Mr. Watson's native land. It has, how-| far to see. XCIII. THE FEMALE STUDENTS.-CXV. Of the same name, this gentleman paints Nos. XVII. XVIII. XLII. XLIV. LI. W. Westall, A. R. A. is entirely destitute of the character ascribed CCLII. THE BARD.-J. Martin. CCLXXIV. ST. CATHERINE.-G. Slous. It is not hazarding much to say, that had this performance appeared upon an stretching frame and suitable nails, it would old Italian canvas, accompanied by the have attracted the attention of half the connoisseurs, or, by way of amendment, for we don't wish to offend, all the half connoisThe smaller sized pictures of this gentle-seurs in the country. But seriously, we are man, who has contributed so many to adorn the gallery, are eminently beautiful. All the piano of art is applied to the softer scenes of nature, and however unobtrusive the style, it can never be overlooked by the lover of painting. But it is not to this quality of sweetness that Mr. Westall's pencil is confined. In the more elevated and sublime forms of nature, he makes a just distinction; we allude to his picture of the Indian Army passing the Ghauts, which was exhibited last year, and even at the height where it is now hung, displays a power of pencilling suited to the wild grandeur of the scene, tremendous and sublime, with the human race, like insects, scattered among the fragments of chaos: such are the forins of lordly man among the organic ruins of nature. who not sufficiently acquainted with the works of this way, if the temptation were enough to seduce an able artist from the nobler aim. XX. THE SEABOY.-H. Singleton. Has less of manner than is usual with this artist, and surprises us into a little admiration, or rather curiosity, to guess painted it.-CXXV. CUPID IN A STORM. Mignard, who lived in the reign of A last year's picture.-CLV. JOHN HOPKINS, aged 97, the last of Admiral Bos-Louis XIV. and contemporary with Le cawen's seamen who survived. A head with Brun, was the principal portrait painter of a great deal of character, and, to employ self in works of imagination. He also disthat day, and occasionally exercised hima horse-dealer's word, one which we might warrant a likeness.-CLXXXVI. A DIS- played a talent for imitation. In this way PUTE WITH THE FAVOURITE. Also a last he once made Guido his model, and shewed year's picture. A portrait of a lady, her of his acquaintance, who taking it for an his performance to a celebrated connoisseur dog, and parrot, but which is favourite, &c. we cannot tell. As a subject of original picture of the master, expressed a trait variety, it is well enough.-CCV. THE great desire to possess it, requesting that SAILOR'S HOME.-CCXIX. ROSA.-The he might consult Le Brun on its authenmannerism of Mr. S. is still observable; but ticity. Le Brun pronounced it to be an the former is a characteristic scene, and original, and the purchase was accordingly the latter is a sweet little picture of infan-made; but the artist having no intention to tine innocence. This artist often starts pocket the money, disclosed the deception, from mediocrity, and we rejoice to notice and rubbing off part of the colour, shewed the red cap of a cardinal, whose old portrait he his eruptions. had employed to aid his purpose. Le Brun came in for his share of the hoax, and only escaped by his sarcastic reply, "Let him always paint Guido, and never Mignard!" por IX. THE ARTIST, a Study.-CCLV. INDE- (To be concluded in our next.) ORIGINAL POETRY. VERSES Written in imitation of Cowper's "On the Loss Toll for the Brave! Far from their native shore. Against a powerful foe The brave for freedom fought: Peace with their blood they bought. Let Europe then proclaim Their glorious bequest, With morning's dawning ray, The dreadful work begun At mora,-at eve the same- But bloody was the game. The conflict was severe; Fair Waterloo may boast; When Britons had subdued, Their sufferings they repaid The brave that are no more, King's A BALLAD FRAGMENT. K. V. The lee lang night she sigh'd and pray'd, while | HELES, more great in virtue, and in crimes, the tear blinded her éé, Ye blissed Saints! oh! shield my love, that nae ill may him dree. A bonny bark sails the Westland wave But that wave which dances merrily, Its emerald swirl and foamy fringe will be The Sprite of the storm in his cavern howles, The dark clouds gather like sulphur smoke, The mermaid sits on the dark black rock, And aye she screams by the lightning's gleams, "A weird I read, a weird I read, a weird I read to thee, That lang ere the sun blink frae the East, When the Sun marches in his mid-day height, Float o'er his light, like the thin drapery Stands like a granite in the shock of times; May live in one and not far distant hour, tear That manhood wears, and yet disdains to wear. 