As there is nothing in which the good breeding of a company of gentlemen is more clearly evinced than in a ready civility to the female sex, which should spring, as it were, from an impulse of nature; so nothing can mark them as low and vulgar more pointedly than a neglect of those observances which the refined of all ages have been eager to pay to woman. I have frequently had occasion to observe the rudeness of mixed companies of well-dressed men to females; and have sometimes been disgusted with seeing a lazy fellow, in the apparel of a gentleman, lounging on the seats of the theatre, or perhaps sitting before the ladies on the front seat, and disturbing them with their low and frivolous conversation to some other of the same crew.

I undertook the other day to gallant several charming young girls across the river to Hoboken. On entering the boat we found no prospect of seats. Two long benches were crowded with persons in the dress of gentlemen, not one of whom made any move; although three as pretty women, and as amiable too, as you could select from Broadway in an afternoon of spring, were standing, and with the prospect of remaining in the same situation during the whole passage. Around were other gentlemen, on chairs, lounging in various attitudes, and leaning back (which last graceful habit, let me add, is a rank Americanism), while one fellow had absolutely taken possession, not only of one chair for his body, but an extra one upon which he coolly deposited his legs, and amused himself with looking under the bonnets of my fair companions, at the same time whistling "Yankee Doodle." Although I am

naturally of an extremely peaceful disposition, I assure you my hand ached to try the strength of a horsewhip upon his shoulders. Equally striking instances of coarseness and bad education, as well as bad disposition, may be every day observed on board any of the steam-boats, when the passengers are rung to a meal. It is almost as much as one or two can do to protect our female friends from the outrages and depredations of the hungry surrounding savages. Dishes are cleared while we are in the act of reaching them

waiters commanded from our sides by stentorian lungs from the other end of the table; so that the scene rather resembles a riot than a breakfast; and should any lady by chance be left without a seat, she may pass fifty various dandies, with quizzing-glasses and little whalebone canes, before one will abandon the advantage of his physical superiority and rise to give her his place.

This is an evil which calls loudly for a remedy, although I scarcely know how to set about it; for they who are sufficiently vulgar to commit these misdemeanors, are beyond the reach of ridicule or reproof. I have spoken of these offenders against the rules of polite society as badly educated, I will close these brief observations with the remark, that this species of rudeness is frequently found among the better classes. The poor, who have been denied the advantages of learning, are frequently polite from their intrinsic kind and generous feelings, while the native bad heart and mean understanding betray themselves in these trifles, through all the treasures of learning and the gloss of fashion.

New York.

Y.

the only portion in which we can recognise an indulgence in her favourite vice, it is upon the whole clever and to the point. Her ladyship says very truly, "It is no easy matter to write up, or down, to the present state of British

literature. It may seem affectatious, look you,' (as parson Hugh has it,) to say that literature is leisure; but its existence, in its most palmy state, indicates an epoch in society, when the public have time to read, what authors have time to write. * Such, however, is not the present epoch. We are living in an era of transition. Changes moral and political are in progress. The frame of the constitution, the frame of society itself, are sustaining a shock, which occupies all minds, to avert, or to modify; and the public refuses its attention to literary claimants, whose pretensions are not either founded on utility, or backed by the brilliancy or brevity of their appeals. Publishers and theatrical lessees, who complain of the times, overlook this fact. Deceived by the stale philosophy of the little back parlour behind the shop, or the old jargon of the green-room behind the scenes, they talk of bringing back the public taste; instead of following its changes. There is no legitimate literature, as there is no legitimate drama. Those who would live by the world, must live in it, and with it; and adapt themselves to its form and pressure; for it is in vain that they attempt to force society to be amused, with what has ceased to be amusing. ***

