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himself, to the great joy of Timothy, who closes his afflictions by taking the hand of his faithful Sarah. The piece was well received.



THIS ever-pleasing place of amusement opened for the season on Wednesday, July 15th, with the comedy of The Poor GentleThe care that has ever been taken to procure performers of the first-rate abilities, has not been relaxed; this interesting piece, from the able pen of the classical manager, was well supported, and the house most respectably attended.


SOME very novel candidates for public approbation have been brought forward at this Theatre, in the persons of several native American Indians, in their genuine costume, who have exhibited their national dances, war-songs, and other ceremonies. This is, certainly, a curious display; aud interesting, in no slight degree, to those who seek upon the stage for matter-of-fact information relative to man in his barbarous state. The company has been much strengthened by the accession of Harley, and it still retains Miss Kelly, the most delightful actress, take her altogether, that the stage of the present day can produce. These, united with Bartley, Chatterley, Broadhurst, and Miss Carew, promise a successful season. The great room has been most tastefully refitted, and a refreshing coolness given to the saloon of a summer theatre by fountains of real water, in height from twelve to fifteen feet. Miss Carew has performed Clara, in the Duenna, with unbounded applause. To a voice remarkable for clearness and melody, with considerable power, Miss Carew adds, pure taste and a highly cultivated judgment.— Her execution is neat, distinct, and unembarrassed, and proves that she calls science to her aid only when necessary. Her style is similar to that of Miss Stephens. In addition to these vocal merits, Miss Carew's person is highly prepossess ing; her figure elegant and well-propor tioned, and her countenance interesting and pretty. Mr. Pearman has sustained the character of Carlos: he sang the air No. 112.-Vol. XVIII.

Had I a Heart, in a most pleasing style; and Mr. Bartley shewed much comic humour in Don Jerome. Mrs. Grove is an admirable Duenna. This lady, who is now in the prime of life, has been remarkable, from her very early youth, for her excellent acting in the characters of old outré fe



in St. James's-square, Mademoiselle Anaïs Ar the superb mansion of Mrs. Boehm, lately played the character of the Chambermaid, in Plot against Plot, for the benefit of M. Perlet; and, though it was the first time of her performing that character, she She next performed some scenes in the was eminently successful in this coup d'essai. School for Wives; and the spectators saw again, with additional pleasure, a young artless female, whose native graces, harmonious voice, and pleasing manners, had so often obtained their approbation and applause at the Argyle Rooms. At the end of the performance, the Duchess of York sent for Mademoiselle Anaïs; and after having, with that sweet affability which has ever distinguished her Royal Highness, given the highest eulogium to the talents of this young actress, the Duchess was pleased to express her regret at her departure, and an ardent desire of seeing her again, next year, in England.

FRENCH THEATRICALS. MADEMOISELLE GEORGES is gone to Amiens, where she will give recitations; and from thence she will proceed to Brussels. She has certainly made an engage

ment for the next season at the Theatre Français, to which she will return at the end of next autumn.

THEATRE DE L'OPERA COMIQUE.Sketch of The Little Red Riding Hood, an operatic fairy tale, in three acts.

Rose d'Amour, whose birth is unknown, has been confided, from her cradle, to the care of a Madame Bertha, who resides in a little hut on the estate of Baron Rodolpho; now this Baron is maidens, the daughters of his vassals, run away the most formidable of all Barons; all the young at the sight of him, as a flock of lambs would fly before a wolf; and of this animal he constantly F

bears the nick-name. This wolf, then, has marked out Rose d'Amour for his prey; and in order the more easily to draw her to the castle, be takes it in his head to revive a custom abolished by his father, which obliges all the young maidens, of the age of sixteen, to come and cultivate his flowers for three months; at the end of which they are to be sent away, with a marriage portion. The lot is, that every third damsel

