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tionale of a syllogism in the light under which I will here place it. In every syllogism one of the two premises (the major) lays down a rule, under which rule the other (the minor) brings the subject of your argument as a particular case. The minor is, therefore, distinguished from the major by an act of the judgment, viz. a subsumption of a special case under a rule. Now consider how this applies to morals: here the conscience supplies the general rule, or major proposition; and about this there is no question; but to bring the special case of conduct, which is the subject of your inquiry, under this general rule-here first commences the difficulty; and just upon this point are ethical treatises for the most part silent. Accordingly no man thinks of consulting them for his direction under any moral perplexities; if he reads them at all, it is for the gratification of his understanding in surveying the order and relation amongst the several members of a system; never for the information of his moral judgment. For any practical use in that way, a casuistry, i. e. a subsumption of the cases most frequently recurring in ordinary life, should be combined with the system of moral principles;-the latter supplying the major (or normal) proposition; the former supplying the minor proposition, which brings the special case under the rule.

With the help of this explanation, you will easily understand on what principle I veuture to denounce, as improfitable, the whole class of books written on the model of Locke's Conduct of the Understanding. According to Locke, the student is not

name.

to hurry, but again not to loiter; not to be too precipitate, nor yet too hesitating; not to be too confiding, but far less too suspicious; not too obstinate in his own opinions, yet again (for the love of God!) not too resigned to those of others; not too general in his divisions, but (as he regards his own soul) not too minute, &c. &c. &c. But surely no man, bent on the improvement of his faculties, was ever guilty of these errors under these names; that is, knowingly and deliberately. If he is so at all, it is either that he has not reflected on his own method; or that, having done so, he has allowed himself, in the act or habit offending these rules on a false view of its tendency and character; because, in fact, having adopted as his rule (or major) that very golden mean which Mr. Locke recommends, and which, without Mr. Locke's suggestion he would have adopted for himself;---it has yet been possible for him by an erroneous judgment, to take up an act or habit? under the rule-which with better advice he would have excluded; which advice is exactly what Mr. Locke has---not given. Over and above all this the method of the book is aphoristic; and, as might be expected from that method, without a plan; and, which is partly the cause and partly the consequence of having no plan, without a foundation.

This word foundation leads me to one remark suggested by your letter; and with that I shall conclude my own. When I spoke above of the student's taking his foundations broad and deep, I had my eye chiefly on the corner-stones of strong-built knowledge, viz. on logic; on a proper choice

Accordingly, our fashionable moral practitioner for this generation, Dr. Paley, who prescribes for the consciences of both Universities, and indeed, of most repectable householders, has introduced a good deal of casuistry into his work, though not under that In England, there is an aversion to the mere name, founded partly on this, that casuistry has been most cultivated by Roman Catholic divines, and too much with a view to an indulgent and dispensing morality; and partly on the excessive subdivision and hair-splitting of cases; which tends to the infinite injury of morals, by perplexing and tampering with the conscience, and by presuming morality to be above the powers of any but the subtlest minds. All this, however, is but the abuse of casuistry; and without casuistry of some sort or other, no practical decision could be made in the accidents of daily life. Of this, on a fitter occasion, I could give a cumulative proof. Meantime, let it suffice to observe that law, which is the most practical of all things, is a perpetual casuistry; in which an immemorial usage, a former decision of the court, or positive statute, furnishes the major proposition; and the judgment of the jury, enlightened by the knowledge of the bench, furnishes the minor or casuistical proposition.

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of languages; on a particular part of what is called metaphysics; and on mathematics. Now you allege (I suppose upon occasion of my references to mathematics in my last letter) that you have no "genius" for mathematics; and you speak with the usual awe (pavor attonitorum) of the supposed profundity" of intellect necessary to a great progress in this direction. Be assured that you are in utter error; though it be an error all but universal. In mathematics, upon two irresistible arguments which I shall set in a clear light, when I come to explain the procedure of the mind with regard to that sort of evidence, and that sort of investigation, there can be no subtlety: all minds are levelled except as to the rapidity of the course; and, from the entire absence of all those acts of mind which do really imply profundity of intellect, it is a question whether an idiot might not be made an excellent mathematician. Listen not to the romantic notions of the world on this subject; above all, listen not to mathematicians. Ma thematicians, as mathematicians, have no business with the question. It is one thing to understand mathematics; another and far different to understand the philosophy of mathematics. With respect to this, it is memorable, that in no one of the great philosophical questions which the ascent of mathematics has from time to time brought up above the horizon of our speculative view, has any mathematician who was merely such (however eminent) had

