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York mode is to narrow the circle of female amusements, and debar a portion of the women from the theatre altogether.
There is another regulation in the New-York Theatre, that places it on higher ground than that of Philadelphia. There is in the former, a place which custom appears to have appropriated for the votaries of Venus exclusively, at least so far, that no woman of decent character ever goes there. The frail ones are not allowed, as far as the prohibition is practicable, that is, as far as they are known, to intrude into the other parts of the house. In Philadelphia, on the contrary, unless seats are previously taken, a man is liable to have a Lais, a Phryne, or a Perditta, take a seat beside, or close behind his wife, or daughter, and offend their ears during the whole performance, with their gross conversation with young fellows, who appear to glory in their shame, by consorting thus publicly with these abandoned women. This is a sore grievance, and loudly calls for a remedy:
Woman. Perhaps no language can produce a more elegant tribute paid to the fair sex, than that by Dr. Young, in “ The Force of Religion," a Divine Poem, on the fate of the inestimable Lady Jane Gray,
“ Virtue is beauty. But when charms of mind,
FRENCH AND ENGLISH LANGUAGES. The genius of these two languages widely differs: each has its appropriate beauties, and each has strong defects. The French nation being more loquacious than the English, their language has of course been more highly polished for the purposes of conversation, than ours. Its greater variety of modification also, gives it a considerable advantage, in which the English, from the paucity of its inflexions, is highly deficient. But admitting all this, it cannot be denied, that the English is greatly superior in historical and philosophical writings, and in poetry. However, assuming for the English language every possible advantage, that can be claimed for it by the most zealous of its advocates, we must freely allow that Roscommon's couplet,
“ The sterling bullion of one English line,
was the quintessence of national folly, and bigotted prejudice.
CRITICISM—FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH stands among the foremost of those English bards, who have mistaken silliness for simplicity; and, with a false and affected taste, filled their pages with the language of children and clowns. This we can pardon, where the author is incapable of better things; but in the midst of Wordsworth's addresses to Daisies, Small Celandines, Sky-Larks, Red-breasts, Cuckoos, and Butterflies, we find flashes of a poetic imagination, which excite our approbation.
The Affliction of Margaret expresses, in a pathetic manner, her maternal feelings.
The following lines in The Seven Sisters, or The Solitude of Binnorie, are very much in the style and manner of Walter Scott: (0 si sic omnia!)
Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
Sing, mournfully, Oh ! mournfully,
In consequence of the abundance of absurdity and insignificance in Wordsworth's Poems, when we find a few lines of real worth, we are obliged to read them twice or thrice before we are disposed to acknowledge their merit. We have perused the following ter quaterque, and commend them:
I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire ;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.
The bowers where Lucy strayed ;
Which Lucy's eyes surveyed !
The Address to the sons of the poet Burns is good; particularly the last stanza:
Let no mean hope your souls enslave ;
And such revere !
And think and fear !
The lines entitled The Green Linnet, are sweetly descriptive of that delightful season
When birds, and butterflies, and flowers
And the Linnet is drawn with a lightness of pencilling that would do credit to any master:
Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,
Yet seeming still to hover;
That cover him all over.
His little song in gushes :
Of leaves, among the bushes.
It is refreshing to find mixing with the turbid pool, which stagnates at the foot of Parnassus, those
- "little fountain cells, With water clear as diamond spark.”
And for the description of The Green Linnet we could almost excuse our author's tales of cloaks on a coach-wheel, blind highland boys in tubs, and notwithstanding his “greater and lesser griefs," again wade through the mire of the moodS OF HIS OWN MIND.
CRITICISM-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
GEORGE GORDON (Biron) Lord Biron, the author of these poems, had not, at the time of their appearance, completed his twentieth year, Many of them are written with spirit and force ; and some with much sweetness. The critic will not read this volume without discovering some faults of versification, and some sins against grammar; but candour should induce him to glance lightly over these defects, in consideration of the youth of the poet. The following amatory stanzas exhibit a favourable specimen of his style.
Oh! had my Fate been join’d with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a loken,
• To thee these early faults I owe,
To thee, the wise and old reproving ;
• For, once, my soul like thine was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother ;
Bestow'd by thee upon another.
• Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any;
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
• Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid,
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
• Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures,
• If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd;
This cheek now pale from early riot,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.
· Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee;
For then it beat but to adore thee.
• But, now, I seek for other joys,
To think, would drive my soul to madness;
I conquer half my bosom's sadness.
• Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
To know, that thou art lost forever.'
The lines addressed to Lachin Y. Gair, are an affectionate tribute to the memory of his ancestors, and possess much merit.
‘LACHIN Y. GAIR. ‘LACHIN Y. GAIR, or as it is pronounced in the Erse, LOCH NA GARR, towers proudly preeminent in the Northern Highlands, near