shall remain with the Baron, and this is to be drawn from an urn; when it is contrived that the time of Rose d'Amour shall be drawn out, to be delivered up to this monster of a Baron; hut when the lots are about to be drawn, a Hermit appears on the mountain, who waves a wand, and the name of Nannette, the Baron's mistress, is drawn. Rodolpho, in a rage, declares he is imposed upon; he draws out the other pieces of paper, and on every one is inscribed the name of Nannette. Kodolpho now turns to look on Rose, and to read his destiny in her eyes, but she is gone to carry to the Hermit a cake and a pot of butter; Rodolpho pursues her, and the young damsel is bewildered in finding her way through a forest. Worn out with fatigue, she falls asleep, and a dream presents to her the image of her future destiny. She sees herself united to a Count Roger, who, under the disguise of a simple villager, has been at the cot of Bertha to pay his addresses to Rose. She is awakened by a clap of thunder; and she sees Rodolpho, in possession of an enchanted ring, whereby he is enabled to triumph over every female heart; he believes she is already his prey; but Rose had received from the Hermit a riding hood, which, while it remained on her head, would always act as a powerful preservative of her chastity; she laughs at the ring of Rodolpho, escapes him, and sets for-piece has been brought out at this Theatre, ward on her way to the hermitage; but when she arrives there, instead of finding the Hermit, she again meets with Rodolpho, who has got rid of the master of the house by sending him out on a charitable message; and in his absence he puts on his robe, a white beard, and conceals his face under a capuchin's cowl. To add to her misfortune, Rose has thrown off her riding-hood. Rodolpho has recourse to violence, and it seems impossible for his victim to escape; when, all on a sudden, the hermitage disappears, and makes room for Count Roger's palace, wherein is found the Hermit, Mademoiselle Bertha, Rodolpho, and Rose d'Amour; the mystery of Rose's birth is elucidated-she proves to be the niece of Rodolpho; she marries Count Roger, and their union brings about a sincere reconciliation between the two nobles, whose ancient ennuities had long divided the two families. Rodolpho becomes as mild as a lamb, and declares, that the virtues of Count Roger have made him emulous of treading in his steps.


scene, runs, in fact, no danger throughout the rest of the piece: we find, however, every kind of musical composition in it: romances, chorusses, a superb finale, a village song, hunting airs, dances, combats, a piece of admirable harmony, duos, and recitatives; it may be styled a musical encyclopædia. The decorations are all new, and the scenery does honour to the artists who painted them.

THEATRE DU VAUDEVILLE.-Let us be Frenchmen--Such is the title of a new piece performed lately at this Theatre: and, notwithstanding the intense heat of the weather, the house was completely crowded on the first night of its representation: much wit was expected; but the piece was filled with common-place jests, which may be heard every day on the Boulevards.― The scene lies at an estate in England, and it seemed as if it was at an election, there was such a hubbub, hissing, and hooting. The intention of the author was to ridicule the auglomania by which Frenchmen are at present governed; but it seems that he had only studied those kind of manners which were adopted in the age of Louis XV. If Frenchmen are to be reproached now with changing their manners, they are yet very far from being like English


entitled The Little Beggar Boy. A child of eight years old, from a refinement of filial affection, takes it in his head to run away from school to attach himself to the begging fraternity, and immediately deposits in the hands of his mother whatever he gains from the compassion of the public, The audience were in raptures with the premature heroism of the boy, and expressed an ardent desire to see the author, who was anxious to remain unknown.



Harlequin Jealous; or, Such a Rival as is seldom seen.-This is a kind of Vaudeville, which, even to be endured, wants originality of idea, wit in the dialogue, and some measure in its versification. A cross purpose, founded on the loss of a canary-bird, forms the chief thread of the plot. Har

The great fault in this plot is the in-lequin, who finds his mistress in tears, and utility of the episodes. Rose, too, in never who overhears her lamentations on the leaving off her riding-hood till the last || want of attachment in her darling, is per

suaded that there is a rival in the case; and this is sufficient to excite his jealousy, which gives title to a piece that no dramatist would find himself jealous at not being the author of.


Ar this Theatre a tragedy has been lately represented, entitled Sapho, which seems to form a tissue of various kinds of novelties: in the first place, the subject is antique-a very rare thing among the Germans, who seldom celebrate any thing above domestic facts; secondly, in spite of all the prejudices which the author had to fight against, he obtained a complete success, or, rather, carried off a triumph, of which the dramatic history of Germany never before has furnished an instance. After the third act, he was obliged to make his appearance on the stage; crowned after the fifth, he was conducted, in procession, to his own dwelling. The next day, honoured by the beneficence of his sovereign, a considerable subscription was opened for him, which was full in a few hours. The German critics speak of the tragedy of this young man, who has written but little before, in the following terms:

"Sapho is a tragedy written in iambic verse, without rhyme, or even without the rules of prosody, if we except an ode to Venus. The author has imposed upon himself those difficulties hitherto unknown to us: he has only six speaking characters; and, what is unheard of in the German drama, he has confined himself to observe the three famous unities, pretendedly cited as those of Aristotle: yet this bold young man has found the art of avoiding those rocks, on which even so many very excellent French tragedians have split; but he has not sacrificed, as they have done, truth, interest, probability, local situations, and circumstances, to frivolity."


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striking extracts from this work, which we We shall now proceed to give a few earnestly request our readers to pay par ticular attention to, if they would wish to health, and lengthen the short period of preserve that best of all earthly blessings, existence allotted to human nature.