depth of intellect adequate to its solution: without insisting on the absurdities published by mathematicians, on the philosophy of the infinite, since that notion was introduced into mathematics; or on the fruitless attempts of all but a metaphysician to settle the strife between the conflicting modes of valuing living forces;→ I need only ask what English or French mathematician has been able to exhibit the notion of negative quantities, in a theory endurable even to a popular philosophy, or which has commanded any assent? Or again, what algebra is there existing which does not contain a false and ludicrous account of the procedure in that science, as contrasted with the procedure in geometry? But, not to trouble you with more of these cases so opprobrious to mathematicians, lay this to heart, that mathematics are very easy and very important; they are, in fact, the organ of one large division of human knowledge. And, as it is of consequence that you should lose no time by waiting for my letter on that subject, let me forestal so much of it-as to advise that you would immediately commence with Euclid; reading those eight books of the Elements which are usually read, and the Data. If you should go no farther, so much geometry will be useful and delightful: and so much, by reading for two hours a-day, you will easily accomplish in about thirteen weeks, i. e. one quarter of a year.

Yours, most truly,

X. Y. Z.

TO ELIA.

Delightful Author!---unto whom I owe
Moments and moods of fancy and of feeling
Afresh to grateful Memory now appealing,
Fain would I "bless thee---ere I let thee go!"
From month to month has the exhaustless flow
Of thy original mind, its wealth revealing,
With quaintest humour, and deep pathos healing
The world's rude wounds, revived Life's early glow:
And, mixt with this, at times, to earnest thought
Glimpses of truth, most simple and sublime,
By thy imagination have been brought
Over my spirit. From the olden time

Of Authorship thy Patent should be dated,

And thou with Marvell, Browne, and Burton, mated.

BERNARD BARTON.

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THE DRAMA.

DRURY-LANE THEATRE. The Pantomimes. CHRISTMAS is a right seasonable season to us poor crazy mortals, on It is hallowed, thrice every account. hallowed, beyond any other particular time, for awakening in the human heart the sense and sweetness of its happy pieties:-it is cheerful for its long fire-bright nights, and feasting hours; for its noisy revels, and dancing gallantries:-it is touching and beautiful for its rustic carolings and midnight hushing music:-it is bounteous and blessed for its deluge of turkeys, chines, and chickens, for its rich swarthy puddings and inestimable mince-meat pies, redolent of burnt brandy!-It is hailed for its universal holidays; the very twopenny postmen refrain from banging the chins of the poor unoffending lions' and rams' heads, abandon the copper-bag, and eat the Christmasday dinner in unlettered ease. But Christmas is most cheerful and glorious for its invariable Pantomimes, coming with the tide as surely as the first of the month, or a new novel from the Waverley pen. Christmas seems to wave its festival wand, and to set at once six or eight Harlequins shivering in spangled tightness and agility to merry music; six or eight Clowns tossing about their loosehung limbs, daubed cheeks, and mischievous eyes; six or eight Columbines, fleeting in silvered gauzes through love and danger; and six or eight Pantaloons (or more correctly to say it, three or four pair of pantaloons), dangling, like utter inexpressibles, between brutalities and impossibilities. Indeed the whole world of whim is conjured up into the most magical life of confusion. Folly dons a fairy crown, and reigns like a queen over the whole race of children, great and small; and Painting, Music, and Poetry, put on masquerade dresses, and chase away the night with most admirable fooling.

We old people are fond of pantomimes for several reasons, but chiefly because we are, at their representation, well mixed up with children, and, by sharing their joys, seem to be once more re-admitted amongst

them. How well do we remember,
when we were young, the day and
night of our going to see the panto-
mime. Breakfast over, nothing could
restrain us from sauntering out and
scampering to the first sheep's back
that was coated in the bill of the day

there to read the coming wonders
of the night; and then, not content
with a single reading, we have wan-
dered from sheep to sheep, until we
had gone through a whole flock,
and become satiated with excess of
mutton learning. The morning was
Dinner was bolted
thus passed.
clown-wise. Then came the wash-
ing of the face up to a red cleanly
polish-the combing of the smooth
hair-the white stiff cold frill cutting
the two red ears-the little great
coat imperfectly buttoned over
great deal of impatience-and thus
prepared, we were taken
boxes! What a luxury the sight of
the dull green curtain, scarcely seen
for the mist! What music. in the
gradual clapping of doors, and an-
nouncements of first company! There
we sat with eyes, goggling and lid-
less, like ship-lights-staring inve-
terately!

