The Wonderful story-teller; or Pocket library of agreeable entertainment. Containing a miscellaneous collection of remarkable stories, surprising narratives, wonderful occurrences, singular events, whimsical tales, striking anecdotes, miraculous and heroic adventures in human life, odd sayings, supernatural visions, unaccountable appearances, absurd characters, memorable exploits, astonishing deliverances from death and various other dangers, amusing histories, strange accidents, extraordinary memoirs, &c. in the wonderful phenomena of nature. : The whole interspersed with choice extracts from the most celebrated historians, ancient and modern; and including many wonderful stories entirely original, and founded on well-attested facts. / By Walley C. Oulton, Esq. ; [Eight lines of verse]

THE Wonderful Story-Teller; OR POCKET LIBRARY OF AGREEABLE ENTERTAINMENT.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE. A Narrative, founded upon Fact.

IN a village, some distance from town, there lived a respectable family, who had once occupied an adjoining house, which, on account of the frequent knockings and disturbances they had heard and met with therein, they were under the disagreeable ne|cessity of leaving. Mr. Goodwin, the owner thereof, had incessantly endeavoured to let it, but in vain, the report was too prevalent, and the house became a sad burden on his hands; he had often advertised it, and, indeed, offered it at so low a rent, that several were induced to try it. An old soldier, who had more than once buffeted all the dangers of war, now begged permission to lodge in it for a few days upon trial, promising, if it were possible to inhabit it, that he would immediately take a lease on the terms proposed.

Permission was readily granted for this essay, and this old follower of Mars, who deemed the whole story but a mere empty report, determined to sleep by himself that night in the house; for which pur|pose, he left in the day time a loaded pistol, and a broad sword, near the room which he intended for his bed-chamber, and solaced himself with the plea|sing idea of having obtained a very comfortable bar|gain; having now properly secured the hall door, resolving that there should be neither egress nor in|gress, except to himself, he went ••o take a sufficient quantity of stout beer, and prepare himself for the attack.

It was rather late before he returned, and he went to bed somewhat mellow, laughing at all the non|sense of ghosts, spirits, and hobgoblins. After a sleep of about two hours, a dreadful noise awoke him: he listened —and heard a foot ascending the stairs so plain, that he thought it expedient to run into the next room for his pistols; accordingly he armed himself with two, one in each hand, and now on the top of the stairs, he perceived a horrid figure, which undauntedly stood before him, apparently very furious, and nodding with seeming anger.

Our hero repeatedly inquired, who and what he was, whether dead or alive; but there was no ans|wer; he then threatened to fire, which so evidently exasperated the figure, that he stamped several times with his foot against the ground, and made such a violent noise, that the very stair-case shook with it; the soldier presented and fired, but the figure did not seem at all dismayed; on the contrary, he smiled with disdain; finding this without effect, he now discharged the other, which, instead of intimidating his unknown antagonist, rendered him, if possible, more resolute and fierce; the soldier seemed some|what surprised, and apprehended that it was neither flesh or blood, since his pistols had failed; however, not willing to remain longer defenceless, he hasten|ed for his broad sword: the spirit pursued him, and

ere he could enter the room where it was, gave him such a violent blow, as almost felled him to the ground; as soon as he had recovered himself, for he was very much stunned, he looked about him, but the figure had vanished. This event having taken place in the summer time, the sun afforded him an early opportunity of looking about; he went to bed again, with the sword in his hand, but being fre|quently interrupted with noises, could sleep no more. Early in the morning he took leave of this haunted house, and began seriously to think on what had passed.

At breakfast his friends were very eager to hear the strange occurrences of the night, for knowing the blunt character of this man, and his disbelief of ghosts, they could not doubt the veracity of all he said: he confessed there was something exceedingly strange in the business, and sufficient indeed to in|timidate the most brave, but he was determined to make another attempt; he could not imagine that Heaven would allow the dead to hurt the living, and his face bore ample testimony of the severity of the blow. "I forgot," says he, "at any rate to inter|rogate it, as I am told I should have done—I am therefore resolved, this night, to have further con|viction, and satisfy myself if the figure be really, or not, supernatural."

This determination was deemed by all his friends exceedingly daring and dangerous, but the soldier would not be dissuaded from his design, as his honor, he thought, was too deeply concerned; besides, he could not bear the idea that an enemy, thus un|known, or, what was still worse, a meer shadow, should get the better of him. Another essay was therefore looked upon absolutely necessary.

The next night he provided himself with larger pistols, and abundance of ball and powder— He did not load till about the time he was going to bed— he left a chair against the door, thereby to prove

whether the thing was supernatural, or not; if su|pernatural, he supposed it would enter, as ghosts are thought to do, through the key-hole, or, at least, without throwing down the chair. However, in the middle of the night, he heard the same knock|ings, the door opened, and down went the chair, which added not a little to the noise. Our hero rose, seized two pistols, and first questioning who he was, the figure which was evidently not the same he saw the preceding night, made no reply; he threatened to fire—

"Forbear," cried the supposed spirit, "if you will be satisfied, follow me."

"I will," replied the soldier, "but observe this, that if any danger awaits me, as you are my leader, it is at you therefore I shall discharge the contents of these."

He followed him—the figure brought him down stairs to a private place under ground, where, a clandestine door being opened, he was admitted into the presence of a gang of robbers; the soldier still defended himself with his pistols, vowing he would discharge them if his life was threatened, but the captain of the gang assured him he was safe.

"I am the person," cried he, "who gave you the blow last night; believe me, I should not have so resolutely stood your fire, had I not taken previous care to prevent your pistols (which you left here) from endangering my life; but you have been too prudent this time. We have long inhabited this place, and made it a practice to deter people from living in the house, that our stay might be long and uninterrupted; we take it by turns to haunt the house. Now, therefore, as we have been so far can|did to you, ere you depart from this, you must swear not to divulge our secret within fourteen days, by which time, we shall provide some other habita|tion for ourselves, and give you quiet possession of this house."

The soldier, without any hesitation, agreed to this; upon which his health was drank, and he be|came better acquainted with his new friends, for notwithstanding their occupation, he thought there was some honor among them, it being their sworn rule to make depredations only, but never commit murder, if avoidable; this was certainly evident in their behaviour to him—for doubtless they could have destroyed him without fear of discovery, instead of which, they preferred rather making him their friend, and even giving up to him their convenient residence.

The next morning, the soldier's friends were very anxious to know his success: he amused them with a humorous fictitious tale that the spirit (which was a spirited one indeed) confessed, upon being interro|gated three times, that he was uneasy, on account of some business he had omitted doing before he had died, the performance of which would render him now happy, and he would rest for ever. "I offered my services," added the son of Mars—"Thank you," cried he, "you are a very good fellow;"—then he told me what it was, which being enjoined to keep secret, I cannot possibly reveal; in fourteen days time, however, I shall be able to accomplish it, and then, I flatter myself, I shall have quiet possession of my house at an easy rent; in order to effect the lat|ter, he went and made his bargain sure with the landlord. About the expiration of a fortnight, he went to his house, but first of all, paid a visit to the apartment that was under ground; he soon discover|ed the door— he opened it, but the tenants were gone; on the table, there was a letter for him, re|turning him hearty and sincere thanks for the hon|orable adherence he observed to his oath — as a requital for which, a bill for an hundred pounds was enclosed; this, thought the soldier, will be great help toward housekeeping.

His family now came to congratulate him, among

whom was an old superstitious woman, who hoped he was perfectly convinced that there were such things as ghosts and apparitions.

"No," cried our hero, "I am not convinced yet."

They all wondered at his incredulity, but more so, when they heard the real story, and were admitted to the secret apartment, which was demonstration sufficient of its truth: herein they made merry, and drank a health to the new owner.

After a few months quiet possession, this happy and uninterrupted tenant received the following brief, but pleasing note, from one of his predecessors:

"Sir,

In the hurry and confusion of our leaving those under-apartments, which we occupied in your house, either without permission or the knowledge of the owner, we omitted taking away a small box that con|tains some bags of gold; you are certainly entitled to the same for having so honorably kept your word, which you may find under a stone that is marked B. G. 111.

Yours, &c."

Our surprised hero immediately examined the place that was refered to, where he found the box as described, containing three bags, with fifty guineas each; thus, by courage and perseverance, he obtain|ed a dwelling on moderate terms, and a sufficiency to pay his rent for several succeeding quarters.

Remarkable Anecdotes of Dr. YOUNG, Author of "The Night Thoughts."

DR. Young was rector of Welwyn, in Hertford|shire; a living worth about five hundred pounds per annum; and though he was in the blaze of court favour, he never had the fortune to rise to greater preferment. Indeed, during the last reign, poetry or real eloquence was but little promoted or encour|aged from the throne.

When the Doctor was pretty far advanced in life, he married the lady Elizabeth Lee, daughter of the late Earl of Litchfield. This lady was a widow, and had two children, a son and a daughter, who were both very deserving, but both died young and in a short time of each other. What he felt for their loss as well as for that of his wife, we may easily per|ceive by his fine poem of the Night Thoughts, in which they are characterized, the young lady under the name of Narcissa, her brother by that of Philan|der, and his wife, though nameless, is frequently alluded to. He thus regrets his loss in his apostro|phe to death.

Insatiate Archer, could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, And thrice, ere thrice yon moon renew'd her horn.

Of Dr. Young's tragedies, the Revenge is the best. This play met with very great success. The design of it seems to have been borrowed partly from Shakespear's Othello, and partly from Mrs. Behn's Abdallazar; the plot bearing many marks of the former; and the principal character Zanga, of the latter. Yet it will not surely be saying too much, when we affirm that Dr. Young has in many respects improved his originals. If we compare the Iago in one, with the Zanga in the other tragedy, we shall find the motives of resentment greatly different, and those of Young much more justly as well as more nobly founded, than those of Shakespear. Iago's cause of resentment against Othello, is only his hav|ing set a younger officer over his head, and on a particular and single vacancy, notwithstanding he himself has reason to expect a post of equal advan|tage. To this is added, a slight suspicion of Othello's having been too intimate with his wife. But Zanga's cause of anger is quite different. The death of his father, slain by Alonzo, the loss of a kingdom in

consequence of his success, and the indignity of a blow received from the same hand; all these accu|mulated injuries, added to the impossibility of find|ing a noble means of revenge, urge him, against his will, to the more sub••le and underhand methods he employs. Othello's jealousy is raised by trifles, and by appearing too credulous, he forfeits that pity which his distresses would otherwise demand. Alon|zo, on the contrary, long struggles against conviction, nor proceeds to extremities, till he finds proofs rise on proofs, and still the last the strongest. In a word, we may assign this piece with great justice, a place in the very first rank of dramatic writings, and were we to shew foreigners a tragedy as a sample of Eng|lish genius, after two or three others, we should produce the Revenge, written by Dr. Young, as a specimen.

As a poet, the Doctor was considered as the only palladium of ancient genius; and as a Christian, one of the finest examples of primeval piety. The turn of his mind was naturally solemn, and he usually, when at home in the country, spent many hours of the day walking in his own church-yard among the tombs. His conversation, his writings, had all a reference to the life after this; and this turn of dis|position mixed itself even with his improvements in gardening. He had, for instance, an alcove with a bench so painted near his house, that at a distance it looked like a real one, which the spectator was then approaching. Upon coming up near it, the decep|tion was perceived, and this motto appeared:

Invisibilia non decipiunt.

Translated,

The things unseen do not deceive us.

Yet, nowithstanding this gloominess of temper, he was fond of innocent sports and amusements; he instituted an assembly and a bowling-green in his parish, and often promoted the gaiety of the com|pany in person.

His wit was very poignant, and always levelled at those who expressed any contempt for decency and religion. His epigram spoken extempore on Vol|taire, is well known, who happening in his company to ridicule Milton, and the allegorical personage of Death and Sin; Young thus addressed him:

Thou art so witty, profligate, and thin, You seem a Milton with his Death and Sin.

