultivation of music, in private, will continue to extend itself, unless the perfection now indispensable, and the labour, time, and expense, implied in that perfection, become a bar to its adoption as a pursuit. This is to be lamented; for there is no accomplishment so social in its nature, as well as so delightful to the individual who possesses it. That music is nevertheless at present extending into every corner of the realm, is completely proved by the visible increase of instructors, instrument makers, and publications. We rejoice at these symptoms, because we are satisfied it is amongst the most innocent and the most elegant means of advancing human happiness.

The publications of the month are few, and inconsiderable; there is one, however, of much merit; Spanish Melodies, with characteristic Poetry, by J. R. Planche, Esq. the Symphonies and Accompaniments by C. M. Sola. This is an elegant, a popular, and a captivating selection, at once tasteful and delightful. Nothing so near to Moore's publications has appeared from any other hand; the melodies possess the charm of feeling and simplicity. The words, if not highly poetical, have the same characteristics. We recommend this little work to every singer who knows how to make the most of a

few notes. There are no difficulties, either in compass or execution, in the voice part, or accompaniment; and there is not one which, even tolerably sung, will not please.

Must it be, and The Indian Hunter, two songs, by Mr. Macdonald Harris, are neither of them equal to some other of this gentleman's productions. There is too much pretension in the first, which is too chromatic, in the voice part especially; the second is a lively common-place.

Turn, turn those Eyes, a glee for three voices, by Mr. Webbe, jun. is not distinguished by any peculiar beauty of melody or construction.

There are two Italian songs, Sei mio bene, and Amor fortuna e pace, by Carafa; their principal recom mendation is novelty, which, it should seem, is often enough to tempt, if not to re-pay publishers. The quartetto, Siete Turchi non vi credo, from Il Turco in Italia, has also been printed in a separate form.

Mr. Latour has arranged a selection of airs from Il Barbiere di Seviglia, and they make very brilliant duets for the piano-forte.

Mr. Bochsa's fourth book of duets for the harp and piano-forte, the same Opera, has also appeared.

Mr. Burrowes has published a Third Number of Handel's Chorusses, as duets for the harp and piano. The subject is, See the Conquering Hero Comes.

The ninth number of the Operatic Airs, by Rawlings, is an agreeable lesson. The theme, Faint and Wearily, from the Mountaincers, is introduced by a very pretty pastorale movement. The rondo is lively and elegant, and the allegretto forms a very spirited conclusion Angust 20, 1821.

"I CONFESS we excel in our dramatical compositions," says M. Saint Evremond; and the French silently acquiesce in their countryman's plea sant opinion. M. Saint Evremond was a gallant of the seventeenth century, and was an admirer of the celebrated Ninon, with whom he

corresponded till he was ninety, and she fourscore years of age. There is an apparent mixture of candour and self-love in his letters to her, as well as in his opinions "on Tragedy," and other matters. In his Essay on Tragedy, we may see, very shortly, what the French nation

thought and think on the subject of dramatic art; and there is no other writer of that country (at least that we recollect at this moment) who has committed himself in the same candid manner. "I confess we excel in our dramatical compositions;" and, without flattering Corneille, he says, he thinks he may safely prefer his tragedies to those of the ancients. The ancients might be very well in their way, he thinks; but greatness, magnificence, and, above all, “dignity, was a thing they but little understood." Afterwards he commends the Greeks for their success in expressing the "qualities" of their heroes; but when they thought of the "magnificence of great kings," it rather spoiled than raised their imagination. However, he adds, "they could not be imposed upon as to courage, constancy, justice, and wisdom, of which they had daily instances before their eyes." "Their senses being weaned from pomp, gave their reason a greater latitude to consider men in themselves."