"Under this impression, be it false or true, I have ventured to bring forward a trifling commodity, of no pretension, and of little importance, a homely thing, but a thing of my own,'-a thing that may be read running, or dancing, like a puff on a dead wall, or a sentiment on a French fan. I have thrown the heavy ballast of narrative overboard, sunk the author; and loosing every rag of sail to the breeze, my bark may perhaps, (if the literary pirates and privateers do not, as usual, strive to run it down,) escape better, than nobler vessels, freighted with the fortunes of literary Cæsars, who steer right onward, for other epochs and better times." No one will deny the force of this reasoning or the existence of the facts, and that is more than we have been able to say of a good deal of her ladyship's reasoning and facts on former occasions. To the dramatic form of the work, we suspect the authoress is indebted for the absence of faults, which in preceding efforts have predominated. The scenes contain nothing about self, and we have little

doubt but the work will be-as it deserves to be-popular. The two fashionable dramas have the least merit, they remind us of former scenes, narrated as facts; but we have blinded ourselves to the supposed reality of certain characters, written up or down, and treated the whole as-what most of it really is-clever fiction. We prefer, however, that the work should speak for itself, and making allowance for the scenic description and stage directions, which are longer than those of most dramas, our readers will see we do not overrate the Dramatic Scenes from Real Life, when we say they are the most agreeable of Lady Morgan's works.

SCENE VIII.

[A dreary sweep of country, making part of a wide, shelving slope, that descends into a billowy plain, at the foot of the barrier mountains of two counties. The distant summit of Sleive-an-jaroin is seen rising in lofty grandeur, above a circlet of dense vapours, and catching the last red gleam of the setting sun.]

Mr. Sackville.-What awful sublimity! what savage desolation! The last touch of a moral interest, too, is given by that fine ruin powerful superstition! [A short pause.] before us, the monument of a past and What is the name of those picturesque ruins, which lie on the edge of that gloomy water?

Mr. Galbraith (with impatient peevishness.) -I see no ruins, sir; the sharp wind has blinded me entirely. It's a great pity we did not stay quietly at Sir Job's, Mr. Sackville. We should be now sated at an iligant good dinner, with a roaring fire at our backs, instead of perishing alive in this wild place. be seated at a good dinner. But do you not Mr. Sack.-Well, and so you will soon

see those ruins before us to the left? Look at that high, pointed belfry;-at that fine Gothic arch, with its beautiful stone-belted window, so delicately defined upon the fading light of the west.

Mr. Galb. (obliged to see, as he approaches the spot.)-Why, sir, I suppose it's the ruins of the Abbey of Kilnailly. I know of no other in this wild savage place. We might as well have come by Sally Noggin; especially, as I now see that I took the ould military pass, which was cut in the '98, instead of the new military road to the mountain barrack, which is newly-finished, and Lord Fitzroy's men stationed in it.

Mr. Sack. (cheeringly.)—Come, come; we have done very well. The drifting of those dense clouds, and the struggles of that young, watery moon through them, change the aspect of the mountains

every moment. 'Tis quite magnificent!— the scenery of Macbeth! How nobly that ruined abbey gains on us as we advance! What perfect forms! It is curious that so extensive a monastery should have been placed in so wild a situation! In general, the monks seem to have constituted themselves into farming societies, and to have chosen the most fertile situations, for their agricultural pursuits.

Mr. Galb. (bitterly, but gradually cheering.)-And do you know, sir, why the monks of Kilnailly chose this murdering spot? Because they were Carthusians, and never touched fleshmate; and because that donny little lake produced thin, and produces to this day, the finest black trout of any lake in the country. It's often the late Mr. Fitzgerald Sackville and myself spint a long summer's day here, fishing them up, from the size of a pinkeen to twenty pounds weight. And look, Mr. Sackville, that little rivulet, that sparkles in the moonshine, and flows off the lake, under the abbey arch. Well, sir, when the trout would refuse the bait or fly elsewhere, it's in basketsful we'd catch them, just at the mouth of that strame, where the monks had weirs, within a few feet of their own kitchin. Oh! they knew what they were about, I'll ingage.

Mr. Sack.-What a discovery for Clarence Herbert! the most inveterate fisher since the immortal Izaac Walton. I'll have a tent pitched here, and a cold dinner sent out, the first favourable morning. We'll have a delightful gipsy party. Lady Emily is so fond of a gipsy party! She is quite a child, in her young, fresh tastes.

I'd

Mr. Galb. (emphatically.)-No, sir, you'd better not; the place is changed now. be sorry to see Lady Emily here, by night or by day. It is no place for her. It has a bad name, Mr. Sackville. The last tithe proctor of Mogherow, (a worthy fellow, and father of a fine family,) was murthered, under that very window, you admire so much. It was autumn twelvemonth, about this time, sir. He was taking the short cut, poor man! as we have done, on his way home to Mogherow, when the murderers rushed from the hills, behind the abbey, dragged him to the ruins, murdered him, and threw his body into the lake, where it was food for the trout, many a day. [Sighs convulsively.]