"The air of our atmosphere is composed of oxygen, nitrogen or azote, and a little carbonic acid. The oxygen, in breathing is absorbed by the lungs, and is so essential to life, that, in air, deprived of it, all animals instantly perish. It has hence been called vital air. In air, containing less than the natural proportion of oxygen, although an animal does not die, its vigour is immedately impaired; and if the privation be long continued, disease and death are the certain consequences.


"An animal, in breathing, not only vitiates also by loading it with noxious effluvia from the the air about it by abstracting the oxygen, but

On Conducting Air by Forced Ventilation,

and Regulating the Temperature in Dwell-lungs and skin: the existence of which is fa ings, &c, By the Marquis de Chabannes. miliarly proved in the case of the dog, which by MANY of the females of Great Britain the nose alone can follow his master. are now well versed in science; and their abilities prove to an enlightened world, and to the liberal mind devoid of prejudice, that they are equally capable of acquiring a knowledge of the arts and sciences with

"We have thus an explanation of the dreadful consequences which have been experienced confined, or ill-ventilated; as the suffocation in from breathing air in situations either altogether the Black Hole at Calcutta, the fevers and other diseases of prisons, hospitals, and ships, &c.;

ment the fire is lighted, as seen by the rapidity with which the wheels turned. It is then evident that the breath of so many persons rising towards the ceiling by its lightness, unavoidably takes the direction of the current, and passes away, as a stream of water follows the fall which is given to it.

the head-ache and distress which so many suffer, these openings becomes very powerful the moin crowded theatres, ball-rooms, small bed-rooms, &c. Two or three people getting into a carriage, are obliged, in a few minutes, to admit fresh air, by letting down a glass, or else the oppression becomes insupportable. In every place where there is no renewal of regular air the evil exists, and is only greater or less in proportion to the size of the room, and the number of individuals who breathe in it. Air is, in fact, the first spring of life, aliment is but the second. We may live for many days without food, but shut out the access of air, that is, of oxygen to the lungs, and you instantly destroy life. On the purity of the air which we breathe, depends, principally, the health which we enjoy, our freedom from disease, and the length of our days. If a person is alone, he can only breathe the air he has before respired; but if others are in the same apartment, the breath of each person passes from one to another, and it is frequently in this way that diseases are communicated. I state an important fact, when I say, that in theatres, and crowded assemblies of every kind; in close sitting and sleeping apartments, which are immediately offensive to a person entering from the open air; and in all situations where a man cannot have a gallon of pure air to breathe in every minute (experience having taught us that that quantity is required), we are receiving and fostering in our system the germs of future disease, or we are calling into action principles of disease already existing, which might have for ever Jain dormant; and thus, by the operation of a slow, and very insidious poison, we are still further shortening and embittering the short day of human existence. It is to men of science, in general, and to those in particular who watch over our health, that it belongs to pronounce upon this important subject; I only take the liberty of presenting it for attentive consideration."


"A patent calirofere fumivore ventilating furnace is erected behind the lower gallery, which draws off the air from the back of the three first tiers of boxes. The fire acts upon twelve pipes, of seven inches diameter each, and ten feet in length, which unite in a single pipe of two feet diameter. A rarefaction is produced in these pipes, and the flame and smoke having passed them, are evaporated by a large tube enveloping that in which the air from the boxes is carried off, and which not only continues, but considerably augments the rarefaction, and quickens the current of air within. These pipes unite at the top in a large cowl, which moves with the wind, and through which the air and smoke are discharged outside the building.

"During the first months, the ventilation in the centre was effected by steam; but Mr. Harris having since desired me to substitute the heat of the gas as a power, and to make all the necessary alterations, the chandelier has become a powerful agent of the ventilation.

"Four openings have been made in the ceiling of each tier of boxes, which communicate separately with the pipes in the furnace beforementioned. The evaporation of air through

"The third power is not yet established, but it is intended to be placed over the stage. Its object is to draw off the smell and heat of the stage-lamps, as well as the burnt air they pro


"It is thus that all air which is in any way vitiated, is constantly carried off during the performance. It remains to explain how this air is replaced.

"The pressure of the atmosphere acting with greater force upon the interior, in consequence of this constant evaporation of air, the audience would be exposed to the most dangerous currents on the opening of the box-doors, &c. if precaution had not been taken to regulate the temperature in every part of the theatre, according to the degree of cold without. Three or four hours in the day are usually the time required to give a temperate warmth throughout, or to raise the temperature in any particular situation in which it may have been depressed; but however intense the cold without, by continuing the fires a few hours longer, the proper temperature may at all times be kept up in the interior. When the fire is out, warm air will continue to issue from the furnace, till every particle of heat has been extracted from the pipes. If, as soon as it is out, the damper of the smoke flue is shut, the beat may be retained a length of time, as there will then be only a draught through the warm air pipes, and not through the furnace itself, which, with the brickwork remaining warm, will continue to give heat to the air passing through the pipes as long as any remain in the bricks, and this renders these furnaces very economical.— There are times, however, when it is not necessary to light the furnaces, and when an augmentation of heat in the corridores is still required; with this view it has been thought essential to place in the Shakespeare-room, saloons, and in the corridores, calirofere stoves, which produce a quantity of warm air, and which, on those days, are sufficient to maintain the same temperature, and greatly assist, during the time of excessive cold, the effect of the furnaces.