'Tis true his toil has woven but a wrea Of all his care has cull'd in weary hour, SKETCHES OF SOCIETY. EXTRACT FROM A WALK TO SYRACUSE," IN 1802. Pudua-Liry's Monument-His extinct Works. Nine days had I paced the streets of Venice. I had reached it at night, and left it at night too, by favour of the Corriere. I had plenty of companions; and we were huddled together like the Greeks in the Trojan Horse. The weather was by no means auspicious, and kept us from eight in the evening till the following noon on the trip from Venice to Padua. That part of its course which runs along the Brenta, is reputed to be extremely pleasant; but the floods had made such terrible havoc among the roads throughout the upper part of Italy, as to present a miserable prospect; nor did I feel particularly vexed to enjoy the comforts of shelter against the stormy elements, in exchange for fine scenery. On our reaching Padua the weather moderated. The conversation which passed between us on board the vessel was motley and laconic, like the company that bore part in it; but not a single topic escaped But change the hour, and let the Moon's pale from our lips which had the most distant beam O'er the same spot of Earth in silence gleam, allusion to politics. 1 After dispatching my meal, I shouldered my knapsack, and resolved on paying my respects to St. Antony before I took leave of Padua A Cicerone was instantly at my elbow, shewed me the way, and assured me, that however illsavoured an appearance my pedestrian equipment gave me, I might roam unmolested wherever I chose. This was acceptable tidings to me; and I turned myself about in every part of the Gothic Cathedral, grotesque as my accoutrement was, with all that devoutness which is a debt we owe to the superstition of the | vulgar. Two more Ciceroni forced themselves into my servicé whilst I was in the Cathedral, and defied my utmost efforts to get rid of them; they were much better the wonders of the pile with due unction; clad than myself, and introduced me to all in the end I had the honour to fee the whole trio. From thence I went in search of Livy's monument, of which not one of my three guides had the remotest knowledge. It is impossible he should be in any great repute in his native town; for I accosted three gentlemen, whose habiliments bespoke them of no mean rank, one after the other, but none of them could give me the least information either about Livy or his monument; yet two of them spoke French with: much fluency. At last a greyheaded octogenarian directed me to the townhall, where it is erected. I paced from one end of the immense hall to the other with prying eyes, and addressed a bystander, whose linenments had some literary points about them, in the Latin tongue. He answered me in Italian; said that he had formerly learned a little Latin, but had at that time quite lost it, and observed, that mine was too antique for him, he could not comprehend a syllable of it. He referred me to another person, who was sitting with a book in one corner of the hall. This last rose from his seat, and very politely shewed me the ancient stone, which stood over the entrance to one of the offices. The inscription it bears cannot fail to be familiar to the reader; it says nothing more, but that the people of Padua have erected this stone to the memory of their fellow-citizen, Livy. It was too far out of my track for me to go and see the splendid modern monument, which the late Venetian senate, conjointly with the Paduans, have set up in remembrance of him; besides, I was anxious to be that very evening trudging along the road to Battaglia. On going away, the Paduan had the kindness to say to me, "Gratias tibi habemus pro tua in nostrum popularem observantia. Eris nobis cum multis aliis testimonio, quantopere noster Livius apud exteros merito colatur. Valeas, nostrumque civem ames ac nobis favcas." The speaker delivered this with a cordiality, and a tone of classical impressiveness, which sat admirably upon him. Thus did I bid Livy farewell; but my head was still full of him as I passed through his ancient birth-place into that classical region, which was once the parent of so many great men. You know that I am not a literato; though you can remember, that from my school-days of yore I have still felt great delight in being now and then enabled to read an old Mentor in his own tongue. Livy was always a favourite of mine, though Thucydides is my greater idol still. For the ten-thousandth time, probably, I repeat the common lament, that the world is no longer possessed of the whole of this historian; nay, I am ready to forgive the noise, rash and extravagant as it was, which was excited here and there some time back, by the tidings of the recovery of our author. One thought links itself with another, and I have a strange idea, that scarcely a chance is left, we shall ever be in possession of Livy complete again. This is doubtless to be deplored; for it is unfortunately the most important periods of Roman history which have been snatched from us,-those which concern public rites, and the knowledge of man, and treat of the war of the slaves, and the events of the triumvirates; -- subjects which must have undoubtedly exhibited the genius and independent spirit of Livy in their fullest play: but of what use is complaining?