This is quite satisfactory; and if the French, who have a tolerable contempt for our drama, would get into the practice of giving all their reasons, as honestly as M. Saint Ev remond, when they shower down their taunts on our barbarous spectacles, we should, we suspect, have but little misunderstanding with them. He gives us a fair debtor and creditor account, which is amusing enough; and so it is when he shuts his eyes, and strikes the balance in his own favour. How quick is his summing up!" I avoid being tedious as much as possible; and I will only add, that no nation can dispute with us the superiority in tragedy." It is really a pity that a man who comes to such rash decisions, in such a style, should beguile one into forbearance by his previous honesty. A few words more, and we will then leave M. Saint Evremond for more recent matter. The Greek dramatists, he says, "thought it enough to know persons by their actions," while "Corneille dived to the bottom of the soul" to find them out. Now this happens to be materially wrong. The Greeks admitted us into their secrets, at least as far as M. Corneille, in whom, M. Saint Evremond says, "grandeur seems

to have attained the last perfection.” The long discourses that we read in Sophocles and Eschylus, are as explicit, and as much to the purpose, as the pompous declamation of the French theatre, where passion is torn to rags, and love distorted, and common mortals are lifted up on the stilts of false sentiment and unnatural" grandeur," till they become stationary at some point between the earth and skies, where they divest themselves of all the true and fine qualities of men, without arriving at any of the perfections of the gods.

Enough has already been said, perhaps, on this subject, by contemporary writers: but it is well, at all times, to judge our adversary out of his advocate's mouth, if it be possible. Besides, the opinions of M. Saint Evremond are the opinion of the French nation; but the reasons for that opinion we do not remember to have seen, in so fair a manner, elsewhere recorded. It is well known, that we ourselves (i. e. the English) took pattern from our continental neighbours, and, for the space of a century or more, forsook our great mistress, Nature, and were as full of "grandeur," and as foolish as they. But better days are come, or are coming.

Nor was it only in dramatic writing, that a false taste prevailed. The actor, as well as the author, was fond of "grandeur;" and accordingly a style of acting grew into reputation, where it was only neces sary to be as unlike other people as possible, in order to succeed. It is incredible how the fustian of the last century could possibly please, and yet it did; and when Garrick came, to remove, in some measure, the spell that had spread like a film over the eye of taste, he found plenty of persons, who considered his style vulgar, and himself rather as impertinent than bold, for having adopted it. Time, however, settled the affair, as he always does, and merit found its level. Mr. Kemble may be considered as the next great actor to Garrick, in point of time; but he, with all his high. talent (and in one or two characters he was matchless) does not come altogether under our meaning. Cooke had a great deal of rough power; and Macklin (considering his Shylock) might be ac

counted a fine tragedian; but Mr. Kean it was, who, since the days of Garrick, first gave a strong impulse to popular taste, and turned once more the current of opinion.

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Mr. Kean. Our country readers will be glad to hear that this gentleman has returned from the shores of the Mississippi and the Ohio, with all his great powers unimpaired. Unfortunately, he came a fortnight or three weeks too late, to give all his friends an opportunity of manifesting the delight which they felt on his return; but there were still many remaining in town, whom the coronation had not occupied or fatigued; and by these he was welcomed in a way that left him no room to suspect any decay of old regard. One can scarcely conceive that this fine performer could have acted for years without attracting any notice whatever and yet, when he first appeared on the London boards, he had certainly come direct from some provincial theatres in the west of England, where he had been performing in tragedy, comedy, opera, and pantomime, without acquiring either fame or fortune. "Let me see: Kean?-Kean?" said the manager of the Bath theatre; "I think we had a man of that name with us last summer ; but he is gone, I believe, to Exeter or thereabouts;"-and thus it was that Kean had been (we won't say wasting his sweetness on the desert air, because that is not a new quotation, but) losing the best years of his life in toiling for the illiterate and other vulgar of the west. But he sprang at once from obscurity to fame, eclipsing every other reputation, counteracting old opinions, and vanquishing every thing but prejudice, which is blind, and interested enmity that will not see. It was an ticipated that he could not have height enough for one part, nor dignity' enough for another; but he contradicted prophecy at once; and ran the whole round of tragic characters with a success which was as eminent as it was marvellous. The Roman, the Greek, the Moor,-the tyrant, the lover, the master, and the slave-he undertook, and accomplished all. He made Richard what he never was before; and drew out all the shades of Othello, showing off and contrasting the gentle and darker