When he first published his admirable Night Thoughts, either through modesty, or for some other reason, he chose to conceal his name as the author, and published them in numbers. Sir Jeremy Sam|brooke, a Baronet of great integrity, and remarka|ble for his hospitality, lived about seven miles from the Doctor, but so great was their intimacy, that the Doctor used daily, when the weather permitted, to dine at Sir Jeremy's table. The Baronet was totally blind, yet very facetious, and a competent judge of men and books. He employed his nephew, who resided in London, to send him down weekly, all the new publications. Among others, the first number of the Night Thoughts made its appearance. Sir Jeremy desired Dr. Young would read it, which he accordingly did, and we may be sure with great propriety, as none can read works better than the authors of them. The approbation of the company was testified in an extraordinary manner, and they were all very desirous of knowing the author; some little time afterwards Dr. Young left the room to walk in the garden. Upon which Lady Judy Sam|brooke said, "Brother, I believe I have found out the author of that excellent piece of poetry the Doc|tor has been reading." "Ah, sister Judy," said Sir Jeremy, "how came you to be so much before-hand with us in your discoveries; pray, who is the author?" "Why," said she, "the Gentleman who read it is the author of it. And I have this reason for thinking so; I perceived the Doctor take

his eyes from the book, and repeat three or four lines without looking at it, now you will judge whe|ther or not he could do that upon the first sight of a new publication, unless he was the author of it." When the Doctor returned, Sir Jeremy said to him, "Dr. Young, I am much indebted to you for read|ing that incomparable work, but much more so for writing it."

Instance of FEMALE HEROISM, and the Mode of treating Women in some Countries.

THE kingdom of Gurrat in Hindostan was gov|erned by queen Dargocette, eminent for spirit and beauty. Small as that kingdom is, it contain|ed about seventy thousand towns and villages, the effect of long peace and prosperity. Being invaded by Asaph Can, not many years ago, the queen mounted on an elephant, led her troops to battle. Her son Rajah Bier Shaw, being wounded in the heat of action, was by her orders carried from the field. That accident having occasioned a general panic, the queen was left with no more than three hundred horsemen. Adhar, who conducted her elephant, exhorted her to retire, while it could be done with safety. The heroine rejected the advice. "It is true," said she, "we are overcome in battle; but not in honour. Shall I, for a lingering ignomin|ious life, lose a reputation that has been my chief study! Let your gratitude repay now the obligations you owe me: pull out your dagger, and save me from slavery, by putting an end to my life."

The Giagas, a fierce and wandering nation in the central parts of Africa, being supinely idle at home, subject their wives and their sl••ves to every sort of drudgery, such as digging, sowing, reaping, cutting wood, grinding corn, fetching water, &c. These

poor creatures are suffered to toil in the fields and woods, ready to faint with excessive labour, while the monsters of men will not give themselves even the trouble of training animals for work, though they have the example of the Portuguese before their eyes.

It is the business of the women among the wan|dering Arabs of Africa, to card, spin, and weave, and to manage other houshold affairs. They milk the cattle, grind, bake, brew, dress the victuals, and bring home wood and water. They even take care of their husbands' horses, feed, curry, comb, bridle and saddle them. They would also, like Moorish wives, be obliged to dig, sow, and reap their corn, but luckily for them, the Arabs live entirely upon plunder. Father Joseph Gumilla, in his account of a country in South America, bordering upon the great river Oronooko, describes pathetically the miserable slavery of married women there, and men|tions a practice that would appear incredible to one unacquainted with the manners of that country; which is, that married women frequently destroy their female infants. A married woman of a vir|tuous character and a good understanding, having been guilty of that crime, was reproached by our author in very bitter terms. She heard him patient|ly to the end of his discourse with eyes fixed on the ground, and answered as follows: "I wish to God. Sir, I wish to God, that my mother had by my death, prevented the manifold distresses I have endured, and have yet to endure as long as I live. Had she kindly stifled me at my birth, I should not have felt the pain of death, nor numberless other pains to which life hath subjected me. Consider, father, our deplorable condition. Our husbands go out to hunt with their bows and arrows, and trouble themselves no farther. We are dragged along with one infant at our breast, and another in a basket. They return in the evening without any burthen; we return

with the burthen of our children; and though tired out with a long march, are not permitted to sleep, but must labour the whole night in grinding maize to make chica for them. They get drunk, and in their drunkenness they beat us, draw us by the hair of the head, and tread us under foot. And what have we to comfort us for slavery, perhaps of twenty years? A young wife is brought in upon us, who is permitted to abuse us and our children, because we are no longer regarded. Can human nature endure such tyranny? What kindness can we shew to our female children, equal to that of delivering them from such servitude, more bitter a thousand times than death? I say again, would to God that my mother had put me under ground the moment I was born."

One would imagine, that the women of that country should have the greatest abhorrence of mat|rimony; but all-prevailing nature determines the contrary, and the appetite for matrimony overbal|ances every rational consideration.

Upon a review of such conduct as this, how hap|py should English women think themselves, whose condition is so much the reverse from that of those poor wretches. Let them at least forbear from that spirit of usurpation to which they are so prone, and from a principle of gratitude learn some small de|gree of subjection.

Savage Manners, and a remarkable Instance of Russian Barbarity.

HERODOTUS says, that a Scythian presents the King with the heads of the enemies he has killed in battle; and the man who does not bring a head, gets no share of the plunder. He adds, that many Scythians clothe themselves with the skins

of men, and make use of the skulls of their enemies to drink out of. Diodorus Siculus reports of the Gauls, that they carry home the heads of their ene|mies slain in battle; and after embalming them, deposit them in chests as their chief trophy, bragg|ing of the sums offered for these heads by the friends of the deceased, and refused.

No savages were more cruel than the Greeks and Trojans, as described by Homer; men were butch|ered in cold blood, towns were reduced to ashes, sovereigns were exposed to the most humiliating indignities, and no respect was paid to age or sex. The young Adrastus thrown from his car, and lying in his face in the dust, obtained quarter from Mene|laus. Agamemnon upbraided his brother for leni|ty: "Let none from destruction escape," said he, "not even the lisping infant in the mother's arms: all her sons must with Illium fall, and on her ruins unburied remain." He pierced the suppliant with his spear, and setting his foot on the body pulled it out.

Hector having stript Patroclus of his arms, drags the slain along, vowing to lop the head from the trunk, and to give the mangled corse a prey to the dogs of Troy. And the 17th book of the Illiad is wholly employed in describing the contest about the body, between the Greeks and the Trojans.

Besides the brutality of preventing the last duties from being performed to a dead friend, it is a low scene, unworthy of heroes. It was equally brutal in Achilles, to drag the corse of Hector to the ships, tied to his car. In a scene between Hector and And|romache, the treatment of vanquished enemies is pathetically described; sovereigns massacred and their bodies lef•• a prey to dogs and vultures; sucking infants dashed against the pavement; ladies of the first rank forced to perform the lowest acts of slavery. Hector doth not dissemble, when he foretold, that if Troy was conquered, his poor wife would be con|demned to draw water like the vilest slave.

Hecuba, in Euripides, laments that she was chained like a dog at Agamemnon's gate; and the same sav|age manners are described in many other Greek tragedies. Prometheus makes free with the heavenly fire, in order to give life to man. As a punishment for bringing rational creatures into existence, the gods decree, that he be chained to a rock and aban|doned to birds of prey. Vulcan is introduced by Eschylus rattling the chain, nailing one end to a rock, and the other to the breast-bone of the crim|inal. Who but an American savage, can now be|hold such a spectacle, without being shocked at it! A scene representing a woman murdered by her children would be hissed by every modern audience, and yet that horrid scene was represented with ap|plause in the Electra of Sophocles. Menander says, that even the gods cannot inspire a soldier with civility; no wonder that the Greek soldiers were brutes and barbarians, when war was waged, not only against the state, but against every individual.

The Greeks are the less excusable for their cruel|ty, as they appear to have been sensible, that hu|manity is a cardinal virtue. Barbarians are always painted by Homer, as cruel; polished nations as tender and compassionate.

Ye Gods! (he cried) upon what barren coast, In what new region is Ulysses tost; Possess'd by wild barbarians fierce in arms, Or men whose bosom tender pity warms? ODYSSEY, Book xiii.241.

That cruelty was predominant among the Romans, is evident from every one of their historians. Dur|ing the second triumvirate, horrid cruelties were every day perpetrated without pity or remorse. Anthony having ordered Cicero to be beheaded, and the head being brought to him, viewed it with savage pleasure. His wife Fulvia, laid hold of it

and struck it on the face, uttered many bitter exe|crations, and having placed it between her knees, drew out the tongue and pierced it with a bodkin.

The following instance of barbarity excels any already mentioned.

Madam Lapouchin, the great ornament of the court of Petersburg, during the reign of the Empress Elizabeth, having contracted an intimacy with a foreign ambassador, was brought under suspicion of plotting with him against the government, and was accordingly condemned to undergo the punish|ment of the knout. At the place of execution she appeared in a genteel undress, which heightened her beauty. Of whatever indiscretion she might have been guilty, the sweetness of her countenance, and her composure, left not in the spectators the slight|est suspicion of guilt. Her youth also, her beauty, her life and spirit pleaded for her. But all in vain: she was deserted by all, and abandoned to surly executioners, whom she beheld with astonishment, seeming to doubt whether such preparations were intended for her. The cloak that covered her bo|som being pulled off, modesty took the alarm, and made her start back: she turned pale, and burst into tears. One of the executioners stripped her naked to the waist, seized her by both hands, and threw her on his back, raising her some inches from the ground. The other executioner laying hold of her delicate limbs with his rough fists, put her in a posture for receiving the punishment. Then laying hold of the knout, a sort of whip made of a leather strap, 'he retreated a few steps, and with a single stroke tore off a slip of skin from the neck down|ward, repeating his strokes till all the skin of her back was cut off in small slips. The executioner finished his task by cutting out her tongue; after which she was banished to Siberia.

The present Empress of Russia, has laid an excel|ent foundation for civilizing her people, which is a

code of laws, founded upon the principles of civil liberty, banishing slavery and torture, and expres|sing the utmost regard for the life, property and liberties of all her subjects high and low. Peter I. reformed many bad customs; but being rough in his own manners, he left the manners of his people as he found them. If this Empress happens to en|joy a long and prosperous reign, she may possibly accomplish the most difficult of all undertakings, that of polishing her people. No task is too ardu|ous for a woman of such spirit.

Anecdote of Monsieur THUROT.

WHEN Mons. Thurot, during our late war with France, appeared on the coast of Scotland with three armed vessels, the terror he at first spread, soon yielded to admiration, inspired by his human|ity. He paid a full price for every thing he want|ed; and in general behaved with so much affability, that a countryman ventured to complain to him of an officer who had taken from him fifty or sixty guineas. The officer acknowledged the fact; but said, that he had divided the money among his men. Thurot ordered the officer to give his bill for the money, which he said, should be stopped out of his pay, if they were so fortunate as to return to France. Compare this incident with that of the great Scipio, celebrated in Roman story, who restored a beautiful bride to the bridegroom, and it will not suffer by the comparison. Another instance is no less re|markable. One of his officers gave a bill upon a merchant in France, for the price of provisions pur|chased by him. Thurot having accidentally seen the bill, informed the countryman, that it was of no value, reprimanded the officer bitterly for the cheat, and compelled him to give a bill upon a merchant

whom he knew would pay the money. At that very time, Thurot's men were in bad humour, and were disposed to mutiny. In such circumstances, would not Thurot have been excused, for winking at a fraud to which he was not accessary? But he acted all along with the strictest honour, even at the hazard of a mutiny. Common honesty to an enemy is not a common practice in war. Thurot was strictly honest in circumstances that made the exertion of common honesty an act of the highest magnanimity. These incidents ought to be held up to princes as examples of true heroism. War car|ried on in that manner, would, from desolation and horror, be converted into a fair field for acquiring true military glory, and for exercising every manly virtue.

This great man will be kept in remembrance by every true-hearted Briton; though he died fighting against us. But he died in the field of honour, fighting for his country.