—I account for the loss in this manner. I cannot for one moment conceive it to have arisen from accident or neglect. Livy was a bold, determined, and independent man; he was a warm patriot, and an idolizer of liberty, as indeed all his fellowcitizens evinced themselves, with no little effect, during the last disturbances in Rome, under the government of the Triumvirate; he was an open foe to despotism. Augustus himself, on whom Roman sycophancy was base enough to bestow so noble a name, with the refined affectation of moderation, put on by tyrants, simply called him a Pompeian. The House of the Cæsars then reigned paramount; no one is unacquainted with the blessed descendants of that line; they were bad enough, if they were only half as bad as history has depicted them. You will be at no loss to conceive that the Cæsars would not designedly require that such a work as Livy's History should see broad day-light. Nay, from some passages in Tacitus, it appears to me extremely probable that they used their utmost endeavours to suppress it; or, at least, those parts of it in which Roman aristocracy and the tyranny of the Caesars must naturally have been drawn in the most glaring colours. To these belong the war of the slaves, and the termination of the civil wars particularly. It was a work too of great extent, and few could be possessed of the means of obtaining a complete transcript of it. Hence it is probable that all of them found they would best consult their own safety and interests, by not having those passages in their possession, whence, from the suspicious and sanguinary character of their rulers, they might readily entail on themselves the most frightful consequences. In this manner may the most valuable portion of Livy be said, not so much to have been lost, as to have been destroyed; and when the Arabic translation was set on foot, his history was probably just as much mutilated as is our own copy of it. This is my view of the subject. I shall be happy if I prove to be in error; for I would willingly perform three pedestrian pilgrimages, from the Elbe to the Liris, if I could but peruse Livy's portraiture of Spartacus, whom I am in danger of esteeming one of the greatest, as well as one of the best, of Roman leaders. With such thoughts as these, the merits of which I leave to your contemplation, I pursued my course on the road to Rovigo. S. While my hand is preparing to add this great image to the sad gallery of my melancholy recollections, tears overflow my eye, and doubts fill my mind! I am forced to say to myself repeatedly, "She is gone!" The most brilliant representative of life in all its relations, in all its forms, has left it-the brightest star in the firmament of my sex is set! She who acknowledged only one season in life, the summer-like spring, has prolonged it by all the charms of her character, to the greatest possible duration, and has sunk into slumber without beholding the dreaded winter! of the nose, did not announce the lofty soul that dwelt therein; but above the eyes (those glorious eyes, the most splendid assertors of its presence!) the organs of the penetrative faculty, were powerfully marked. The nose was one of those which become idealised in half profile, one knows not how, though in front they appear too short. The mouth large, the upper lip elevated; the teeth, which were white and large, were always visible. The chin short, round, but not falling back. The hair black, short, distributed on the head in strong natural curls; the face of a very brown complexion, and the skin of it remarkably rough.§ The breast and neck were well formed, and of dazzling whiteness; the arms full, but well made, and delicately fair: the hands not small, but, down to the nails and finger ends, well formed, and every motion of them full of expression. Her feet were not small, but well proportioned; she walked well, and trod with dignity. But her eye! her eye! though nothing of what the Italians calls incassaturæ near or above it, was beautiful-though, in a word, it did not inhabit a beautiful house, yet it was (as in the whole body, the lovely inhabitant the soul) in and of itself so great, so darkly beautiful, so deep, so radiant with every intellectual light, so To me remains thy image, and the echo beaming with sensibility and goodness! so of thy existence! The first, ah too easily inexpressibly engaging was its sincere and vanishing into shade, I will endeavour to cordial expression, that its look immehold fast, to sketch it with bold and free diately attracted again, and encouraged characters-free and bold as thyself! The those who had shrunk, dazzled by its latter thrills through all the pulses of my splendor. About the mouth too, the traces sensation, immortal like thee, in the sanc-of ingenuous goodnature were evidently pretuary of my bosom; no time will be able dominant, though the most delicate wit to still it, till it sounds again in harmony played around it. with thee, in the great day when we shall meet to part no more. I will not disguise thy mortal weaknesses and imperfections-who was ever free from them? But it is the prerogative of great minds, that we can freely mention what made them resemble others, without placing them on a level with those insignificant beings, whom we must fear to deprive of every thing, if we allow that they have weaknesses. Es hätt' ihr witz auch lippen ohne rosen Beliebt gemacht; ein witz, demn's nie an kraft gebrach, Zu stechen oder liebzukosen. WIELAND. Her wit would have made even lips without roses lovely; a wit which never wanted power to sting or to caress. When these