Mr. Sack. (with horror.)-Good God! Is every scene of this magnificent, this romantic country, to be the historic site of some crime, -of some atrocious deed, to blunt the hopes, and darken the imagination of Ireland's best friends!

Mr. Galb. (looking round timidly.)-Since thin, nobody has fished in the little lough of Kilnailly. But wouldn't you like to step into the gig, sir?

Mr. Sack.-We had better walk on a little further, until we get into a smoother road. From the aspect of Sleive-an-jaroin, we cannot be very far from the new lodge of Manor Sackville.

Mr. Galb.-About three miles, sir. But now, sir, that you have opened a new drive through the park, on the mountain side of your demesne, and that you are building that iligant fine gate, which, Mr. Cox says, is the grandest ever raised in the province. I hope you will get a presentment for this road.

Mr. Sack. I will lay down one at my own expense: for as it will be an accommodation to no one but myself, it would not be quite fair to lay it upon the county.

Mr. Galb.-As you plaze, sir, surely. But sure, sir, hasn't every gintleman a road round his demesne wall, (and wherever else may shoot his convanience,) presented for him as a matter of coorse? But [looking round him anxiously] it's a wonder I don't see an idaya of my man, Tim Reynolds! I sint him on afore us, to pick up a little party of police, to meet us before nightfall. He has missed us, I fear, Sir.

Mr. Sack.--You did very wrong to part with him. I have more apprehension of the breaking of your light gig, or the stumbling of your horse, than of any thing, from which the police can save us. All is calm heresilent and solitary, even to desolation; save only those shrill gusts from the mountain, which sweep down through the glens, with such melancholy, but fine effect. We are safer here, Mr. Galbraith, than in your pet colony of Sally Noggin. These pauses in the storm are very fine!

Mr. Galb.-Why, thin, I'd rather hear all the drums in the province, bating a travaillee about my ears, this blessed moment, than one of those banshee blasts. The Lord bless us! what noise was that? Didn't you here a whistle, Mr. Sackville, from behind the kiln, to the right? Christ preserve us! Amen!

[Fumbles in his breast, and gets to the other side of the horse, to leave his right-hand free.]

Mr. Sack. (listening.)—I did here something through that blast. I believe we have flushed some curlews among the heather-ay, there they go. How shrill their scream is repeated by the mountain echoes! How Emily would enjoy this-I almost wish she were here.

Mr. Galb.-Lady Emily here, sir! I'd rather see a stout party of police. I'd take my oath, I heard a whistle, again. [In terror] Och! I know that whistle!

[They walk on in silence; Galbraith still leading his horse; Mr. Sackville a little in advance.]

Mr. Galb. We had better get on, sir,Look Mr. Sackville! Do you see nothing under the abbey wall, to the left?

Mr. Sack. (in an encouraging tone.)-I see a few miserable sheep grazing in the long rank grass.

Mr. Gulb. (trembling excessively.)-And do you see nothing else, sir? I would advise you to get into the gig.

Mr. Sack. (putting up his glass.) Yes, I see some poor wretch, guarding those sheep, and sheltering himself from the coming storm, under the archway. What a dreary station!

Mr. Galb. (hurrying on, and speaking over his shoulder to Mr. Sackville, who is now in the rear.)-Humph! you had better get into the gig, sir.

[The figure appears to move forward.] Mr. Sack.-Why, Mr. Galbraith, you are haunted by imaginary terrors.

Mr. Galb. (fumbling in his breast.)—Who goes there? [In a low voice.] Mr. Sackville, you have your pistols about you, I take for granted.

Mr. Sack (laughing.)-What! to shoot the poor shepherd, and his sheep? No, I never carried arms about me in my life. [The figure clears the ruins, and springing over a deep dyke on the road side, follows the gentlemen.]

Mr. Galb. (affecting a stout manner.)— Who goes there? Have a care, friend-no nearer, if you plaze: we are armed-pass

on.

A sullen and deep Voice.-You had better pass on yourself, Mr. Galbraith.