The policy of the Greeks and Romans in war, was to weaken the state by destroying its people. Humanity with us prevails even in war. Individu|als not in arms are secure, which saves much inno|cent blood. Prisoners were formerly set at liberty by paying a ransom, and by later improvements in manners, even that practice is left off, as too mer|cantile, and a more honourable one is instituted, that of exchanging prisoners. Humanity was car|ried to a still greater height in our late war with France, by an agreement between the Duke de Noailles and the Earl of Stair, that the hospitals for the sick and wounded soldiers should be free from all hostiliti••s. When the French troops were com|pelled to abandon their conquests in the electorate of Hanover, their Generals every where burnt their magazines and plundered their people. The Duke ne Raudan, who commanded in the city of Hanover, put the magistrates in possession of his magazines,

requesting to distribute their contents among the poor; and he was besides extremely vigilant to pre|vent his soldiers from committing acts of violence. As we prize humanity wherever it is exercised, we cannot help expressing a wish, that the American General Lincoln, and the French Count D'Estaing, had given us some specimen of it in their late attack upon Savannah; on the contrary, we are sorry to say, that they refused a vessel to convey away the women and children, which was requested of these commanders, in order that they might not be wit|nesses to the horrors of a siege.

The FRENCH Lover.

THE Marquis De F. was on the point of being married. He called at Dr. M's lodgings in Paris a few days ago. His air was so very gay, that Dr. M. imagined he had some agreeable news to communicate. Me voilà au désespair, mon cher ami, (Behold me in despair, my dear friend) said he, with a loud laugh. You are the merriest man I ever saw in that situation, said Dr. M. He then said that the old Marquis de R. his mistress's father, had waited on his mother, and after ten thousand apologies and circumlocutions, had given her to understand that certain things had intervened, which rendered it impossible that he should ever have the honour of being father-in-law to her son, and requested her to inform him, how infinitely easy he and all his family were, at an incident which deprived them of the pleasure they had expected from that connection. His mother, he said, had endeavoured to discover the incident which had produced this alteration, but to no purpose. The old gentleman contented him|self with assuring her that the particulars would be equally disagreeable and superfluous, and then took

his leave in the most polite and affectionate terms that the French language could furnish him with.

The Marquis de F. told Dr. M. this with an air so easy and contented, that the Doctor did not well know what to make of it. My dear Marquis, said he, it is fortunate that I have been mistaken, for you must know I had taken it into my head that you were fond of the lady. You were in the right, my friend, said the Marquis, Je l'aimai infiniment, (•• love her infinitely) —Comment infiniment, (How infinitely!) said the Doctor, and yet be so merry when you are just going to lose her! —Mais vous autres Anglois, said he, vous avez dez idées si bizarres: aimer infiniment, cela veut dire aimer comme en aime, tout le monde aime ain•••• quand il ne se hait pas. Mais je vous couterai toute Phistoire. But you English, said he, have such whim|sical ideas; to love infinitely means to love as they love you; every body loves in this manner when they don't hate the object. But I'll tell you the whole history—

My mother, added he, who is the best creature in the world, and whom I love with all my soul, told me this marriage would make her quite happy. All my uncles and aunts and cousins for ten genera|tions told me the same. I was informed, over and above, that the lady, her father, and all her relations, wished this alliance with the most obliging earnest|ness. The girl herself is tolerable pretty. They will persuade me to marry some time or other, thought I; why not now as well as at any other time? Why should I refuse to do a thing which will please so many people, without being in the smallest degree displeasing to myself?—To be sure, said Dr. M. that would have been ill-natured. It was lucky, however, that you happened to be perfectly disen|gaged, and did not prefer any other woman.

You mistake, my friend, said he, I preferred many to the lady in question, and one in particular, whose name I will not mention, but whom I love, whom

I do love. Comme on aime, (How they love one ano|ther) said the Doctor, interrupting him. Non par|ble••! (no faith) added he, with warmth, comme on aime pas! (How they don't love) Good heaven then, cried the Doctor, how could you think of marrying another? Cela n'empeche rien, (that don't hinder me) said the Marquis coolly; for I could not marry the other. She had the start of me, and had undergone the ceremony already; and therefore she had no objection to my obliging my mother and relations in this particular, for she is the best natur|ed woman in the world. So she appears to be, said the Doctor. O, pour cela o••i, monches, (O as for that, my dear) added he, elle est la burte mime, (she is goodness itself.) However, I am very well pleased upon the whole, that the affair has gone off without any fault of mine; and though it is possible that it may be brought on at a future period, I shall still be a gainer, parceque un marriage recule est ••oujours autant de gagna sur le repentis, (because a marriage that is broken off, when renewed is so much gained upon the repe••ting party) so saying, he whee••ed on his heels, humming. Non, tu ne le mettre pas, Colin, &c.

DUBOIS and FANCHON. A true Anecdote, as related by Dr. M.

MY friend the Count de L. called on me at Paris, a few days since, and as soon as he under|stood that I had no particular engagement, he in|sisted that I should drive somewhere into the coun|try, dine tete-a-tete with him, and return in time for the play.

When we had driven a few miles I perceived a genteel-looking young fellow dressed in an old uni|form. He sat under a tree, on the grass, at a little

distance from the road, and amused himself by play|ing on the violin. As we came nearer we perceived he had a wooden leg, part of which lay in fragments by his side. —What do you there, soldier? said the Count. I am on the way home to my own village, mon officer, said the soldier. But my good friend, said the Count, you will be a long time before you arrive at your journey's end, if you have no other carriage besides these, pointing to the fragments of his broken leg. I wait for my equipage and all my suite, said the soldier; and I am greatly mistaken if I do not see them this moment coming down the hill.

We saw a kind of cart drawn by one horse, in which was a woman and a peasant that drove the horse. While they drew near, the soldier told us he had been wounded in Corsica, that his leg had been cut off; that before setting out on that expe|dition he had been contracted to a young woman in the neighbourhood, that the marriage had been postponed to his return; but when he appeared with the wooden leg, all the girl's relations oppo|sed the match. The girl's mother, who was her only surviving parent, when he began his courtship had always been his friend, but she had died whilst he was abroad. The young woman herself, however, remained firm in her affections, received him with open arms, and had agreed to leave her relations and accompany him to Paris, from whence they in|tended to set out in the Diligence to the town where he was born, and where his father still lived. That on his way to Paris, his wooden leg had snapped, which had obliged his mistress to leave him, and go to the next village in quest of a cart to carry him thither, where he intended remaining till such time as the carpenter should renew his leg C'est un mal|beur, (It is a misfortune) concluded the soldi••r, mon officer, bien tôt repa••e—et voi••i mon amie! (It is soon repaired, my officer, and behold here is my friend▪) —

The girl sprung from the ca••••▪ seized the out-stretched

hand of her lover, and told him with a smile full of satisfaction, that she had found an ad|mirable carpenter, who had promised to make a leg that would not break, that it would be ready to|morrow, and that afterwards they might resume their journey as soon as they pleased. The soldier received his mistress's compliments as they deserved. She seemed about twenty years of age, a beautiful, fine shaped girl, a brunette, whose countenance indicated sentiment and vivacity. You must be much fatigued, my dear, said the Count. Ou ne se fatigue pa•• Monsieur quand ou travaille pour ce qu'on ••ime (It is no fatigue, Sir, when we are employed in the service of those we love) replied the girl. The sol|dier kissed her hand with a gallant and tender air. When a woman has fixed her heart upon a man, you see, said the Count, turning to me, it is not a leg more or less that will make her change her senti|ments. Nor was it his leg, said Fanchon, which made any impression on my heart. If they had made a little, however, said the Marquis, you would not have been singular in your way of thinking; but allons, continued he, addressing himself to me. This girl is quite charming, her lover has the appearance of a brave fellow, they have but three legs amongst them, and we have four; if you have ••o objection they shall have the carriage, and we will follow on foot to the next village, and see what can be done for these lovers. I never agreed to a proposal with more pleasure in my life.

The soldier began to make difficulties about enter|ing the vis-à-vis. Come, come, friend, said the Count, I am a Colonel, and it is your duty to obey, get in without more ado, and your mistress shall follow.

Entrons mon box ami, (Let us get in, my dear friend) said the girl, since these gentlemen insist upon doing us so much honor. A girl, like you, would do honor to the finest coach in France, said the Count, and nothing could please me more than to make you

both happy. Laisez moi faire mon Colonel, (Let me alone, Colonel) said the soldier. Je suis heureuje comme une reine, (I am happy as a queen) said Fanchon. Away moved the carriage, and the Count and I followed —

Voyes vous, ••••mbein n••us sommes heureux nous autres Francois a bon marche, (as they were walking fast, see how happy we Frenchmen are) said the Count to me, adding with a smile, le contieur à ce qu'on m'a dit, ut plus chez en Angleterre, (They tell me happiness is obtained with more difficulty in England.) But, answered I, how long will this last with these poor people? Ah, pour le coup, (It's for a moment) said he, ve••ità une reflexion bien Angloise, (that's a true English reflection) that is indeed what I cannot tell; neither do I know how long you and I may live; but I fan|cy it would be great folly to be sorrowful through life, because we don't know how soon misfortunes may come, and because we are quite certain that death is to come at last.

When we arrived at the inn, to which we had or|dered the man to drive, we found the soldier and Fanchon. After ordering some victuals and wine, pray, said I to the soldier, how do you propose to maintain your wife and yourself? One who has con|trived to live for five years on soldiers pay, replied he, can have little difficulty for the rest of his life. I can play tolerably well on the fiddle, added he, and perhaps there is not a village in all France of the size, where there are so many weddings as that in which we are going to settle. I shall never want employment. And I, said Fanchon, can weave hair nets and silk purses, and mend stockings. Besides, my uncle has two hundred livres of mine in his hands, and though he is brother-in-law to the bailiff and Volontiers brutal, yet I will make him pay it every so••s. And I, said the soldier, have fifteen livres in my pocket; besides two louis-d'ors that I lent to a poor farmer to enable him to pay the taxes, which he will repay as soon as he is able.

You see, Sir, said Fanchon to me, that we are not objects of compassion. May we not be happy, my good friend, (turning to her lover with a look of exquisite tenderness) if it be not our fault?—If you are not, ma douce ami! (my sweet friend) said the soldier with great warmth, je scrai bien a plaindre, (I shall be much to blame) —I never felt a more charming sensation. The tear trembled in the Count's eye. Masoi (Faith) said he to me, c'••st une comedie larmeyante (It is a charming adventure) Then turning to Fanchon, Come hither, my dear, said he, till you can get payment of the two hundred livres, and my friend here recovers his two louis, accept of this from me, (putting a purse of louis into her hand;) I hope you will continue to love your husband, and to be loved by him. Let me know from time to time how your affairs go on, and how I can serve you. This will inform you of my name, and where I live. But if ever you do me the plea|sure of calling at my house in Paris, be sure to bring your husband with you; for I would not wish to esteem you less, or love you more than I do this moment. Let me see you sometimes, but always bring your husband with you. I shall never be afraid to trust her with you, said the soldier: she shall see you as often as she pleases, without my go|ing with her.

It was by too much venturing (as your serjeant told me) that you lost your leg, my best friend, said Fanchon with a smile to her lover. Monsieur le Colonel n'est que trop aimable (The Colonel is but too agreeable) I shall follow his advice literally, and when I have the honour of waiting on him, you shall always attend me.

Heaven bless you both, my good friends, said the Count; may he never know what happiness is who attempts to interrupt your felicity. It shall be my business to find out some employment for you, my fellow soldier, more profitable than playing on the

fiddle. In the mean time stay here till a coach comes, which shall bring you both this night to Paris; my servant shall provide lodgings for you, and the best surgeon for wooden legs that can be found. Adieu, my honest fellow; be kind to Fan|chon; she seems to deserve your love. Adieu, Fan|chon. I shall be happy to hear you are as fond of Dubois two years hence, as you are at present. So saying, he shook Dubois by the hand, saluted Fan|chon, pushed me into the carriage, and away we drove.

The Military Ardour of a corpulent General Officer, and Parade Devotion.

AT a certain parade where the Sovereign himself was present, and many officers assembled, a corpulent general officer suddenly started, as if he had seen something preternatural. He immediately waddled towards the ranks with all the expedition of a terrified gander. It was surprising to the spec|tators, what had put his excellency into a commo|tion so little suitable to his years and habit of body. While they were on tip-toe to observe the issue of this phaenomenon, he arrived at the ranks, and in great wrath, which probably had been augmented by the heat acquired in his course, he pulled off one of the soldiers hats, which it seems had not been properly cocked, and adjusted it to his mind. Hav|ing regulated the military discipline in this impor|tant particular, he returned to the Prince's right hand, with a strut expressive of the highest self-approbation.