lips opened, when in the silver tones of an organ, such as I have never known but hers, at once powerful She was of a middling female stature, and pleasing, all the beams of her genius rather corpulent, and strong limbed, but flowed in harmony-when a manner of without being heavy. She could hardly be speaking, quite her own, for its energy and called well made, as the right shoulder grace, combined with a copiousness and was rather larger than the left, the neck novelty of ideas (still more peculiar to her) short, and the nape rather high. Her head poured at once clear and strong, like a had by no means the oval outline, which is silver stream,-when, while she enchanted the first requisite of a beautiful form; it all, she, however, always particularly affectwas quite round, and I have seldom seen aed (and often wished to affect) some fahead flatter behind; the forehead too, which vourite object; ah! who did not then forget was low, almost pressed in over the root *Sister to the Rev. Dr. Munter, Bishop of Copenhagen, and author of several highly esteemed works in German. + This, and other substantives in the original, being of the feminine gender, lose much of their force and expression in the translation. Perhaps from having written too much when young, for means were employed to remedy the defect when she was only ten years of age. In front, one did not at all perceive it. § Probably from the use of rouge; for I know that in her early youth she had a fine clear complexion. I first saw her in 1801, and last in 1806. || A great deal has been said on this subject: her pronunciation and accentuation were clear; and she spoke like a person who is used to see people unwilling to lose a word of what is spoken." But she never had the piercing tone of violent or eloquent women, but a pure silver sound, and modulations of the voice in speaking, that were peculiar to herself. how far she was from being beautiful, or in | praise, and denied neither; but she wil- | And from those who knew her intimately, whose eyes did she not then appear so? Her gait and her whole carriage had in them something bold and triumphant, with which one was struck one knew not how, and which, without further reflection, one considered as belonging to her, and liked to see. I have never known a more open-hearted being; she was so even to etourderie, for herself and others. But though her strength of mind was too great, her will too firm, for her not to be able to be silent and reserved out of prudence, yet the frankness of her nature always appeared, and she had the most difficulty in concealing her own weaknesses; for she was utterly unable to dissemble. Every thought kindled into flame, every sentiment flashed like lightning; and so the most powerful of all, love! It was ever again new, profound, painful, thrilling through the innermost sources of life; and her generous nature was always a stranger to cold coquetry. She required to be loved by those whom she loved; and this happened, if she suffered the resistless attractions of her nature to operate. always first with minds susceptible of loftier feelings; and the sentiments of love, admiration, and friendship for her, blended so together, that it was often difficult to distinguish the one from the other. Who that had a living heart in his bosom, could remain cold for her? But though easily kindled, she always loved anew, and with equal violence; her heart was faithful, and, when passion was no more, a warmly active and tender friendship remained, as a faithful household deity upon its extinguished altar. She was worthy of every kind of confidence; this is saying much; and in her diversified relations, applicable only to so great a heart as hers. But was not this noble heart the seat of every generous feeling honourable to man? She was unable to hate, except upon principle, as she, for example, hated Buonaparte; and nobody more readily pardoned personal offences. Though her wit was sharp and penetrating, it was without bitterness, and was directed in preference against thoughtless falsehood, and its concomitant hardness of heart, which is often concealed under the most pleasing forms, and is the favourite vice of the great world. the reason could not be long concealed. She sought and found in it the true home of her soul, whose mighty pinions had long beaten against the narrow bars of her own, and which the daring flight of her language had long since partly broken through; she alone first laid open to the other cultivated nations of Europe, the extent, the copiousness, the depth of the German literature; and though this great undertaking of a foreign writer could hardly be free from faults, yet what she has performed in her work upon Germany is astonishing; and it is almost a miracle that she was so seldom lingly acknowledged the merit of others, mistaken. sidered it as the heart of Europe, and powerfully contributed to its deliverance.