colourings with a potent skill, making him neither too weak for admiration, nor too fierce for sympathy. In a word, he was, and is a great actor, who has had power enough to make the public his proselytes, and has judgment and discretion enough to keep them so. We do not wish to discuss his transatlantic disputes, nor to inquire how his time was there occupied. But there is one thing which it is right to record; namely, the fact of his having erected a monument to the memory of Cooke, who, after having excited the strong admiration of the great Republicans, died there, without leaving one person behind him who had generosity enough to raise a simple stone to his honour. Mr. Kean did this for him at his own expense.

And now what shall we say of the theatres?-Covent-Garden, after having reaped very large benefit from the Coronation, has closed its doors till the 27th of September. Mr. Fawcett delivered the usual address at the close of the season, and bade the audience farewell. There is something hearty in Fawcett's manner, when he comes in contact with a theatrical assembly; and he is no despicable orator on an emergency. We like to meet him.

DRURY LANE.

The Coronation.-We are no prophets; and yet Mr. Elliston has enacted the King in pursuance of our forebodings. His Coronation' bore a strong resemblance to the actual pageant, and was got up with becoming splendour.' This is all that we need say about it; for the daily papers have teemed with accounts of the great show, till every person, however curious, must, we should think, be satisfied. Mr. Elliston's exhibitors invaded the peaceable domain in the front of the lamps; and in this they differed from the quieter folks at Covent-Garden, as well as in having dresses precisely similar to those used by the lords, and pages, and great ones, at Westminster.

The Mountaineers. Mr. Cooper has appeared in the character of Octavian in this play of the younger Colman. His performance does not require any particular notice. He is an inoffensive actor, but has no great points about him. Kemble used to give effect to several parts of Octa

vian; though he always made love in a mournful style, and not at all to our taste.

THE HAYMARKET.

Rise and Fall, a short comedy, from the pen of Mr.T.Dibdin, has been produced here, and Jones made his debut in it for the season, as a village school-master. The play is a light lively thing, adapted to the summer weather, and contains the characters of a London citizen, a nabob, an attorney, a French valet, a reduced gentleman, and so forth, none of which strike us as containing much pretension to originality. The play itself, is a mixture of comedy and farce, with a dash of the improbable in it, and some jokes that are laughable enough, and have not wit enough to set us thinking. Jones played excellently well, and Terry also; and Oxberry, who was 'Voluble, let his flood of discourse escape with out any apparent exertion. We much like this easy sort of actor. Mrs. Chatterley made a very handsome Rose (her father is a gardener, and is called Dogrose,' which is altogether silly), and forced from us a certain quantity of admiration. She is a fine oriental-looking woman, and would become the silken gar ments of a Georgian sultana, better than the boddice and scanty dress of an English gardener's daughter. She plays very pleasantly; and the comedy was on the whole well got up.'

Fontainbleau has been performed here, and Lackland' (the principal character) was performed by Jones. He is always lively and bustling; but he does not give us quite so good an idea of Lackland as Elliston, who really looks the thing to perfection; we give credit to his hungered looks, and have inplicit reliance on the holes in his elbows. Jones seems scarcely so much in earnest, as his brother actor; he does not cast the same eager and anxious looks on all strangers, nor does he borrow a guinea with the same felicity.

Match-makingThis is a pleasing little interlude. Mr.Terry (Match'em) is one of those persons who have the passion on them for making two people happy. His benevolence, in this instance, leads him to his own niece, Lady Emily, to whom he submits his list of bachelors, and tells her that "Captain Belmont is the