At Heidelberg in Germany, not only the soldiers' musquets and the attitudes of their bodies, but also their devotions are under the direction of the Major's cane. The following motions are performed, as part of the military manouvres every day, before

the troops are marched to their different guards. The Major flourishes his cane, the drum beats a sin|gle tap, and every man under arms raises his hand to his hat; at a second stroke on the drum, they take off their hats, and are supposed to pray: at a third they finish their petitions, and put their hats on their heads. If any man her the assurance to prolong his prayer a minute longer than the drum indicates, he is punished on the spot, and taught to be less devout in future. The ingenious inventor of drums certainly never dreamt of their becoming the regulators of people's piety. But the modern improvements in the military art are very wonder|ful! and we need not despair after this, of seeing a whole regiment, by the proof of discipline, so mod|elled as to eat, drink, and perform other animal func|tions, uniformly together at the word of command, as they poise their firelocks.

Revenge of a Tobacconist, as related by Dr. M.

AS I was riding one day along the banks of the Maine, near the village of Heix, which is in the territory of the elector of Mentz, I observed a building which s••emed to be the residence of some prince or bishop at least. I was surprised I never had heard it spoken of, as it had a more magnificent appearance than any modern building I had seen in Germany. I rode up, and upon entering it, found that the apartments within (though not laid out in the best taste) seemed to correspond in point of expence with the external appearance.

I was informed by the workmen, who were em|ployed in finishing these apartments, that this pal|ace belonged to a Tobacconist in Frankfort, where he still kept a shop, and had accumulated a prodi|gious fortune by making and selling snuff.

Near to the principal house is another great build|ing intended for a workhouse, in which tobacco is to be manufactured, with many apartments for the workmen, and vaulted cellars in which the various kinds of snuff are to be kept moist, till sent for in|land sale to Frankfort, or shipped at the Maine for foreign markets.

The owner informed me, that there were exactly three hundred rooms in both buildings, and the greater number of these belonged to the dwelling-house. I did not chuse to puzzle the man by diffi|cult questions, and therefore refrained from inqui|ring what use he intended to make of such an ama|zing number of rooms, which seemed rather con|trived as barracks for two or three thousand soldiers, than for any other purpose.

When I returned to town I was informed, that this person is not a native of Frankfort, though he has been many years established there, and had ap|plied to the magistrates for liberty to purchase a certain spot of ground, on which he proposed to build a dwelling-house, &c. which cannot be done without the consent of the magistrates. This be|ing refused, he bought a piece of land in the territo|ry of Mentz, immediately beyond that of Franck|fort, and on the banks of the Maine; and being highly piqued by the refusal he had met with from the magistrates, he reared a building greatly larger and more extensive than was necessary, or than he first intended, in full persuasion that the remorse of the magistrates would be in proportion to the size of his fabric. The Tobacconist has already expended Fifty thousand pounds on this temple of vengeance, and his wrath against the magistrates seems still unappeased, for he continues to lavish his money with a rancour against these unfortunate men, that is very unbecoming a Christian. The inhabitants of Franckfort, while they acknowledge th•• impru|dence of the magistrates, do not applaud the wisdom

of their antagonist, in whose brain they assert there must be some apartments as empty as any in the vast structure he is building.

Variety of Manners illustrated in the different Behaviour of a French and German Postilion.

A French postillion is generally either laughing or fretting, or singing or swearing, all the time he is on the road. If a hill or a bad road oblige him to go slow, he will of a sudden fall a cracking his whip over his head for a quarter of an hour together, without rhime or reason; for he knows the horses cannot go a bit faster, neither does he mean they should. All this noise and emotion therefore means nothing, and proceeds entirely from that natural abhorrence of quiet, which every Frenchman sucks in with his mother's milk.

A German postillion on the contrary, drives four horses with all possible tranquillity. He neither sings, nor frets, nor laughs. He only smokes, and when he comes near a narrow defile, he sounds his trumpet, to prevent any carriage from entering at the other end till he has got through. If you call to him to go faster, he turns about, looks you in the face, takes his pipe from his mouth and says, Yau, Mynheer, Yau, Yau, and then proceeds exactly in the same pace as before. He is no way affected whether the road be good or bad; whether it rains or shines, or snows, and he seems to be totally regardless of the people whom he drives, and equally callous to their reproach or applause. He has one object of which he never loses sight, which is to conduct your chaise and its contents from one post to another, in the manner he thinks best for himself and his hor|ses. And unless his pipe goes out (in which case he strikes his flint and rekindles it) he seems not to

have any other idea during the whole journey. The best course is ••o let him have his own way at first, for it will come to that at last, all noise and bluster is in vain.

Violent Passion for Literature in a Court Lady at Brunswick.

THE character of a sovereign at every court, has great influence in forming the taste and man|ners of courtiers. This must operate with increased force in the little court of Germany, where the par|ties are brought nearer to each other, and spend most of their time together. The pleasure which the Duchess of Brunswick takes in study, has made reading very fashionable among the ladies of the court. The following curious instance is a sufficient proof of it:

A lady whose education had been neglected in her youth, and who had arrived at a very ripe age with|out perceiving any inconvenience from the accident, had obtained by the interest of some of her relations, a place at the court of Brunswick. She had not been there long before she perceived that the con|versation in the Duchess' apartments frequently turned upon subjects of which she was intirely ig|norant, and that those ladies had most of her Royal Highness' ear who were best acquainted with books. She regreted for the first time, the neglect of her own education, and although she had hitherto con|sidered that kind of knowledge, which is derived from reading as unbecoming a woman of quality, yet as it was now fashionable at court she resolved to study hard, that she might get on the top of the mode as fast as possible. She mentioned this resolu|tion to the Duchess, desiring at the same time that her Highness would lend her a book to begin. The

Duchess applauded her design, and promised to send one of the most useful in her library, it was a French and German dictionary. Some days after, her Highness enquired how she relished the book. In|finitely, replied this studious lady. It is the most delightful book I ever saw. The sentences are all short and easily understood, and the letters charm|ingly arranged in ranks like soldiers on the parade; whereas in some other books which I have seen, they are mingled together in a confused manner like a mob, so that it is no pleasure to look at them, and very difficult to know what they mean. But I am no longer surprised, added, she, at the satisfaction your royal Highness takes in study.

The ruling Passion of the late King of Prussia.

IN the bed-chamber where the late King of Prussia died, at the lower part of the window, four panes of glass have been removed, and a piece of glass equal in size to the four put together, supplies the place. His late Majesty's supreme delight through life had been to see his troops exercise, and he re|tained this passion to his latest breath. When he was confined to his room by his last illness, he used to sit and view them through the window which had been framed in this manner, that he might enjoy these dying contemplations with greater conveniency. Beeoming gradually weaker by the increase of the distemper, he could not sit, but was obliged to lie on a couch through the day. When at any time he was uncommonly languid, they raised his head to the window, and a sight of the men under arms was perceived to operate like a cordial to his fainting spirits. By frequent repetition, however, even this cordial lost its effect. His eyes became dim when his head was raised, he could no longer perceive his soldiers, and he expired.

The original of the letter (from which the following is an extract) was written to a citizen of London, under a violent fit of the gout, and was first pub|lished in the reign of king William the Third. As it abounds with genuine humour, we submit its perusal to our Readers.

Honors of the Gout.

SIR,

I OWE you a great many obligations; but I hear you are going to rid me of them all, by doing me a great piece of disservice. Why, Sir, I am in|formed, that your worship, not having a right sense of things, nor the fear of God before your eyes, should (to the disgrace of your own virtue) give your tongue liberty in an open coffee-house to speak ill of the gout. The gout was sent in mercy down from Heaven to lengthen w••sting life; the seat of this friendly daemon, by whom every afflicted man receives a thousand more blessings than Socrates ever did by his; the seat I say is in the nervous parts, he commonly visits the internodia of the bones of the feet; sometimes the hip, the knee, the elbow, shoulder, wrist, and ancle. But to prove its divine original, I will proceed more methodically, and from his lowest commendations ascend to his highest by six degrees, till I have raised him above the stars, and entered him among the celestial spirits, to whom, Sir, you will then be tempted to offer up your orisons in the prescribed form, at the end of an old manuscript-••issal, communicated to me by a learned antiquary. The form is this:—

Blessed gout, most desirable gout, sovereign antidote of murdering maladies, powerful corrector of intem|perance, deign to visit me with thy purging fires, and throw off the tophous injury which I may have received by wine and wit, too hard for the virtue of a devotee upon a holy festival; but fail

not thy humble suppliant, who needs thy friendly help to keep his tot••ering tenement in order; fail him not every vernal and autumnal equinox.

I know some precise Doctors are against all invo|cation of saints; at present I shall not dispute with them; but they must grant me, that there is much more to be said in justification of such a prayer to the gout, than can be said for the offices directed to any other saints, not excepting the virgin. I defy their worshipp••rs to prove, that there has been the tithe of so much good done by them all; as I shall prove has been done by the beneficial gout.

First, The gout gives a man pain without danger. Pain without danger is a blessed thing. For instance, suffering under a painful threatning distemper. What is the first question, (Doctor pray be plain with me, and let me truly know what I am to ex|pect, don't flatter a sick man, but tell me) Am I likely to recover or not? The pain he suffers, you see does not at all trouble him, he is only afraid he shall die, secure him from that danger, and all is well with him.

When the Doctor comes (the physician of the soul I mean, whose coming bodes no good to the body) he tells the patient a long story of the pains and miseries of life, in order to make his nunc dimittis go down the easier; but that method seldom is at|tended with success, for he is contented to live, and will take his chance for the rest.

It may be said, that gouty persons escape death no more than any other men, which is very true, but that is because men are fools, and do not know when they are safe; they must be curing the gout forsooth, and on this account deal with the Doctor, who is the purveyor of the grave, and good at cal|cining nothing but living bodies into dust and ashes. Let every one bear his own burden; the gout has nothing to do with the carnage of a Doctor; and now, Sir, let me tell you a story, the famous Willis

shall be my voucher, who dissected the body of the learned, reverend, and pious Dr. Hammond, killed purely by his friend, who unhappily taught him a medicine to cure the gout; upon the success of that medicine, the Doctor's old ••ephritic pains returned, and in a fortnight dispatched him.

Therefore, Sir, for your own sake, for your lady's sake, and for your children's sake, welcome the gout to your house, and if you shut all the doors against the physician, I will warrant you for upwards of a hundred. How glad shall I be to see them pull chalk-stones out of your worship's feet, some forty or fifty years hence; by that time you will have learned so much patience as never to roar for the matter. But if you do roar, they who look on, if they love life, will envy, not pity you. Indeed you are already a fit object for the envy of thinking men, for I have heard you confess, that your's is an hered|itary gout, and that is for the better; an hereditary gout is a far greater happiness than an acquired one; what a deal of intemperance, and amorous excesses might it have cost your worship to have got the gout before forty? Whereas now you have got the mighty blessing for nothing; it is your birth-right, Sir; never think of parting with it.

Second, The gout is no constant companion, but allows his patient lucid joyous intervals.

Human nature is so framed, that no one thing is agreeable to it always, therefore it is well for us that the world is so full of changes; the earth we tread on, the seas we sail on, the air we breathe in, the starry firmament expanded round us, have their con|tinual vicissitudes which make all for our advantage and delight. How welcome is a guest that knows when to be gone? But, if his stay be longer than ordinary, we are ready to thrust him out of doors. Whatever some impatient weak minds may think, it is manifest, that the gout, by his coming and going, takes the right course to be very agreeable and obli|ging.

Weak people may curse the gout, and wish to be wholly excused from his intermitting visits; but I look upon such people, as men who are weary of the world, and being willing to leave it, I grant they have reason to be angry with the gout, that folds their mortality so fast about them.

Courage, Sir, and be advised by me, it is good advice I am giving, and you shall have it gratis. When your foot swells, and burns, and throbs, ban|ish all foolish sorrow and repining; instead whereof, let swelling joys dilate your generous breast; when sharp fermenting juices shall meet, and by their fu|rious contest cause cruel twitchings of your nervous fibres, comfort your heart and be extremely pleased; but touch not, taste not the Doctor's emulsions, julips, &c. so let your friend the gout take his course and maul you soundly. O! so easy, so pleased, so joy|ous, so happy, so blessed will you be, when the turn of health shall come; why, Sir, you will be in hea|ven, while you are on earth; you will be entirely beatified on this side the grave. I am of opinion, Sir, that you are nearly converted to my sentiments already, but for fear that you are not a complete proselyte, I will proceed to the third head; I have no doubt, before I have done with you, to make you rather part with your eyes than your true friend.