a

to the

Our little two inched jacket-flaps bulged out with fourinched oranges, which it was impossible to resist occasionally drawing out, looking at, polishing, and with a happy sigh returning. Can we forget seeing George Barnwell in inexplicable dumb show and noise; and wondering what he meant. We were told, he was a wicked apprentice :but then, what, and who, was Milwood? Our aunt could not tell us, at the same time desiring us to eat Our uncle told us one of our oranges. and our to mind the play, of which it was impossible to hear a word; grand-father turned deaf as a trunkmaker to our request.

With what breathless anxiety did we wait for the first bell calling up the musical men --then came the tuning, which was better than perfect or at another music elsewhere, time. Next came the livery servant suddenly from a side-door, to pick with vain industry the fast increasing orange-peel showered from the gallery. We trembled for his head,

and seemed to rejoice in his welltimed exit-accomplished amidst the final yell of hundreds! We heard Silence called in the gallery, but did not bear its answer. The second bell rang. The overture! What a row of music! The crashing bars at the commencement-the jig-movement with flageolet and triangle accompaniments, da Capo'd by the full band; a solo on the bugle, showing the magnitude of its incompetency; the glide into innumerable shiverings of little violins; the grand discordant scraping and scratching wind-up, in which the fiddlers, in every direction up and down the orchestra, seemed to be cutting their fiddles in halfand lastly, the thumping, monotonous, never-ending conclusion! Our cheeks now were nearly burnt down with anxiety. The pit quarrelled itself into quiet-and the curtain rose to low mysterious music! Oh, the magic of the mystery! The fascination of the cold misty air! The grandeur of the awe-inspiring, ill-omened seer, who had entombed Harlequin and kept sweet Columbine captive. The dire indication of the magician still dooms in our ears:

Let lightnings flash, let thunders loudly

roll,

And shake this mighty globe from pole to pole !

What lines!-uttered by a harsh voice to music, and followed by thunder and lightning, as if they had heard it! The guardian dragon, of course, kept spitting out of its green muzzle sparks of fire like a knifegrinder's wheel;-and some attendant fiend, with a pestilent face, stood drenching the horror of the scene with ugly mugs! Of course, he became Clown.

This is a slight sketch of what we felt and saw many scores of Christmasses ago. We are told by our grand-children, that they have much the same delights now. We have one advantage over the brats, we must say, and that is, we do not enter the doors until George Barnwell has made his last dying speech and confession, and gone off in the ordinary style!

There never was in our recollection a good pantomime at DruryLane; and, alas, it seems fated that the walls of that theatre never should

witness one. The united talents of Messrs. Elliston, Winston, and T. Dibdin, were first spent upon a miserable hotch-potch, called Gog and Magog, or Harlequin Antiquary :— a melancholy failure; but we will not speak ill of the dead, particularly as it is damned. Gog and Magog are good gods in the city; but west of Temple Bar they are no longer magical. Oh Tom Dibdin! Tom Dibdin! where were thy inventive powers, thy nimble-witted puns and quaint conceits? Were they all enveloped in poor Winston's fog? Oh! Folly, where were thy rich sprightly varieties? Oh! Mother Goose, where was thy golden egg?

Well! Gog and Magog were restored to Guildhall to turn down four gigantic eyes upon fuddled mayors "with three," and apoplectic aldermen:-and Mr. Elliston turned his two ogles towards another pantomime-builder, rightly conceiving that at Christmas time folly must reign,— and (as though perversely to contradict the old belief) children must be fed with ogresses. A new pantomime written by Mr. Barrymore, the Shakspeare of the Cobourg, was immediately announced, and the papers were coaxed into statements of though postponed for Gog's appearits having been long in preparation ance: now the fact is, that this new pantomime was played a few years ago at Astley's, under its present title of the Golden Axe. Great pains have been taken in the five days of its rehearsal to make the plot unintelligible. The first scene, which has nothing to do with the piece, is a very pretty exterior of a woodman's cottage, where a party of illdressed woodcutters hack a very wooden glee all to pieces. Miss Tree (no bad name for the Woodcutter's daughter) is busily employed in spinning (we presume to lengthen the scene); and her lover, one of the usual clean-looking swains in shirt sleeves, pink jacket, and light skyblue breeches, is suddenly ejected from the Woodman's tenement. He is poor, of course, to suit the piece.