man whom he has fixed upon." He tells her also, that he has already written to him, and that she may expect him without delay. The lady protests against this, and says, that no military hero shall enter the house. In the mean time, Rakely, who is Colonel of Belmont's regiment (and according to an impudent servant's, Shuffle's, account, a jewel of a man) discovers the particulars of Match'em's letter, and, by way of a frolic, dispatches his captain on regimental duty, and sets off for Match'em's house, as Captain Belmont. Here he is recognized by Shuffle, and somewhat jeered by the young lady, who speaks in lavish terms of the accomplishments of Colonel Rakely. At this period, the real Captain Belmont is announced; and though his actual presence is delayed by the ingenuity of Shuffle, he finally breaks in upon them, and is recognized as having preserved Lady Emily from some danger at the Opera. This occurs in the absence of Rakely, who now returns, and is overwhelmed with confusion, for Belmont now affects to be really the Colonel, and exhibits the airs of high military rank, to the no small edification of his superior officer. At last the joke is made clear, and Belmont and Lady Elizabeth are matched: Jones was the Colonel, and Terry the Maker of Matches (he played admirably), De Camp, the Captain; and Mrs. Chatterly, the Lady Elizabeth. This theatre seems well attended, though the scent of the paint, &c. is not yet gone.

mountable relationship. By dint, however, of certain marks and chances common to ballads, this alarming trouble is averted-and the lovers are duly married in the course of the last lines of the poem. The author of the drama has retained all the difficulties, and all the "miraculous escapes," of the ballad; and in addition to these, he has introduced a Foundling's rival with uncommon vigour and effect. This character, Giles (a name taken from the Farmer's boy, we presume), is very for cibly delineated by the author, and most admirably struck out by Emery in the performance. The rude and powerful passion of a rustic is given to the life. The scene in which he ruggedly yields to virtue by the per

suasions of Phoebe, after having plotted her ruin, is deeply affecting; as the tears of the men (the best of evidence!) testify. Miss Kelly plays as though she never was two miles from the mill in her life. Bartley had a good dusty look, and carried himself bravely like a corn-factor. The frank character of George was well represented by Mr. T. P. Cooke (a sensible man at all times), and Mrs. Grove was exquisitely tedious in the Miller's wife. We should not forget Harley, who, of all men on the stage, is the most restless and contented;-he played an illiterate narrator of ghost stories with great spirit and humour. Ghost stories, however, are jokes!".

Ir is, doubtless, pretty well known to most of our readers (for old stories travel fast), that a celebrated Dissenter of the present day laid holy and violent hands on sundry favourite jigs and country dances, and putting decorous verses to them, and sober ing down the time to a chapel-like placidity, set them before his congre gation and his organist, declaring that it was a pity the devil should have all the best tunes!" Thus the young and devout milliner, who flaunted about in flowers during the week, and whose ears were occa sionally flattered, yet shocked, with faint sounds of the White Cockade, and Money Musk, and Go to the Devil and shake yourself, as she carried the band-box along by the side of the palings of Vauxhall gardens, was rewarded for her resolute and decorous resistance of the tunes, by hear ing them float about her on Sundayevenings, with a propriety that sank her into a justifiable tenderness. While the eye was turned up to the brazen branches of the chandelier, and the hands were crossed upon the tippet, the feet might be trying little pardonable steps under the shade of the hassock, and the heart dance a devout minuet with the heart of young Mr. Jones in the next pew for a partner. Old ladies, maiden they

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may be, are by this new light of music, reminded of the vanities and revelries of their youth, and are blessed with the opportunities of connecting the old airs with the profound organ, and of dismissing for ever the volatile rhapsodies of the dancing master's kit. Music, so chastened, becomes a Magdalen, and repents of its errors. Its beauty is deemed pardonable, being thus controuled by a staid dress, and tamed to an orderly tenderness. Country dances become the elect. The graceless Paddy Carey walks forth like the old gentleman in the Antient Marinere, "a wiser and a better man." The Dusty Miller whines like Mawworm; and Voulez vous danser drops its erring request, and goes off with "a dying, dying fall."

Is it absolutely necessary, in this strange age of reform and refinement, that the solemnity and depth of the rich old church music should be changed for the light and frivolous airs which are associated only in our minds with "dance and song, and sun-burnt_mirth?"-Will not those grave and awful hymns, which made our fathers virtuous, and lifted the souls of men to the skies, strike sacredly on living ears, and lead the hearts that now beat to holy and serious joy? Indeed, we