Third, The gout presents you with a perpetual almanack; and that it never may be out of the way, but ready always for your worship's use, safely deposits it in the internodia of your bones. Barom|eters, thermometers, and others the inventions of men, not yet perfect masters of their arts, serve more for the delight, than the use of the curious; but the useful pains of the gout, give your honour trusty prognostics of the season. As often as a moist con|stitution of the year, south or north winds, or snow are at hand, you predict those things from the ex|cesses of your pains; and by the absence of your pains, you forbode the contrary; so one way or other your bone almanack serves for all changes.

Fourth, Gouty persons are most free from the head-ach.

The heavy recrement of the blood and nervous juice, always fall downwards to the gouty joints. Persons much favoured by the gout, upon every long absence of that best friend, (whether occasioned by unknown accidents, or unwise recourses to the Doctor) exchange their freedom from the gout, for pain more intense and dangerous; but of all other pains, they are extremely subject to the head-ach; but as soon as ever the g••ut pleases to re••isit them, (forgiving their ingratitude) presently the weather breaks up, the nerves are relaxed, the sibres unmo|lested, the membranes and muscles recover their right tone, while the inimicous contesting particles are thrown down to the remote parts of the body.

Fifth, The gout preserves its patients from the great danger of fevers.

Gouty persons, as they live free from the dreadful pains of the head-ach, so likewise from the scorch|ing heat of fevers. There is not certainly a severer torment than a burning fever, nor a more sovereign antidote than the medicinal gout; so that it is a truth clear as the sun, if more people had the gout, fewer would die of a fever. Having placed these things in a light so forcible, I am strongly persuaded that not your worship only, but the generality of the age will put their prejudice aside, and yield to the truth here ascertained; and instead of the old parting compliments, "Save you, Sir; God keep you in good health" — I question not but we shall say, "The gout d••••••d you, Sir; God give you the gout —" for we ought not to hope for a blessing without the means. To wish a man the gout, is to wish him that which withdraws fuel from diseases, and pre|serves life at so cheap a rate, it costs a man nothing but patience.

It has been the opinion of some writers, that none can be saved who die of the plague; but in judging

of the future state of others, I think it best to ven|ture being mistaken on the charitable side; and therefore I would sooner believe, that none can be damned who have the gout; and I must tell your worship, that I have known a less probable sign of salvation given by a clergyman to his hearers.

Sixth, To crown the honour of the gout, it is not to be cured.

The gout defies all your gross Galenical methods, and all your exalted chymical preparations; for the conjunct causes thereof lie in parts so very remote, that the virtues of no medicines can reach them, and Heaven be praised for it; for why, Sir, would you cure (as you call it) the gout, which gives you pain without danger; a better taste of health by an acquaintance with pain, a knowledge of future things, freedom from the head-ach, and from severs? I hope, my dear friend, you and I shall be better advised than to tamper with the gout, which really is not to be cured. The fear of losing a blessing, takes off from the pleasure of enjoying it. Thieves may plunder your house, age will ruin your beauty, envy may hurt your reputation, bribes corrupt your faith; but the gout is a sure inheritance, neither thieves nor knaves, neither time nor envy, nor any thing else can deprive you of it. They say there is more care and trouble in keeping an estate than in getting it; as for the gout, there may be some trou|ble in getting it, though that is mixed with plea|sure too; but no man is put to the least care or trouble for the safe keeping of the gout; he may endure misery enough indeed, if ••e went to the physician for the cure of it. You cannot be always young and handsome, but gouty once, and gouty always, thence came the proverb, "Drink claret and have the gout; and drink no claret and still have it." The gout, it is true, is the reward of som•• works, but there is no forfeiting it; and therefore it is preferable to an imperial crown.

Sir, I thought to have taken a larger view of the excellency of the g••ut, but alas! the violent fit I have laboured under for these three short nights and days abates, the intenseness of my pains consid|erably remits, and therefore I am forced to break off abru••tly; for I am sensible that no man can do honor to the gout by a just and adequate p••negyric, but he who at the time of writing feels it in extremity.

Striking Example of Generosity, exemplified in the Conduct of the Chevalier Bayard.

IN the war carried on by Lewis XII. of France against the Venetians, the town of Brescia being taken by storm, and abandoned to the soldiers, suf|fered for seven days all the distress••s of cruelty and av••rice. No house escaped but that where C••eva|lier Bayard lodged. At his entrance, the mistress, a woman of figure, fell at his feet, and deeply sobb|ing, "O my lord, save my life, s••ve the honour of my daughters" "Take courage, madam (said the Chevalier) your life and their honour shall be secure while I have life." The two young ladies, brought from their hiding place were presented to him; and the family thus re-united, bestowed their whole attention on their de••iverer. A dangerous wound he had receiv••d, gave them an opportu••ity to express their zeal: they employed a notable surgeon, they attended him 〈◊〉〈◊〉 turn day and night: and when ••e could be••r to be amused, they entert••i••ed him with concerts of music. Upon the day fixed for his de|parture, the mother said to him, "To your good|ness, my lord, we owe our life, and to you all that we have belongs by right of war; but we hope, from your sig••••l benevolence, that this slight trib|ute will content you," placing upon the table an iron coffer full of money, "What is the sum?" said

the Chevalier, "My lord, (answered she trembling) no more than 2500 ducats, all that we have; but if more be necessary, we will try our friends." "Madam, (said he) I never shall forget your kind|ness, more precious in my eyes than an hundred thousand ducats Take back your money, and de|pend always on me." "My good lord, you kill me to refuse this small sum: take it only as a mark of your friendship to my family."—"Well, (said he) since it will oblige you, I take the money; but give me the satisfaction of bidding adieu to your amiable daughters." They came to him with looks of re|gard and affection; "Ladies (said he) the impres|sion you have made on my heart, will never wear out. What return to make, I know not, for men of my profession are seldom opulent: but here are 2500 ducats, of which the generosity of your mother has given me the disposal; accept them as a mar|riage present; and may your happiness in marriage be equal to your merit." "Flower of chivalry, (said the mother) may the God who suffered death for us, reward you here, and hereafter."

Astonishing Proof of Parental and Filial Affec|tion, heightened by the most unbounded Mag|nanimity.

IN Admiral Watson's ship, at the siege of Chan|dernagore, Captain Speke and his ••o••, a youth of sixteen, were both of them wounded by the same shot. The Captain, whose leg was hanging by the skin, said to the Admiral, "Indeed, Sir, this was a cruel shot, to knock down both father and son." Mr. Watson's heart was too full for a reply; he only ordered both to be carried down to the surgeon. The Captain, who was first brought down, told Mr.

Ives the surgeon, how dangerously his Billy had been wounded. Presently after the brave youth ap|peared, with his eyes overflowing with tears, not for himself, but for his father. Upon Mr. Ives assuring him that his father's wound was not dan|gerous, he became c••lm, but refused to be touched, till his father's wound was first dressed. Then point|ing to a fellow sufferer, "Pray, Sir, dress also that poor man who is groaning so sadly beside me." Mr. Ives told him that the man had been already taken care of, and begged that he now might have the liberty to examine his wound. He submitted, and calmly said, "Sir, I fear you must amputate above the joint." The surgeon replied, "My dear, I must." He clasped his hands together, and lifting up his eyes towards heaven, he offered up the following short, but earnest petition: "Good God! do thou enable me to behave in my present circumstances, worthy of my father." He then said he was all submission. The operation was performed above the joint of the knee; and during the whole time, the intrepid youth never spoke a word, nor uttered a groan that could be heard at the distance of a yard. It is easier to imagine, than to express the feelings of the father at this time: but whatever he felt, tears were the only expression. Both of them were carried to Calcutta: the father was lodged in the house of his brother-in-law; and the son was placed with the surgeon in the hospital. For the first week, comfort was given to them both, by car|rying good tidings of one another. But, alas! all the good symptoms that had attended the young man, began to disappear. The Captain perceived all in the surgeon's countenance; and so very un|willing was he to add to the distress of the latter, as seldom to speak about his son. One time he said, "How long, my friend, do you think my Billy may remain in a state of uncertainty?" Mr. Ives replied, "If he survives the fifteenth day after

the operation, there would be strong hopes of his recovery." On the thirteenth he died; ••nd on the sixteenth the captain said, with great energy, "Well, Ives, how fares it with my boy?" Dis••overing the truth from Mr. Ives's silence, he cried bitterly, and begged to be left alone for half an hour. When Mr. Ives returned, he ••ppeared, as he ever after did, perfectly calm and s••••ene. The excellent youth had been delirious the evening b••fore his death; and at two o'clock in the morning, he sent the sur|geon a note written with a pencil, of which the fol|lowing is a copy: "Mr. Ives will consider the dis|order a son must be in when he is dyi••g, and is yet in doubt about his father If Mr. Ives is not too busy to honour this note, which nothing but the greatest uneasiness could draw from me, the boy waits an answer." Mr. Ives immediately repaired to him; and he had still sense enough to know him. He then said, "A••d is ••e dead?" "Who, my dear?" "My father, Sir," "No, my love; ••or is he in any danger, he is almost well" "I tha••k God: I am now satisfied, and am ready to die" He had a locked jaw, and was in great pain, but Mr. Ives understood every word he uttered. He b••gged his pardon for having disturbed him at so early an hour; and before the day was ended, he surrendered a life that merited much.

A Guilty Conscience its own Punishment. Singular Motives for a Murder.

JOHN, Duke of Britanny, commonly termed the good Duke, illustrious for gener••sity, clemency and piety, reigned forty-three years wholly empl••yed about the g••o•• of his subjects. He w••s succeeded by his eldest son, Francis, a prince we••k and suspi|cious, and consequently fit to be governed. Arthur

of Montauban, in love with the wife of Gilles, bro|ther to the Duke, persuaded the Duke that his bro|ther was laying plots to dethrone him. Gilles being imprisoned, the Duke's best friends conjured him to pity his unhappy brother, who might be impru|dent, but assuredly was innocent; but in vain. Gilles being prosecuted before the three estates of the province for high treason, was unanimously absolved, which irritated the Duke more and more. Arthur of Montauban artfully suggested to his master to try poison; which having miscarried, they next resolved to starve the prisoner to death. The un|fortunate prince, through the bars of a window, cried aloud for bread; but the passengers durst not supply him. One poor woman only had courage more than once, to slip some bread within the win|dow. He charged a priest, who had received his confession, to declare to the Duke, "That seeing justice was refused him in this world, he appealed to Heaven, and called upon the Duke to appear before the judgment seat of God in forty days." The Duke and his favourite, amazed that the prince lived so long without nourishment, employed assas|sins to smother him in his bed-cloaths. The priest, in obedience to the orders he had received, present|ed himself before the Duke, and with a loud voice, cited him in the name of the deceased lord Gilles, to appear before God in forty days. Shame and re|morse verified the prediction. The Duke was seized with a sudden terror; and the image of his brother, expiring by his orders, haunted him day and night. He decayed daily, without any marks of a regular disease, and died within the forty days, in frightful agony.

A Prussian peasant accompanied some of his com|panions to the house of a fellow who assumed the character of a fortune-teller; and having disobli|ged him, by expressing a contempt of his art, the

fellow out of revenge prophesied, that this man should die on a scaffold. This seemed to make lit|tle impression at the time, but afterwards recurred often to this unhappy creature's memory, and be|came everyday more troublesome to his imagination. At length the idea haunted his mind so incessantly, that he was rendered perfectly miserable, and could no longer endure life.

He would have put himself to death with his own hands, had he not been de••erred by the opinion, that God Almighty never forgives suicide; though upon repentance he is very ready to pardon every other crime. He resolved, therefore, to commit murder, that he might be deprived of life by the hand of justice; and mingling a sentiment of ben|evolence with the cruelty of his intention, he reflec|ted, that if he murdered a grown person, he might possibly send a soul to hell. To avoid this, he de|termined to murder a child, who could not have committed any sin which deserved damnation, but dying in innocence, wou••d go immediately to Hea|ven. In consequence of these ideas, he actually murdered an infant of his master's, for whom he had always shewn an uncommon degree of fondness. Such was the strange account that this infatuated creature gave on his trial; and thus the random prophecy proved, as in many other cases, the cause of i••s own completion.