The scene changes to the Fairy Lake by moonlight, the painter of which, a Mr. Stanfield, must be an ingenious and powerful artist. The effect is indeed beautiful. Here, however, we were treated with a

dance of protuberant fubsey fairies, and of sylphs with chilblains, accompanied by the harmonies of solid aerial creatures, fat chorus-singing gentlemen in flesh dresses, with wreaths round their heads, and, be cause the nights are cold, with cravats round their magical gullets. We were glad to see that the flesh-pantaloons and sandals were loose enough to go over the wearers' proper dresse. --for really the weather is extremely bitter. But to the plot-when these corpulent gossamer children go off to toast their fairy ankles at the greenroom fire--Colin (our readers know the man) re-enters, begins axeing about, and hews and cuts to some tune (we do not exactly know what). In the course of cutting the tree to trumpets, he misses his blow,—so does the trumpeter, and his axe goes into the water, leaving him to cast himself at full length upon the stage.

A Genius rises with a silver axe; which Colin honestly rejects. She dips again, and shows him a golden one : this he will not take! His own axe rises from the water, and he welcomes it very like an honest man, but very unlike a woodcutter. The father and brother of the lady he is in love with now appear; they learn the story, and conceiving that Colin is too much of a gentleman to throw the hatchet, they believe him, and pitch their own two axes into the lake, as a bait for the golden fish of a like kind; the precious tools again ascend, but the cupidity of the woodmen, who are detected in an endeavour to filch the axes, is punished by a transformation into Clown and Pantaloon. Colin and his spinning Jenny are turned to Harlequin and Columbine. A scaramouch (attendant on Harlequin) steps out of a chest, and by a little uncouth tumbling makes himself dirty for the evening. The bustle of the pantomime then quietly begins. scene is changed to a "distant view of London," by Nasmyth, painted at Edinburgh we should think-it is so very distant, and so very faint a resemblance. This scene is succeed ed by a representation of the Channel of the Rother, in which Miss Tree dances a pas seul. She really ought to use channelled pumps at such a time. Miss Tree is, however, a sweet and elegant dancer, although

her face is profoundly mélancholy, and unpromising for her profession. It seems offended at her feet. Her Quaker countenance appears to be disgusted at her dissenting feet, which are jumpers. She looks a minuet, while her steps are in a jig. Her feet, indeed, are not countenanced by herself, but appear to have stepped out of her good graces. Commonplace scenes of bakers' shops, &c. follow (we cannot say succeed). But the grand effort is a panoramic representation of Vauxhall Gardens. If it be meant to give an idea of that summer retreat in the winter season, it is most effective! for the lamps are all out, the atmosphere nearly darkened, and the company assembled, two ladies and three gentlemen, endeavour to repeat themselves and make the most of their numbers.

The last scene, with its usual gilded columns (like the accounts in the newspapers), has the addition of a fountain of real water, which, at this time of the year, spreads a refreshing coolness throughout the house. This scene is described as the Palace of Content. We are glad that as she has on this occasion quitted the front of the house, she has taken up her abode behind the scenes.

The great fault of this pantomime appears to be a want of liberality,— a study of economy; to be sure, much is to be said for the proprietor, when it is remembered that he has had less than a week to prepare in. Spendthrifts should superintend the getting up of a pantomime---money should fly like gold-leaf!---Mr. Winston, with his careful hand, would strangle a second Mother Goose!

We should not forget the performers. Southby tumbled about well, and lavished much good distortion on a bad pantomime. The gentlemen who played Harlequin and Pantaloon deserved better maThe terials to work upon.

Simpson and Co.

A Two Act piece under this firm has been acted with undoubted success. It is ingeniously constructed, and it is said, upon the French model; if so, the English author has given it a genuine English spirit and character. The plot is pleasant. Simpson is a steady old school merchant. His partner Bromley is a dashing lad of the present day. Both are married,

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