ample, and by some secret and internal influence, the very constitution of their tempers.

So much of the happiness of private life, and the virtues of mothers and daughters in particular, depends on the government of the temper, that the temper ought to be a principal object of regard in a well-conducted education. The suffering of children to tyrannize, without controul, over servants and inferiors, is, I am convinced, the ruin of many an amiable disposition. The virtues of humanity, benevolence, humility, cannot be too early enforced; at the same time care should be taken that an infant of two or three years old, should never be beaten or spoken to harshly for any offence which it can possibly commit. In short, let every method be used which reason, religion, prudence, and experience, can suggest, to accomplish the purpose of sweetening the temper, and banishing the furies from society. May the endeavours be successful; and may we only read, that there have indeed been such animals as shrews and viragos, but that the breed is exinct in England, like the breed of wolves!

I have been much pleased with the lovely picture of Serena, in Mr. Hayley's instructive poem, the Triumphs of Temper; and I cannot conclude, without earnestly entreating the ladies to view it as a looking glass, by which they may learn to dress their minds in a manner which can never be out of fashion: but which will enable them to secure as well as extend their conquests; and to charm, even when the lilies and roses are all withered. If the poem should effect this very laudable purpose, the Virtues, the Muses, and the Graces, should unite to

form a wreath for the poet's brow, and hail him as the restorer of a golden age. While every mother, wife, and daughter, aspires at the virtues of a Serena, let Alecto, Megæra, and Tisiphone, be confined in chains to the infernal regions, and forbidden ever more to arise, and assume the shape of a British lady!

NO. CXXIII. ON THE MORAL EFFECTS OF A GOOD TRAGEDY.

IT is with regret I observe, that a taste for the noblest part of theatrical amusements, the representation of tragedy, is rather on the decline. It srongly marks the frivolity of an age, when the buskin is excluded for the sock, and the public attention too much engaged by dancers, singers, and harlequins, to admit the serious, yet lively pleasures of the tragic muse.

There seems to me, to be no method more effectual of softening the ferocity, and improving the minds of the lower classes of a great capital, than the frequent exhibition of tragical pieces, in which the distress is carried to the highest extreme, and the moral at once self-evident, affecting, and instructive. The multitudes of those who cannot read, or, if they could, have neither time nor abilities for deriving much advantage from reading, are powerfully impressed, through the medium of the eyes and ears, with those important truths, which, while they illuminate the understanding, correct and mollify the heart. Benevolence, justice, heroism, and the wis

amusement.

dom of moderating the passions, are plainly pointed out, and forcibly recommended to those savage sons of uncultivated nature, who have few opportunities, and would have no inclination for instruction, if it did not present itself under the form of a delightful The human heart in general, whether it beats in the bosom of him who has been improved by education, or of the neglected child of poverty, is taught to exercise some of its most amiable propensities, by the indulgence of commiseration in scenes of fancied woe. Were the theatre under certain regulations, a man might go to it as he goes to church, to learn his duty; and it might justly be honoured with the appellation which it has often assumed, and be called the School of Virtue.

There are certainly a thousand tragedies of more classical merit, but few better calculated to save the numerous and important classes of the plebeian order from wallowing in vice, theft, intemperance, and wretchedness of every kind, than the tragedy of George Barnwell. Common and illiterate minds cannot follow the high flights of sublime poetry, nor understand the beauties of blank verse; but the language of Lillo, in this humble tale, is level to the lowest degree of intellect. It must, indeed, give pleasure to every friend of unassuming merit, to find the due tribute of applause paid to the modest Lillo by one of the best of all modern judges, the critic and philosopher of Salisbury. He, whose taste was formed on the purest models, and corrected by the strictest rules, has not hesitated to place the Fatal Curiosity in the very first rank of dramatic compositions. And George Barnwell however, it may

be affectedly despised by the silly votaries of fashion, who abominate it as low, deserves no less to be esteemed for its moral excellence, than the other for its classical. It has, perhaps, saved as many from an ignominious end as the Beggar's Opera has hastened to it. That any moralist, or man of observation, can entertain a doubt concerning the effect on the upper gallery, of a play in which thieves and harlots are represented as amiable and innocent characters, and all the rest of society as rogues, evinces, in this instance, an ignorance of human nature. The representation of the Beggar's Opera, is not only an outrage on civilised society, but an extreme act of cruelty to those wretched boys and girls, who have been allured to the paths of destruction, by viewing them thus strewed with artificial flowers.-Take away the disgrace, the shame, and the first fine sensibilities of timid vice, and you remove a restraint, the force of whose operation neither precepts nor laws can ever supply. Suppose a country lad, with all his native modesty about him, allured to the theatre by the Beggar's Opera. In a few hours he undergoes a perfect metamorphosis. He thinks himself illuminated, and despises the honest old folks at home, who have hitherto confined him, as Ire supposes, in childish ignorance. His perverted ambition takes an unfortunate turn; and if he arrives not at the honour of dying like a Macheath, he will at least endeavour to deserve it. Such, I am well as. sured, is often a true case; but even the miserable creatures, who are far gone in the paths which lead through villany to ruin, may be called back by the melancholy tale of poor George Barnwell. There VOL. III. C

are many other tragedies in the English language which convey admirable morals to the lower classes, and have undoubtedly rescued many a wretch who was deaf to a parent's voice, and a preacher's admonition, from the dominion of their evil passions and habits.

But, indeed, there is no class of the people, however refined and polished, which may not receive such benefits from a well-written tragedy, as scarcely any other mode of instruction can afford. He who has entered into all the feelings of a Shakespeare, an Otway, or a Rowe, may be said to have assimilated with their souls, and snatched a sacred spark, which cannot fail to kindle something in himself resembling the ethereal fire of true genius. His nature will be improved, and a species of wisdom and elevation of spirit, which was in vain sought for in academic groves, may at last be imbibed in the theatres. Philosophy may catch a warmth of the drama, which is capable of advancing it to nobler heights than she would otherwise have attained. Socrates, whose benevolence and wisdom appeared to have something of divinity, was the voluntary assistant of Euripides in the composition of his tragedies; and undoubtedly was of opinion, that he taught philosophy to instruct the herd of mankind in the most effectual manner, when he introduced her to their notice in the buskin.

Instructive, entertaining, animating, and ennobling, as is the spirit of the tragic muse, is it not wonderful that many can slight its efficacy, or view its fine productions on the stage with perfect insensibility? Yet, he who surveys the seats in the the