He was executed about two miles from Berlin. As soon as he ascended the scaffold, he took off his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was rolled down below his shoulders; his night-cap was pulled over his eyes; he was placed on his knees, and the executioner with a single stroke of a broad sword, severed his head from his body. It was the first time this exe|cutioner had perform 〈◊〉〈◊〉 there were two others of the same trade on the scaffold, who exhibited an in|stance of insensibility more shocking than the exe|cution. While the man's head rolled on the scaf|fold,

and the arteries of the trunk poured out their blood, those men with the gayest air imaginable, shook their brother by the hand, wished him joy, and clapped him on the back, congratulating him on the dextrous and effectual manner in which he had performed his office.

The following Advertisement appeared in the Dublin Universal Advertiser, about twelve Months ago. As they exhibit the Rivalship of two Frizures eminent in their Profession, it cannot be unentertaining.

ADVERTISEMENT I.

SIGNIOR Florentini, having taken into consider|ation the many inconveniences which attend the method of hair-dressing, formerly used by him|self, and still practised by M. St. Laurent, humbly proposes to the ladies of quality in this metropolis, his new method of stuccowing the head in the most fashionable taste, to last with very little repair dur|ing the whole session of parliament. Price only five guineas.

FLORENTINI.

N. B. He takes but one hour to build up the head, and two for baking it.

Answer by St. Laurent.

WHEREAS dere have appear vone scandalous avertisement of Signor Florentini, moch reflection on Mr. St. Laurent's capacite for hair|dressing; he defy said Signor Florentini to tell any inconvenience dat do attend his methods, odewise he shall consider said Florentini as boutes•••• and calumniateur.

St. LAURENT.

ADVERTISEMENT II. Florentini, who was not so good at English as the other, replies by his Interpreter.

WHEREAS Mr. St. Laurent has challenged Signior Florentini to produce an instance where his (St Laurent's) method of hair-dressing is inconvenient to the ladies; he begs to observe, that three rows of iron pins thrust into the skull, will not fail to cause a constant itching, a sensation that must distort the features of the face, and disable it so that a lady by degrees may lose the use of her face; besides the immense quantity of pomatum and pow|der, laid on for a genteel dressing, will after a week or two breed mites, a circumstance very disagreea|ble to gentlemen who do not love cheese; and also affords a foetid smell not to be endured. From which, and other objections too tedious to mention, Signior Florentini apprehends his new method is entirely free, and will admit of no reasonable excep|tion whatever.

FLORENTINI.

St. Laurent replies

HAH! hah! hah! dere is no objekshion den to Signior Florentini's way of frizing de hare of fine ladie? I shall tell him von, two, three, In de fourst place, he no consider, dat his stuccow will be crack, and be break by de frequent jol••s to ••ich all ladies are so sobject, and dat two hour baking ••ill spoil de complekshon, and hort de eyes. And as to his scandaleuse aspershon dat my method breed a de mite, so odious to gentlemen who do not love de cheese, I say 'tis false and malitiouse; and to make good vat I do say, I do invite all gentlemen of qualitie to examine de head of de Countesse of — (••at I had de honor to dress four week ago) next Monday at twelve o'clock, through Monsieur Closent's

great microscope, and see if dere be any mite dere, or oder ting like de mite vateer.

N. B. Any gentleman may smell her ladyship's head ven he please.

The controversy ended in a duel, but no hurt, as the combatants behaved like Flash and Fribble; but whatever was the cause, it is certain the mon|strous fashion soon ceased; and in a few months the ladies recovered their natural proportion, and be|came a piece of themselves.

Odd Way of bargaining for a Wife.

MERCATOR, who went originally from Lon|don, acquired a fortune in the island of Jamaica; he concluded with himself he could not be happy in the enjoyment of it, unless he shared it with a woman of merit; none of his acquaint|ance in the female line suited his inclination; he therefore determined to write for one to his corres|pondent in London, through whose means he had obtained his fortune and consequence. As he had been so much versed in mercantile matters, the stile of writing usual in that way of business still adhered to him. Therefore treating of love as he did of business, after giving his correspondent many com|missions, he reserved the following for the last, viz.

"Seeing that I have taken a resolution to marry, and that I do not find a suitable match for me here, do not fail to send me by next ship bound hither, a young woman of the qualification and form fol|lowing: as for a portion, I demand none; let her be of an honest family, between 20 and 25 years of age, of a middle stature, and well proportioned; her face agreeable, her temper mild, her character blame|less, her health good, and her constitution strong enough to bear the change of the climate▪ that

there may be no occasion to look out for a second through lack of the first, soon after she comes to hand; which must be provided against as much as possible, considering the great distance and the dan|gers of the sea. If she arrives, conditioned as above|said, with the letter endorsed by you, or at least an attested copy thereof, that there may be no mistake or imposition, I hereby oblige and engage myself to satisfy the said letter, by marrying the bearer at 15 days sight. In witness whereof I subscribe this, &c."

The London correspondent read over and over this odd commission, which put the future spouse on the same footing with the bales of goods he was to send his friend. He nevertheless complied with this ex|traordinary demand, and fixed his eyes upon a young person of a reputable family, but no fortune, of good humour, who had received a polite education, very well made, and more than tolerably handsome. The young lady received the proposal, as she had no subsistence but from a pe••tish old aunt. Equipped with necessaries for the voyage, an extract of the parish register, a certificate of her character signed by the curate, a corroborating attestation of her neighbours, and the following article in the invoice, she set sail in the same ship with the other commis|sioned goods;—"Item, a maid of 21 years of age, of the quality, shape, and condition as per order; as appears by the affidavits and certificates she has to produce."

The goodness of her constitution was likewise cer|tified by four eminent physicians. Letters of advice were sent previous to her departure, so that Merca|tor was in full expectation of her arrival. He was on the look out when the ship arrived, was charmed with her distinguished beauty, and inquired if she was the lady recommended by his friend. She pro|duced his own letter with this indorsement, "The bearer of this is the person you ordered me to send you." "Is it so, Madam," said Mercator, "I never

yet suffered my bills to be protested, and I swear this shall not be the first; I shall reckon myself the happiest of all men, if you will allow me to discharge it." She replied, "Sir, I am the more willing to do this, as I was apprized of your character before I sailed, which has been confirmed by several per|sons of credit on board, who know you very well." This int••rview was followed by an almost immediate celebration of the nuptials, and they are this day the happiest couple in the whole island.

Anecdote of the late Duke of Montagu.

THE late Duke of Montagu who resided in St. James's Park, frequently observed a middle aged man in something like a military dress, of which the lace was much tarnished, and the cloth worn thread-bare; who always appeared at a certain hour in the mall. His countenance was grave and solemn; and he took no notice of the gay croud that was passing by him.

The Duke singled him out as a fit object for a frolic. He began to exercise his mirth by inquiring into his history; he soon learnt that he was a redu|ced officer upon half pay; that he had behaved with great bravery in the late war; that he had a wife and several children, whom he was obliged to send into Yorkshire where they could live cheap; and that he had received a small pittance of his income to keep himself near the metropolis, where alone he could hope to obtain a more advantageous situation.

The Duke took an opportunity when the Captain was sitting alone upon one of the benches, buried in speculation, to send his gentleman to him with com|pliments and an invitation to dinner the next day. The Duke placed himself at a convenient distance, saw his messenger approach without being perceived,

and begin to speak without being heard; he saw his intended guest start at the message, and question its authenticity. The Captain was at length persuaded of its reality, though very much surprized at its singularity. He returned thanks for the honour intended him, and said he would wait upon his grace at the time appointed.

He came, the Duke received him with great civil|ity, took him aside, and with an air of secrecy in|formed him, that he was induced to give him this invitation at the particular request of a lady who had a most tender regard for him. The Captain was confounded, and seemed as if he did not know whether to receive it as an affront or a compliment. The Duke assured him upon his honour, that he had told him nothing but the strictest truth.

Dinner was announced. The Captain entered the room with great curiosity and wonder, which was not diminished, when he saw at the table his own wife and children. The Duke began his frolic by sending for them out of Yorkshire; which as much astonished the wife as the husband;— and took care she should have no opportunity of sending him a letter. This sudden unexpected meeting, produced very pleasing effects: it afforded the Duke much satisfaction; but it was with difficulty he got his guests quietly seated at table. Soon after dinner, word was brought that the Duke's solicitor attended. He was introduced, and pulled out a deed for the Duke to sign. He was desired to read it, and apol|ogized to the company for the interruption. The Captain and his wife were still more astonished if possible, when they found the writings contained a settlement of 200l. per annum upon them and their family. The instrument was executed, and the Duke presented it to the Captain, saying, "Sir, I beg your acceptance of this. I assure you it is the last thing I would have done, could I have laid out my money more to my satisfaction."

The GHOST.

A London gentleman went to see his relations in the country. The house was full, a wedding being celebrated there. Only one room was vacant. There no one chose to sleep, as it was supposed to be haunted. The London spark had no fear about him, and said he would sleep there. He fell asleep. About three in the morning he was wakened by the opening of the door, and the entrance of a young woman in appearance, with only a night dress on her head, and her shift on. This lovely appearance walked two or three times about the room, and at length laid itself down on the bed. The young gen|tleman did not much like his unknown bedfellow. He lay as far as he could on the other side. After some time he perceived his bedfellow breathe, and supposing her to be true flesh and blood, and no phantom, he ventured to touch her. He was con|firmed in his opinion, and finding a ring on her finger, he gently took it off. She lay some time, and he did not disturb her. She then got up, and went out of the room as she came in. The young gentleman perceived how the room was haunted, by a female walking in her sleep. The morning came. The family were inquisitive about him. He desired all the family might be summoned, when, lo! the ring fitted the eldest daughter's finger, who had been in great tribulation about the loss. "This, Sir," said he to the father, "is the lovely spirit which haunts the room." She declared herself per|fectly ignorant; but was convinced of its truth be|cause of the ring. "Well, Sir," said the father, "if you have no objection, since my daughter has been to bed to you, you shall go to bed to my daugh|ter; and there is 5000l. for her portion." The match was that day consummated.

A Character.

VOLATILIS called at Serenus's lodgings a few summers ago. Serenus had remained in town merely because he had no particular business elsewhere; but Volatilis assured him, that the town was a desart; that it was shameful to be seen in the streets; that all the world were at Brighthelmstone. Serenus allowed Volatilis to conduct him to that place, where they had remained only a few days, when the latter told the former, that none of the people he cared for were there; and as Serenus had nothing particular to detain him, Volatilis begged as a favour he would accompany him to Tunbridge. They went accordingly. Volatilis remained pretty quiet for four days; he yawned a good deal on the fifth, and the sixth his jaws were nearly dislocated. As he perceived Serenus was pleased with the place, and would take none of his hints about leaving it, he at last pretended that he had received a letter, which made it absolutely necessary for him to set out for London, and away he went.

Serenus stayed three weeks at Tunbridge. On his return to town, he understood that Volatilis had taken a genteel furnished house for the remainder of the summer in Yorkshire, where he had already passed a week, having engaged a female friend to go along with him. He left word in town that he was not to be expected till the meeting of Parliament. Though Serenus never imagined that he would re|main quite so long, yet he was a little surprised to see him enter his room a few days after he had re|ceived this information. He told Serenus he was quite disgusted with his house, and still more so with his companion; and besides, he had taken a violent fancy to go to Paris, which, said he, is the most delightful place in the world, especially in summer; for the company never think of rambling

about the country like our giddy fools in England; but remain together in the capital, as sensible peo|ple ought to do.

He then proposed that Serenus and himself should pack up a few things, take post, pass over and spend a couple of months at Paris. Finding Ser••nus did not relish the proposal, he wrote an apology to the lady in Yorkshire, with an inclosed bank bill, and set out next day by himself.

Serenus heard no more of him for six weeks, but at the end of that time, happening to be at Bath, saw his friend Volatilis enter the pump room. Egad! said he, Serenus, you were wise to stay at home; Paris is become the most insipid place on earth, I could not support it above ten days. But having heard a good deal of Holland, I took a journey to Amsterdam, which between friends I found very little more amusing than Paris; two days after my arrival, finding an English ship ready to sail, I thought it would be a pity to let the opportunity slip. So I ordered my trunk aboard. We had a disagreeable passage: however, I arrived safe a few days ago at Harwich.