"The fresh air which supplies the place of that evaporated, will therefore, in cold weather, be always at from fifty-five to sixty, and will maintain a temperature proportioned to the heat in the interior of the boxes, so that it is impos

sible for any danger to arise from the opening of box doors, or any transition sufficiently great to be injuriously felt. But it was not sufficient thus to provide the means of maintaining the temperature of the corridores nearly at sixty degrees, it was necessary to regulate the admission of air into the boxes, to lessen the draught of air on opening the doors, and to supply constantly for respiration, fresh air, in lieu of that evaporated by the ventilation. This renewal of air is effected by numerous small openings which render the current insensible, and that air being always at the degree before-mentioned, produces a pleasing sensation, and is free from the danger and inconvenience which would be experienced from an admission of air at a colder temperature."


"The state of calm existing in sleeping apartments during the night, causes a stagnation of air; from which it follows, that so soon as we have decomposed a certain portion, we continue to breathe that air again and again, to the great prejudice of our health. It rises perpendicularly as we breathe, and, regaining its gravity as it cools, descends, and is again inhaled, deprived of its purity and vital qualities.

"May we not also indulge the supposition that the heaviness of the atmosphere around ns is an occasional cause of restlessness and disturbed sleep, that it has some effect on our minds in sleep, and that to the want of ventilation may be attributed, in some measure, a variety of unpleasant sensations. We frequently sleep for hours, and yet rise unrefreshed, with our minds unfit either for the avocations or the pleasures of the day. Is it too bold an assertion, that if there had been a forced evaporation of all air, unfit for respiration, our bodies and minds would have gained that repose, the waut of which renders sleep unpleasant and insalubrious? All these sensations may, certainly, at times, be traced to obvious causes; but how frequently is it that we are totally at a loss how to account for not having rested well? In this case I venture to assign it to the want of ventilation, and a proper circulation of air in our apartment."

Our limits will not allow us to extract any thing more from these important inventions: many useful plans follow, treating of the air conductor, plan for warming houses, churches, &c. from one fire, &c. &c. to warm hot-beds: the author lastly treats of heating liquids, and gives the invention of a wine-cooler.

Edwin and Henry; or, The Week's Holidays. Mackay, Newgate-street; Blackwood and Co. Edinburgh; Ogle, Glasgow; and Cumming, Dublin.

THIS little interesting pocket volume contains a series of moral and instructive tales for the amusement and improvement of youth, and is one of those useful works for the juvenile library, which we earnestly recommend to the notice of those among our correspondents, who bear the honoured title of parents.

Edwin and Henry, the children of the worthy Mr. Friendly, Edwin aged thirteen, and Henry twelve, are passing their week's holidays of Easter with their excellent parent, who makes every domestic incident a real source of instruction to his beloved offspring. Casualties, the phenomena of nature, the vegetable world, sickness and death, are all treated of; and afford, as they pass immediately under the eyes of the young people, an opportunity to the intelligent father, to draw from thence a striking and moral lesson of instruction.

To these moral tales is prefixed, a wellwritten address to parents; and the following extract is well deserving the attention of those who are entrusted with the care of youth:

"If we examine the system of the majority of our academies, shall we find any part adapted for those purposes? Do we not rather behold a constant and unremitting endeavour to chain the imagination to a mere view of real things, and to shackle the remaining powers of the mind by a duli uniformity of tuition? The child, in its first employments, as well as in its sports, will never feel an inclination to court self-reflection, nor by a free and independent mode of thinking, and of reasoning, attempt to exalt itself above that narrow sphere in which it is confined, by the imprudent caution of a systematic tutor. If nothing further were required than to form man for the purpose of preserving the machine of life, it would be merely requisite to transform virtue, as much as possible, into a mechanical quality, which, in other words, is wholly to dissolve it, and to place duty and obedience to the laws, in its stead. But human nature soars towards a higher point, which can never be obtained by so conscious of its noble faculties, to attain to a limited a display of power. It strives, when once more perfect and invisible world, which is its proper and natural home, and attempts to reach that station, where, in placid and holy serenity, it can look down on the melancholy chaos of life."

In the tale of The Village on Fire, the following reflections on avarice are excellent:

"It is a vice of that odious nature, that every one turns away with disgust from him who is

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