* The whole art of social intercourse was To speak of the extent of her intellec-ledge it. Though I refrain from speaking of her * A present louez-moi, cela fait si bien, she The weaknesses of others she bore smiling, and with all the indulgence of conscious superiority, but without making it felt, which was what gave such a tone of + When she concealed her marriage with M. goodhumour to the circle in which she lived. Rocca of Geneva (and of course the consequences Sound in mind and body, she had neither of it) not sparing her health, and bearing all peculiarities nor habits, and every thing in the pain of a secret passion, when she soon after and around her moved with freedom and saw the beloved object of it threatened with an ease in its natural course. But false pre-incurable disorder of the lungs, which has since tensions could not indeed pass current, terminated his life. where every thing beamed with light. I have more than once seen her forgive injuries, while the wounds inflicted by them were still bleeding; but to do good to her enemies was quite natural to her, and cost her magnanimity nothing. She was desirous both of honour and of This is precious sentimental morality!!-ED. A common friend told me, that when she was a child of ten or eleven years of age, he had seen a ball interrupted, because all the dancers, attracted by the voice of the animated little speaker, had crowded around her in a three-fold circle. every never exercised in a higher degree than by her; for as she easily and with certainty penetrated the character of individual, she knew how to put every one in his proper place, and in conversation developed in many, more than they gave themselves credit for: she did not do this merely to please; her good heart willingly spared every one a painful feeling, and every body left her more cheerful, and with increased self-confidence. Nothing narrow, little, or false, could thrive in her circle, and the most perfect freedom of mind reigned there. The most various opinions were expressed and maintained, with passion, with warmth, every advantage made use of to enforce them, and the one did not spare the other! But so powerful was the example of her perfect ingenuousness, and frank good-nature, that the roughest minds were softened by intercourse with her, and all malice was banished from her circle; so that those laid themselves down under her roof, genewho after a bitter and unsparing contest, rally saluted each other as friends the following morning. And how did she love her friends! How did she bear with their weaknesses, and not seldom their perverseness and arrogance? How many a repentant look may which forced tears of blood from hers, may fall upon her grave! How many a heart, died too soon for the world and for his friends; but why does the noble Degerando speak no more for the glory of Germany? * When she lost her second son in so melancholy a manner in the beginning of 1813, she wrote to me from London." "Ah, s'il avait péri en combattant pour la liberté de l'Allemagne, J'aurois la moitié moins de douleurs!" +To her might be applied what she once wrote to a female friend, "Vous soignez vos amis dans leurs défants comine dans leurs qualités.” melt in remorse over her tomb! for alas! | handsome room, which they occupied, to she has made many ingrates! How sacred was affliction in her eyes! How did she spare the feelings of others! How entirely had this great heart embraced the whole circle of human sorrows and sufferings! With what unparalleled tenderness, unattainable by inferior souls, did she share those afflictions particularly, which are caused by imagination acting too much in real life, and the sharpness of whose sting she had herself felt but too severely. What a daughter she was, the world knows; what a mother? Ah, the tears of her noble-minded children will long bear testimony! I need scarcely add, to complete the portrait of such a character, that she was the kindest, the most generous mistress of a family; charitable to the poor, and adored by all who belonged to her. But the delicacy with which she exercised secret benevolence, the feeling manner in which she divined distress, and often generously relieved it, before it revealed itself to her, belong to a complete picture of this lovely and good soul. And she has left us! Happy that she did not see old age, which she dreaded; she has fallen in the fulness of her glory! the great soul has set in beams of radiance! for death, to which the most animated of all beings looked with shuddering, she did not behold. In calm natural sleep, (alas, after long and bitter sufferings) she sunk without pain in mortal slumber! Oh! well did she deserve to have the path of death made smooth for her, who had smoothed for so many the path of life! its ancient state. The Beggar's Opera is very aptly made a standard piece at this house but even in this the want of system is felt, and on Tuesday Know your own Mind was rather satirically produced instead of the opera previously announced. ROB ROY, OF THE GREGARACH, was miraculously performed on Wednesday, the night for which it was originally appointed. It is rather a serious romantic piece, and differs widely from the Novel, whence its appellation is borrowed. The following is a sketch of the plot: Knight,) somewhat comic; some singing for Mrs. Bland, and some fencing and panDuring the holiday week John Bull was tomime, as usual, for the other performers. advertised, with the principal part of Pere- With considerable strength in the drawgrine