FRA. PASQUAL.

IN a convent at Bologna, near Palermo, was for|merly a capuchin, known by the name of Fra. Pasqual, who had passed through many singular scenes of life, which it would be too long to recount. His last migration, or rather transmigration, was from one of the banditti in this kingdom, in which capacity he had been enrolled for some time; but tired of the danger and fatigue, to which he was perpetually exposed, he at last determined to change the character of the hero, for that of the saint, and try if it was not both safer and surer to rely on the weakness of others, than on our own strength.

Fra. Pasqual pretended a strong compunction for the transgressions of his past life, and made a prom|ise to the virgin, that the remainder of it should be spent in mortification and penance, to atone for them. To this end, Pasqual took the vows of pov|erty and chastity, and entered into all the rigours of the monastic life. For some weeks he behaved in a most exemplary manner; he went barefooted, wore a large rosary, and thicker cord of discipline than any monk in the convent; and his whole deport|ment gave testimony of the most unfeigned repen|tance; however, the devil was still at work in the heart of Fra. Pasqual, and all these external morti|fications made him work the harder; in short, he found it impossible to drive him out: Pasqual was sensible of this; and afraid lest the enemy should at last get the better of him, he thought it adviseable to leave at Palermo the character of sanctity he had acquired, and begin some where else upon a ••ew score. He embarked for Naples, where he was soon admitted into a capuchin convent.

As Pasqual knew from experience that the dull uniformity of the monastic life required some little amusements to render it supportable, the first thing he set about was to find a mistress. He made love to a lady of easy virtue, who soon admitted his ad|dresses, but at the same time informed him, that he had a formidable rival, who was jealous as a tyger, and would not fail to put them both to death, should he discover the intrigue. This was no other than a life-guard man, a fellow of six feet two inches high, with a vast spada, like that of Goliah, and a monstrous pair of curled whiskers, that would cast a damp upon the heart of any one man but Fra. Pas+qual; but the monastic life had not yet enervated him; he was accustomed to danger, and loved a few difficulties: however, as in his present charac|ter he could not be on a footing with his rival, he thought it best only to make use of prudence and

stratagem to supplant him: These are the ecclesiast|ical arms, and they generally have been found too hard for the military.

The lady promised him an interview, as soon as the court should go to Portici, where the life-guard|man's duty obliged him to attend the King. Pasqual waited with impatience for some time; at last the wished for night arrived; the King set off, after the opera, with all his guards. ••asqual flew like lightning to the arms of his mistress; the prelimin|aries were soon settled, and the happy lovers had just fallen asleep, when they were suddenly alarmed by a rap and a well known voice at the door. The lady started up in an agony of despair, assuring Pas|qual that they were both undone; that this was her lover: and if some expedient was not fallen upon, in the first transports of his fury, he would certainly put them both to death. There was no time for reflection; the life-guard-man demanded entrance in the most peremptory manner, and the lady was obliged to instant compliance. Pasqual had just time to gather his rags together, and cram himself below the bed; at that instant the door flew open, and the giant came in, rattling his arms and storming at his mistress, for having made him wait so long; however she soon pacified him. He then ordered her to strike a light, that he might see to undress: This struck Pasqual to the soul, and he gave himself up for lost; however, the lady's address saved him, when he least expected it; in bringing the tinder, she took care to let fall some water into the box; and all the beating she and her lover could beat, they could not produce one spark. Every stroke of the flint sound|ed in Pasqual's ears like his death knell; but when he heard the life guard-man swearing at the tinder for not kindling, he began to conceive some hopes, and blessed the fertile invention of woman. The lady told him he might easily get a light at the guard, which was at no great distance. Pasqual's heart

leaped for joy; but when the soldier answered that he was absent without leave, and durst not be seen, again it began to flag; but on his ordering her to go, it died within him, and now he found himself in greater danger than ever. The lady herself was disconcerted; but quickly recovering, she told him, it would be too long before she could get dressed; but advised him to go to the corner of a neighbour|ing street, where there was a lamp burning before the Virgin Mary, who could have no objection to his lighting a candle at it. Pasqual revived; but the soldier declared he was too much fatigued with his walk, and would rather undress in the dark; he at the same time began to grope for a bottle of liquor which he knew stood there. Pasqual shook like a quaker; however, still he escaped. The lady observ|ing what he was about, made a spring and got him the bottle, at the very instant he was within an inch of seizing Pasqual's head. The lady went to bed, and told her lover as it was a cold night, she would warm his place for him. Pasqual admired her ad|dress, and began to conceive some hopes of escaping.

His situation was the most irksome in the world; the bed was so low, that he had not room to move; and when the great heavy life guard-man entered it, he found himself squeezed down to the ground. He lay trembling and stifling his breath for some time, but found it absolutely impossible to support his sit|uation till morning; and indeed if he had, his clothes being scattered about, must infallibly dis|cover him: he therefore began to think of making his escape; but could not move without alarming his rival, who was now lying above him. At first he thought of rushing suddenly out, and throwing himself into the street; but this he disdained, and on second thoughts, determined, to seize the life guard-man's sword, and either put him to death, or make an honourable capitulation both for him|self and the lady. In the midst of these reflections

his rival began to snore, and Pasqual declares that no music was ever so grateful to his soul. He tried to stir a little, and finding that it did not awake the enemy, he by degrees worked himself out of his prison. He immediately laid hold of the great spa|da, when all his fears forsook him, and he felt as bold as a lion. He now relinquished the dastardly scheme of escaping, and only thought how he best could retaliate on his rival for all that he had made him suffer.

As Pasqual was stark naked, it was no more trou|ble to him to put on the soldier's clothes than his own; and as both his cloak and his cappouch toge|ther were not worth a sixpence, he thought it most eligible to equip himself a la militaire, and to leave his sacerdotal robes to the soldier. In a short time he was dressed cap-a-pee. His greasy cowl, his cloak, his sandals, his rosary, and his rope of discipline, he gathered together, and placed on a chair before the bed, and girding himself with a great buff belt, instead of the cordon of St. Francis, and grasping his trusty toledo instead of the crucifix, he sallied forth into the street. He pondered for some time what scheme to fall upon; and at first thought of returning in the character of another life-guard|man, pretending to be sent by the officer, with a guard in quest of his companion, who not being found in his quarters, was supposed to have deserted: and thus, after having made him pay heartily for all that he had suffered under the bed, to leave him to the enjoyment of his panic, and the elegant suit of clothes he had provided him. However, he was not satisfied with this revenge, and determined on one still more solid. He went to the guard, and told the officers that he had met a capuchin friar, with all the ensigns of his sanctity about him, sculk|ing through the streets in the dead of night, when they pretend to be employed in prayer for the sins of mankind. That prompted by curiosity to follow

him, the holy friar, as he expected, went straight to the house of a celebrated courtezan; that he saw him admitted, and listened at the window till he heard them go to bed together; that if he did not find this information to be true, he would resign himself his prisoner, and submit to whatever punishment he should think proper.

The officer and his guard, delighted to have such hold of a capuchin (who pretend to be the very models of sanctity, and who revile in a particular manner the licentious life of the military) turned out with the utmost alacrity, and under the conduct of Pasqual, surrounded the lady's house. Pasqual began thundering at the door; and demanded en|trance for the officer and his guard. The unhappy soldier waking with the noise, and not doubting that it was a detachment sent to seize him, gave himself up to despair, and instantly took shelter in the very place that Pasqual had so lately occupied; at the same time laying hold of all the things be found on the chair, never doubting that they were his own cloaths. As the lady was somewhat dila|tory in opening the door, Pasqual pretended to put his foot to it, when up it flew, and entering with the officer and his guard, demanded the body of a ca|puchin friar, who they were informed lodged with her that night. The lady had heard Pasqual go out, and having no suspicion that he would inform against himself, she protested her innocence in the most solemn manner, taking all the saints to witness that she knew no such person: But Pasqual suspect|ing the retreat of the lover, began groping below the bed, and soon pulled out his greasy cowl and cloak: "Here, (said he to the officer) here are proofs enough: I'll answer for it Signor Padre him|self is at no great distance;" and putting his nose below the bed; "Fogh (said he) I smell him; he stinks like a fox. The surest method of finding a capuchin is by the nose; you may wind him a mile

off." Then lowering their lanthorn, they beheld the unfortunate lover squeezed in betwixt the bed and the ground, and almost stifled. "Here he is (said Pasqual) with all the ensigns of his holiness;" and pulling them out one by one, the crucifix, the rosary, and the cord of discipline; "You may see, (said he) "that the reverend father came here to do penance;" and taking up the cord, "suppose now we should assist him in this meritorious work. Do you hear, Signor Padre? We will save you the trouble of inflicting it yourself, and whether you come here to sin, or to repent, by your own maxims, you know a little sound discipline is healthful to the soul." The guard were lying round the bed, in convulsions of laughter; and began breaking the most insolent jokes upon the supposed Padre. The life guard-man thought himself inchanted. He at last ventured to speak, and declared they were all in a mistake; that he was no capuchin: upon which the laugh redoubled, and the coarsest jokes were repeated. The lady, in the mean time, with the best dissembled marks of fear and astonishment, ran about the room, declaring that some sorcerer had been at work, and his incantations had taken their full effect. Pasqual delighted to see that his plan had operated well, thought it now time to make his retreat, before the unfortunate lover could have an opportunity of examining his clothes, and perhaps detecting him: He therefore pretended regimental business, and regretting much that he was obliged to join his corps, took leave of the officers and his guard; at the same time recommending by all means, to treat the holy father with all that reverence and respect that was due to so sacred a person.

The life guard man, when he got out from below the bed, began to look about for his clothes; but observing nothing but the greasy weeds of a capu|chin friar, he was now perfectly convinced, that Heaven had delivered him over, for his offences, to

the power of some daemon; (for of all mortals, the Neapolitan soldiers are the most superstitious) the lady, too acted her part so well, that he had no longer any doubt of it. "Thus it is (said he in a penitential voice) to offend Heaven! I own my sin: I knew it was Friday, and yet, O flesh! flesh! Had it been any other day, I still should have remained what I was. O, St. Januarius; I passed thee too, without paying thee due respect: thy all seeing eye has found me out. Gentlemen, do with me what you please; I am not what I seem to be." No, no, (said the officer) we are all sensible of that: But come, Signor Padre, on with your garments, and march; we have no time to trifle. Here corporal (giving him the cordon) tie his hands, and let him feel the weight of St. Francis. The saint owes him that, for having so impudently denied him for his master." The poor soldier was perfectly passive; they arrayed him in the sandals, the cowl and the cloak of Fra. Pasqual, and put the great rosary about his neck; and a most woeful figure he made. The officer made him look in the glass, to try if he could recollect himself, and asked him if he was a capu|chin now, or not. He was shocked at his own ap|pearance; but bore every thing with meekness and resignation. They then conducted him to the guard, belabouring him all the way with the cord of St. Francis, and asking him every stroke, if he knew his master now.

In the mean time, Pasqual was snug in his con|vent, enjoying the sweets of his adventure. He had a spare cloak and a cowl, and was soon equipped again like one of the holy fathers; he then took the clothes and accoutrements of the life-guard-man and laid them in a heap near the gate of another convent of capuchins, but at a great distance from his own, reserving only to himself a trifle of money, which he found in the breeches pocket, just to in|demnify him for the loss of his cloak and his cowl;

and even this, he says, he should have held sacred, but he knew whoever should find the clothes, would make a lawful prize of it.

The poor soldier remained next day a spectacle of ridicule to all the world; at last his companions ••••ard of his strange metamorphosis, and came in troops to see him: their jokes were perhaps still more galling than those of the guard; but as he thought himself under the finger of God, or at least of St. Januarius, he bore all with meekness and pa|tience: at last his clothes were found, and he was set at liberty; but he believes to this day, that the whole was the work of the devil, sent to chastise him for his sins; and has never since seen his mis|tress on a Friday, nor passed the statue of St. Janua|rius without muttering a prayer. Fra. Pasqual has told the story to several of his most intimate acquain|tance, whom he can depend on; among others, is the Abbe T. who has often had it from his own mouth.

