never to see a play again; and rigidly adhered to his resolution. Even the infidel philosopher, Rousseau, declared himself to be of the opinion that the Theatre is, in all cases, a school of vice. Though he had himself written for the stage, yet, when it was proposed to establish a theatre in the city of Geneva, he wrote against the project with zeal and great force, and expressed the opinion, that every friend of pure morals ought to oppose it. After this amount of reasoning and of testimony against the Theatre, is it possible that any, who are not determined to set at defiance all considerations of duty, can hesitate a moment? Even if one half of what has been said of this amusement be true, then every father of a family-every good citizen-every friend to social order and happinessought to set his face against it as a flint, and to discountenance it by all fair and lawful means. But, Reader! if you call yourself a Christian, or have any desire worthily to bear that hallowed name-can you ever again be seen within the walls of a theatre? Can you ever willingly permit any one over whom you have any influence to be seen there? Say not, that the habits of society are such that you can scarcely avoid it. The question is short. Will you obey God, or man? Will you timidly or meanly give way to that which you must acknowledge to be wicked? or will you dare to do what is right, though all the world were against you? Will you take the Scriptures, or the maxims of a corrupt world, for your guide? The question is left with your conscience in the sight of God. Attendant on the Theatre! whoever you are, if the foregoing representations be correct, then your conduct carries with it a degree of guilt which ought, surely, to alarm you. Every time you go to that scene of temptation and vice, you sin against your family, if you have any; against the purity and order of civil society; and against God; as well as against your own soul. Can you think of this, and still go with a quiet conscience? How will this subject, think you, appear in a dying hour? It is related of the late Rev. Mr. Hervey, a well known, and eminently pious divine of England, that being once on a journey in a stage-coach, the Theatre became the topic of conversation. A lady in company, who was much attached to this amusement, expatiated largely on the pleasures attending it. She ob served, that she found much pleasure in anticipating the performance; much in witnessing it; and much in recollecting and conversing upon it afterwards. Mr. Hervey listened with respectful attention, and, when she had done, said, "Madam, there is one pleasure growing out of the Theatre, which you have omitted to mention." Delighted to think of her opinion being confirmed by a person of his respectable appearance, she asked him, with eagerness, to what he referred? (6 Madam," said he, gravely, "I refer to the pleasure which the remembrance of having attended on the Theatre will give you on a dying bed!" This seasonable remark proved better than a thousand arguments. It made a deep and permanent impression. The lady never again went to the Theatre, and became eminently pious. Every lover and frequenter of the Theatre will soon lie upon a sick and dying bed. How will the amusement then appear? How will the remembrance of having yielded to its allurements, then lie on the conscience? Think of that hour; and be wise in time! Attendant on the Theatre! did you ever hear of that awful catastrophe which caused the tears of so many to flow, a few years since, in one of our cities-when a theatre, in the midst of its performances, and unusually crowded, was destroyed by fire-and seventy-five persons perished in the flames? Did you ever hear of that heart-rending scene? Did you ever try to image to yourself how you would have felt, if you had been there? Think of A THEATRE IN FLAMES! and ask whether you would be willing to meet death in a playhouse? To pass, as it were in a moment, from all the polluted vanities of such company, and such a scene, to the immediate presence of a holy God? How tremendous the thought! yet no one can tell that a like calamity may not happen at any time when he allows himself to be present in such a place. But, fellow-mortal! if you never should see a theatre in flames, you will see a WORLD IN FLAMES, and a holy Judge descending to his "great white throne;" and "the hea vens and the earth passing away, so that there shall be no place found for them." And you shall see "many great men, and rich men, and mighty men, hiding themselves in the dens, and in the rocks of the mountains; saying to the mountains and rocks, Fall upon us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb; for the great day of his wrath is come, and who shall be able to stand?" Will attendance on the Theatre, think you, be a means of preparing any man to meet that Judge, and to stand the trial of that great day?— May God, of his infinite mercy, open the eyes, and turn the hearts of infatuated men, that they may see their folly and danger, before it be for ever too late! The following letter was written by one who was present at the conflagration of the Richmond Theatre, December, 1811. "SIR-I have a tale of horror to tell: prepare to hear the most awful calamity that ever plunged a whole city into affliction. Yes, all Richmond is in tears; children have lost their parents, parents have lost their children. Yesterday a beloved daughter gladdened my heart with her innocent smiles, to-day she is in eternity! God gave her to me, and God-yes, it has pleased Almighty God, to take her from me. O sir, feel for me-and not for me only: arm yourself with fortitude, while I discharge the mournful duty of telling you, that you have to feel also for yourself. Yes, for it must be told, you also were the father of an amiable daughter, now, like my beloved child, gone into eternity! How can words represent what one night, one hour of unutterable horror has done to overwhelm a hundred families with grief and despair! No, sir, impossible. My eyes beheld, last night, what no tongue, no pen can describe-horrors that no language can represent. Last night we were all at the theatre: every family in Richmond, or at least a very large portion of them were there: the house was uncommonly full, when, dreadful to relate, the scenery took fire, spread rapidly above, ascending in volumes of flame and smoke into the upper part of the building, whence, a moment after, it descended to force a passage through the pit and boxes. In two minutes the whole audience were enveloped in hot scorching smoke and flame. The lights were all extinguished by the black and smothering vapour: cries, shrieks, confusion, and despair succeeded. O moment of inexpressible horror! Nothing I can say can paint the awful, shocking, maddening scene. The images of both my dear children were before me, but I was removed by an impassable crowd from the dear sufferers. The youngest, (with gratitude to Heaven I write it,) sprang toward the voice of her papa, reached my assisting hand, and was extricated from the overwhelming mass that soon choked the passage by the stairs; but no efforts could avail me to reach, or even gain sight of the other; and my dear Margaret, and your sweet Mary, with her companions, Miss Gwathmey and Miss Gatewood, passed together and at once into the eternal world. Judge my feelings by your own, when I saw that neither they, nor my beloved sister appeared upon the stairs. First one, and then another, I helped down, hoping every moment to seize the hand of my dear child-but no, no, I was not permitted to have that happiness. Oh! to see so many amiable, helpless females, trying to stretch to me their imploring hands, crying, "Save me, sir; O sir, save me, save me!" Oh, eternity cannot banish that spectacle of horror from my recollection. Some friendly unknown hand dragged me from the scene of flames and death-and on gaining the open air, to my infinite consolation, I found my sister had thrown herself from the upper window, and was saved-yes, thanks be to God, saved, where fifty others, in a similar attempt, broke their necks, or were crushed to death by those who fell on them from the same height. O sir, you can have no idea of the general consternation-the universal grief, that pervades this citybut why do I speak of that? I scarcely know what I write to you. Farewell. In haste and in deep affliction." Persons of all descriptions are at all times exposed to sudden death. And if wise they will frequent those places, and those only, in which they will be prepared to die. Is the Theatre such a place? And will you, my friend, be prepared to go from it to the bar of God? PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, And sold at their Depository, No. 144 Nassau-street, near the CityHall, New-York; and by Agents of the Society, its Branches, and Auxiliaries, in the principal cities and towns in the United States He stretched his obedient arm, nor had he recalled it, had not Heaven interposed.-See page 13. PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, AND SOLD AT THEIR DEPOSITORY, NO. 144 NASSAU-STREET, NEAR THE CITY-HALL, NEW-YORK; AND BY AGENTS OF THE SOCIETY, ITS BRANCHES, AND AUXILIARIES, IN THE PRINCIPAL CITIES AND TOWNS IN THE UNITED STATES. Vol. 5. B 2 |