Mr. Galb.-Och, Shane Sullivan, is that you? (aside-I know him, Mr. Sackville, the ruffian!) (aloud) Is that you, Shane Dhu, my man?

Shane Sullivan (walks abreast the gentle men, with his hands behind his coat.)-It is, Jerry Galbraith!

Mr. Galb. (in a soothing accent.)—What are you doing here at this time of the evening, Shane, my boy?

Shane (doggedly.)-My master's business.-Every man to his calling. What brings yourself here, Mr. Galbraith?

Mr. Galb.-Don't be offensive, don't be offensive, Shane Dhu: take a friend's advice now, and go home. There's a storm arising; so go to your cabin, man. It's time for you

to be at home.

Shane.-My home! my cabin! What home have you, and your friend, Mr. Sampson, left me, Jerry Galbraith?-Not so much as a shed to die under; nor a blanket to wrap the wife in, that he turned into the high road!...

Mr. Galb.-Oh, Shane, you know well that was not my doing, anyhow. I give you my word, Shane, I'm sorry for what has happened, and will go and see your wife, and bring the dispensary doctor to her, to-morrow, if you'll call on me, at Manor Sackville. Shane (with fierce bitterness.)-See her!

yes, you will meet her anyhow, afore long, sure enough. She lies there, among them ruins, in holy ground, now. The sod's green that's above her.

Mr. Galb. (with a loud voice, and affected carelessness.) Hem! Mr. Sackville ; the road is now smooth and passable. If you plaze, sir, we'll get in the gig. I see the lights of Manor Sackville quite plain now.

Shane.-An this is the great Squire Sackville, is it? the king of the country! Troth and faith, then, Galbraith, better purtection you can't travel with. I'd advise your honour, howsomdever, to drive on a bit. For there is a storm coming down the mountain, that you mayn't like, sir. [Significantly.]

Mr. Galb. (in great agitation.)-Shane, don't forget yourself intirely. I see, you've the drop in you, boy. Remember I'm a magistrate and chief constable.

Shane.-Ha! ha! ha! ha! I wish you joy of your office, Jerry Galbraith. This is a fine time and a great place, to be a magistrate and a constable in. It will sarve you greatly now, sir.-Mr. Sackville, I'll throuble you to step an. Take the gig and drive home to your lady, God bless her. She has the blessing of the poor of the country with her. Mr. Galbraith and I have an ould bit of reckoning togither, and the fewer witnesses the bether.

Mr. Sack. (firmly but mildly.)-Sullivan, you must be a brave fellow, for you are an Irishman, and yours is not the country of cowardice. But it is the act of a coward, of the basest of cowards, to waylay an unprotected man; and it is the act of a fool, for purposes of hellish vengeance,—in requital of supposed, or real wrongs, to commit a crime, which forfeits your life, to the laws of your country in this world, and, according to the religion you profess, loses you for ever, in the world to come.

Shane (furiously).- My country! -a country to starve and perish in! What laws are there for me; if, when, labouring to support a wife and five children, out of sixpence a day, paid me by that landshark there, for twelve hours' work, I was unable to pay him his rint! and when I saw my wife turned to die on the road, and my childer driven for shelter to that ould kiln ?-Forfeit my life! Oh! Mr. Sackville, is it joking you are? Why thin, it's a great forfeit, surely; and long ago, I would have forfeited it by the murther of that villian there, and other villians like him; only that I should live to earn the childer their potatie. But it's a folly to talk, Mr. Sackville-move an, if you plaze-I'm not a murtherer, Mr. Sackville, but I'm a man, God help me!-and so, there's no murther in the case. But look ye, sir. The last of my childer lies dead of the typhus, in that kiln, without so much as

a candle to wake her with: but I've friends and cronies at hand, to wake her grandly before the moon sets, behind Sleive-na-jaroin, there so, sir, there's no time to lose in parley.

[Sullivan draws a blunderbuss from under his coat-Galbraith stands aghast.]

Mr. Sack. (in great emotion.)-Sullivan ! for God's sake; for your own, for mine-I cannot, will not, stand by and see a fellow creature murdered! If money, if employ. ment, and protection....Speak! what will satisfy you?