left out of the characters. We ima-ing, and much of what is called stage effect gined that some imitation was intended of in the execution, this play is nevertheless the Country Theatre, which gave out Ham- little calculated to become a lasting falet with, for that night, the character of the vourite. To those who have read Rob Roy Prince of Denmark omitted, owing to the (the Novel,) and those who have seen Rob illness of a performer; but found on taking Roy (the Opera at Covent Garden,) it a peep at the picce, that Perigrine made a seems incongruous, from the alterations very tolerable figure in the person of Mr. made in the characters-for these, so popuPowell. Obi succeeded: It is a pity that lar has the original work been, have ac part of its representatives are engaged at quired a species of historical consistency, to other theatres, as it is too much to require at depart from which in any material degree one of the first public places, that we should is dangerous. To others, and they are few wait for a Mime half an hour, while he is in number, who have neither read nor seen entertaining the audience at Sadler's Wells, Rob Roy, there is yet a jumble in the preand after all have to put up with a bung- sent drama, which renders it difficult and ling and disjointed substitution. inexplicable. The characters though, as we have said, well, are not locally well drawn. With the exception of Dougal there is not a highlandman in the piece; the rest are heroes, or men of any clime or country. The scenery is like the dialogue, a mixture of trees and shrubs of every region, as the latter is a mixture of ideas and tongues of every people. Rob Roy tells Dougal that his head shall answer for his fidelity: This is the threat of an eastern Sultan, not of a Highland chieftain ;from whose lips nothing could be more unnatural, for he never suspects the devoted Sir Rashleigh Osbaldistone (Mr. Rae) is attachment of his clan. In short, there are about to marry Diana Vernon (Miss Smith-so many blemishes of this kind, that it is sou,) who is commanded by her father, Ge- evident the author has written more from neral Vernon (Mr. Bengough,) to accept the contemplation of the stage, which is his proffered hand, though the young lady but an imitation of real life, than from herself is most averse to the proposed union. real life itself; thus sacrificing the higher The General marches against Rob Roy (Mr. rank to which a dramatist may aspire. H. Johnston,) and it is in his absence that Dougal is indeed the sheet-anchor of the the marriage is to be solemnized. When play, and Wallack deserves much praise at the altar Diana is snatched from Rash for his forcible delineation of a part which, leigh by Rob Roy, who is the object of to be well acted, required not only all the On Saturday last died, at her house in her love. The General, ensnared by Dou- energy and talent which he usually displays, Chapel Street, Grosvenor Place, in her gal (Mr. Wallack,) is made prisoner by but a studious conquest over an idiom which 27th year, the Honourable Miss HAWKE, a Helen Macgregor (Mrs. Glover,) the mo- must have offered many obstacles before he lady eminently distinguished by her many ther of the outlaw, and is about to be sacri- overcame it even so much as he has done. amiable qualities, superior literary attain-ficed to her fury, when the Seer Morryn His broad Scots accent came as glibly from ments, and above all, by her ardent devohis tongue as his tartans hung imposingly tion to religion, laudably evinced at an on his person. It is curious to remark, early period of her life, in her excellent that he seemed less acquainted with his own poem of Babylon, &c. name than with any other word he pronounced; - calling himself Dew-gal instead of Doo-gal. His acting was, however, vigorous and excellent; so excellent, that it sunk The Macgregor, even in the hands of H. Johnston, into insignificance. Mrs. Glover's character is not a pleasing one, and affords little scope for her abilities. Death by lightning is not dramatic,— it is impossible for an audience to know the catastrophe. Miss Smithson's Diana Vernon is a very poor performance of a very poor character. Rob Roy himself is be-female-ized into half a coxcomb, half a warrior-a pale-faced, whining, ranting, stage-hero. By a droll ocular deception, when he came upon the boards first, we thought that his costume was adapted to the Novel, which paints his bare limbs as covered with red hair like a highland bull, but on changing our line of `vi "No farther seek her merits to disclose THE DRAMA. DRURY LANE re-opened after the holidays with a tasteful and brilliant gas Chandelier, and the audience part altogether Aighted in a manner superior to any Theatre we have yet seen. The Chinese ornaments introduced into the saloon at the beginning of the season have also been removed. As we never considered these novelties an improvement, and as they have perhaps answered all the attractive purposes calculated upon them, we do not regret their disappearance, and the restoration of the * It is ostentatiously spelt Chandalier in the Bills and Theatrical announcements, as if arrogance were inseparable from ignorance. (Mr. Holland) interposes to save him, and | |