Sullivan (passing his arm through Mr. Sackville's and leading him on a little.)-It's too late, sir-what's money to me? The mother, the wife, the childer, are all there! [Pointing to the ruins, with a wild laugh.] Och! there's that, far sweeter now than money, Misther Sackville !--but, naboclish move an, sir,there's the horse and gig, and the lights of Manor Sackville dancing before ye, and a fine house, and a fine wife waiting for you, and.. .Ha! [A pistol-shot is fired close to his ear. He catches hold of Mr. Sackville's arm.] Well done, Galbraith, you murthering traitor!-but you are in the toils. Ha! ha! ha!

[A rush of men,. from the ruins and lime-kiln, now pours upon the spot. Galbraith is seized. The fierce, wild multitude, armed in various ways, surround the dying man. A shrill cry is set up of Down with the Sassenach !' -To the lake with the landshark!''Down with Galbraith!' CORNELIUS BRIAN, a man of gigantic stature, and the leader of the party, stalks forward.]

Corn. Brian.-Halt, I say, and pace. [They draw up deferentially.] Let no man spake a word, nor raise an hand, till Shane Dhu Sullivan has said his last say. Honor, my vourneen, I'll take that musket from ye, now: and take this pike yourself. You may want it before moonset.

Darby O'Loughlin (leaning on his pike, and looking mournfully at Sullivan.)-There's no use in waiting; Shane Dhu's gone-so up, and to work, boys. You know well, there's no time to lose, and all's ready. The Polis is on the shaughran, and th' army will soon get the word.

Pat Doran. O'Loughlin's right - what use in talk? Down with the English traitor; and this, for his man Jack. [Takes aim at Galbraith, who raises a shriek. Cornelius Brian strikes up the gun, which goes off in the air.]

Corn. Brian (savagely, and in a commanding voice.)-By him that made and saved me, the first of yez that moves a finger, till yez have your orders from me, or only touches an hair of the Sassenach's head, till Sullivan

to him, Pat Doran? Did he decaive you? Kill a Sassenach for yourself, and lave me my own. His blood be on my head, as mine is, or would have been, on his-but for God's providence. And now, make way, boys: give a little air to Shane Dhu; see how he gasps; but he is as good as two dead men, yet. What bloody rag is that round his throat?

Dan. O'Leary.-'Tis the gintleman's handkerchief, I suppose.

[Draws it off, and Honor snatches it.] Corn. Brian.-Give it to me, Honor. [He holds it up.] Look, boys; this is the flag of the night. It's dyed with the blood of the truest poor boy, that iver was haunted to ruin. Sullivan, my man [stoops over him], what's your last will and wish? Spake, if ye can; and it shall be done. Name who has murthered you, Shane Dhu Machree. Don't let us shed innocent blood, any how; but let justice be done-who is the murtherer?

Several Voices.-Ay, ay-who is the murtherer?

[Sullivan opens his eyes, and looks anxiously round; makes a convulsive effort to speak; and then with a hoarse and rattling voice, names Galbraith, and dies. Several shots are fired. Galbraith falls lifeless at the bottom of his gig.]

Pat Doran.-Corney Brian, there is great work to be done yet. And what use of dragging the Boddah Sassenach,* afther us? You're sworn, Corney. Down with him, and away. It's well known that he's a raal traitor. Mr. M'Dermot said so, at the fair of Sally Noggin; and tould the boys of Kilcash-meeting, that he is no thrue friend to Ireland.

Corn. Brian. (grimly.)-I know bether what he is than you, Pat Doran, or Mr. M'Dermot either. So Pat Doran, up with your own men to the kiln; and you, Mich Gaffney. Kelly and Delaney down to the heather with you. The party will soon be here that was to purtect Squire Galbraith and his honour. Padreen did his message well, I'll ingage, as well as Mr. Tim Reynolds would, for the life of him; and sorrow the message that murthering informer will ever go agin. Now, boys, to your posts. I think I hear the trot of a horse; and there's a dust rising on the road. Here, James Dolan; give us a helping hand with Mr. Sackville.-Gintlemin's not used to leap dykes by moonlight, I'll ingage. [Dolan seizes Mr. Sackville's left shoulder.] Honor, you'll guard the rare, my vourneen. I'll just step over the way to show O'Rouke's altar to my frind and purtector, here;-who got me