Remarkable Life of a Strolling Player.

Written by Himself.

IT is necessary to say, that I am very well descend|ed; my ancestors have made some noise in the world; for my mother cried oysters, and my father beat a drum: I am told we have even had some trumpeters in our family. Many a nobleman can|not shew so respectable a genealogy: but that is neither here nor there. As I was their only child, my father designed to breed me up to his own em|ployment, which was that of drummer to a puppet|shew. Thus the whole employment of my younger years was tha•• of interpreter to punch and king Solomon in all his glory. But, though my father was very fond of instructing me in beating all the marches and points of war, I made no very great

progress, because I naturally had no ear for music; so, at the age of fifteen, I went and listed for a sol|dier. As I had ever hated beating a drum, so I soon found that I disliked carrying a musquet also; nei|ther the one trade nor the other were to my taste, for I was by nature fond of being a gentleman; be|sides, I was obliged to obey my captain; he has his will, and I have mine: now I very reasonably con|cluded, that it was much more comfortable for a man to obey his own will than another's.

The spleen was the consequence of leading a sol|dier's life; I asked leave to quit the service; but, as I was tall and strong, my Captain thanked me for my kind intention, and said, because he had a regard for me, we should not part. I wrote to my father a very dismal penitent letter, and desired that he would raise money to pay for my discharge; but the good man was as fo••d of drinking as I was, and those who are fond of drinking never pay for other people's discharges: in short, he never answered my letter. What could be done? If I have not money, said I to myself, to pay for my discharge, I must find an equivalent some other way; and that must be by running away. I deserted, and that answered my purpose every bit as well as if I had bought my dis|charge.

As I had by this means got rid of my military oc|cupation, I sold my soldier's cloaths, bought worse, and, in order not to be overtaken, took the most unfrequented roads possible. One evening, as I was entering a village, I perceived a man, whom I after|wards found to be the curate of the parish, thrown from his horse in a miry road, and almost smothered in the mud. He desired my assistance; I gave it, and drew him out with some difficulty. He thank|ed me for my trouble, and was going off; but I followed him home, for I loved always to have a man thank me at his own door. The curate asked an hundred questions; as whose son I was; from

whence I came; and whether I would be faithful. I answered him greatly to his satisfaction; and gave myself one of the best characters in the world for sobriety, discretion and fidelity. To make a long story short, he wanted a servant, and hired me. With him I lived but two months; we did not much like each other; I was fond of eating, and he gave me but little to eat: I loved a pretty girl, and the old woman, my fellow-servant, was ill-natured and ugly. As they endeavoured to starve me between them, I made a pious resolution to prevent their committing murder: I stole the eggs as soon as they were laid; I emptied every unfinished bottle that I could lay my hands on; whatever eatable came in my way was sure to disappear: in short, they found I would not do; so I was discharged one morning, and paid three shillings and six pence for two months wages.

I employed myself in making preparations for my departure, while my money was getting ready; two hens were hatching in an out-house, I went and took the eggs from habit, and, not to separate the parents from the children, I lodged hens and all in my knapsack. After this piece of frugality, I re|turned to receive my money, and with my knapsack on my back, and a staff in my hand, I bid adieu, with tears in my eyes, to my old benefactor. I had not gone far from the house, when I heard behind me the cry of 'stop thief'! but this only increased my dispatch; it would have been foolish to stop, as I knew the voice could not be levelled at me. I think I passed those months at the curate's without drinking; and I never spent two more pious, stupid months in all my life.

I happened to meet with a company of strolling players, after travelling some days. The moment I saw them at a distance, my heart warmed to them; I had a sort of natural love for every thing of the vagabond order: they were employed in settling

their baggage, which had been overturned in a nar|row way; I offered my assistance, which they ac|cepted; and we soon became so well acquainted, that they took me as a servant. This was a paradise to me; they sung, danced, drank, eat, and travel|led, all at the same time. By the blood of the Mira|bels, I thought I had never lived till then; I grew as merry as a grig, and laughed at every word that was spoken. They liked me as much as I liked them; I was a very good figure; and, though I was poor, I was not modest.

Above all things in the world, I love a straggling life; sometimes good, sometimes bad; to be warm to-day, and cold to-morrow; to eat when one can get it, and drink when it stands before me. We arrived that evening at Tenterden, and took a large room at the Greyhound; where we resolved to ex|hibit Romeo and Juliet, with the funeral procession, the grave, and the garden scene. Romeo was to be performed by a gentleman from the Theatre-Royal in D••ury-Lane; Juliet by a lady who had never ap|peared on any stage before; and I to snuff the can|dles: all excellent in our way. We had figures enough, but the difficulty was to dress them. The same coat that served Romeo, turned with the blue lining outwards, served for his friend Mercutio; a large piece of crape sufficed at once for Juliet's pet|ticoat and pall: a pestle and mortar from a neigh|bouring apothecary's answered all the purposes of a bell; and our landlord's own family, wrapped in white sheets, served to fill up the procession. In short, there were but three figures among us that might be said to be dressed with any propriety: I mean the nurse, the starved apothecary, and myself. Our performance give universal satisfaction: the whole audience were inchanted with our powers.

A strolling player may be ever sure of success, if he follows one rule; that is, in our theatrical way of expressing it, to make a great deal of the character.

To speak and act as in common life, is not playing, nor is it what people come to see: natural speaking, like sweet wine, runs glibly over the palate, and scarce leaves any taste behind it; but being high in a part, resembles vinegar, which grates upon the taste, and one feels it while he is drinking. To please in town or country, the way is, to cry, wring, cringe into attitudes, mark the emphasis, slap the pockets, and labour like one in the falling sickness: that is the way to work for applause; that is the way to gain it.

Our skill in this first exhibition established our reputation, and it was but natural for me to ascribe part of the success to myself; I snuffed the candles, and, let me tell you, that, without a candle-snuffer, the piece would lose half its embellishments▪ In this manner we continued a fortnight, and drew tol|erable houses; but the evening before our intended departure, we gave out our very best piece, in which all our strength was to be exerted. We had great expectations from this, and even doubled our prices, when behold one of the principal actors fell ill of a violent fever. This was a stroke like thunder to our little company: they were resolved to go in a body, to scold the man for falling sick at so inconvenient a time, and that too of a disorder that threatened to be expensive; I seized the moment, and offered to act the part myself in his stead. The case was des|perate; they accepted my offer; and I accordingly sat down, with the part in my hand, and a tankard before me, and studied the character, which was to be rehearsed the next day, and played soon after.

Drinking, I found, helped my memory exceed|ingly. I learned my part with astonishing rapidity, and bid adieu to snuffing candles ever after. I found that nature had designed me for more noble employ|ments, and I was resolved to take her when in the humour. We got together in order to rehearse, and I informed my companions, masters now no

longer, of the surprising change I felt within me. Let the sick man, said I, be under no uneasiness to get well again; I will fill his place to universal sat|isfaction; he may even die if he thinks proper; I will engage that he shall never be missed. I rehear|sed before them, strutted, ranted, and received ap|plause. They soon gave out that a new actor of eminence was to appear, and immediately all the genteel places were bespoke. Before I ascended the stage, however, I concluded within myself, that, as I brought money to the house, I ought to have my share in the profits. Gentlemen, (said I, addressing our company) I do not pretend to direct you; far be if from me to treat you with so much ingratitude: you have published my name in the bills, with the utmost good nature; and, as affairs stand, cannot act without me; so, gentlemen, to shew you my gratitude, I expect to be paid for my acting as much as any of you, otherwise I declare off. I will bran|dish my snuffers, and clip candles as usual. This was a very disagreeable proposal, but they found it was impossible to refuse it; it was irresistible, it was adamant: they consented, and I went on in king Bajazet: my frowning brows, bound with a stocking stuffed into a turban, while on my captived arms I brandished a jack-chain.

I was tall, and had a loud voice; nature indeed had fitted me for the part: my very entrance excited universal applause; I looked round on the audience with a smile, and made a most low and graceful bow, for that is the rule among us. As it was a very passionate part, I invigorated my spirits with three full glasses of brandy. By Alla! it is almost incon|ceivable how I went through it: Tamerlane was but a fool to me; though he was sometimes loud enough too, yet I was still louder than he: but then, besides, I had attitudes in abundance: in general I kept my arms folded upon the pit of my stomach; it is the way at Drury-Lane, and has always had a fine effect.

In short, I came off like a prodigy; and, such was my success, that I could ravish the laurels even from a sirloin of beef. The principal gentlemen and ladies of the town came to me, after the play was over, to compliment me upon my success; one praised my voice, another my person; upon my word, says the 'squire's lady, he will make one of the finest actors in Europe; I say it, and I think I am some|thing of a judge.—Praise in the beginning is agree|able enough, and we receive it as a favour; but when it comes in great quantities we regard it only as a debt, which nothing but our merit could extort: instead of thanking them, I internally applauded myself. We were desired to give our piece a second time; we obeyed, and I was applauded even more than before.

In order to be at a horse-race at some distance from thence, we left the town. I shall never think of Tenterden without tears of gratitude and respect. The ladies and gentlemen there, take my word for it, are very good judges of plays and actors. We quitted the town, I say; and there was a wide diff|erence between my coming in and going out; I en|tered the town a candle-snuffer, and I quitted it an hero!—Such is the world; little to-day, and great to-morrow. I could say a great deal more upon that subject, something truly sublime, upon the ups and downs of fortune; but it would give you the spleen, and so I shall pass it over.

Before we arrived at the next town, the races were ended, which was no small disappointment to our company; however, we were resolved to take all we could get. I played capital characters there too, and came off with my usual brilliancy. I sincerely believe I should have been the first actor in Europe, had my growing merit been properly cultivated; but there came an unkindly frost which nipped me in the bud, and levelled me once more down to the common standard of humanity. I played Sir Harry

Wildair; all the country ladies were charmed if I but drew out my snuff-box, the whole house was in a roar of rapture; when I exercised my cudgel, I thought they would have fallen into convulsions.

As bad luck would have it, there was here a lady who had received an education of nine months in London; and this gave her pretensions to taste, which rendered her the indisputable mistress of the cere|monies wherever she came. She was informed of my merits; every body praised me; yet she refused at first going to see me perform; she could not con|ceive, she said, any thing but stuff from a stroller; talked something in praise of Garrick, and amazed the ladies with her skill in enunciations, tones, and cadences: she was at last, however, prevailed upon to go; and it was privately intimated to me what a judge was to be present at my next exhibition: how|ever, no way intimidated, I came on in Sir Harry, one hand stuck in my breeches, and the other in my bosom, as usual at Drury-Lane; but, instead of look|ing at me, I perceived the whole audience had their eyes turned upon the lady who had been nine months in London; from her they expected the decision which was to secure the General's truncheon in my hand, or sink me down into a theatrical letter-car|rier. I opened my snuff-box, took snuff; the lady was solemn, and so were the rest; I broke my cudgel on Alderman Smuggler's back; still gloomy, melan|choly all, the lady groaned and shrugged her shoul|ders; I attempted, by laughing myself to excite at least a smile; but not a cheek could I perceive wrinkled into sympathy: I found it would not do; all my good humour now became forced; my laugh|ter was converted into hysteric grinning; and, while I pretended spirits, my eye shewed the agony of my heart: in short, the lady came with an intention to be displeased, and displeased she was; my fame expired for ever!

Proof of the Necessity of an early Choice of our Profession, and Perseverance in it, exemplified in the remarkable Conduct of Polyphilus.

IT is never without very melancholy reflections, that we can observe the misconduct or miscarriage of those men, who seem by the force of understand|ing, or extent of knowledge, exempted from the general frailties of human nature, and privileged from the common infelicities of life. Though the world is crouded with scenes of calamity, we look for the most part upon the general mass of wretchedness with very little regard, and fix our eyes upon the state of particular persons, whom the eminence of their qualities mark out from the multitude. As in reading the account of a battle, we seldom reflect on the vulgar heaps of slaughter, but follow the hero with our whole attention, through all the varieties of his fortune, without a thought of the thousands which are falling round him.

With the same kind of anxious veneration, I have for many years past, been making observations on the life of Polyphilus, a man whom all his acquaint|ances have, from his first appearance in the world, feared for the quickness of his discernment, and admired for the multiplicity of his attainments; but whose progress in life, and whose usefulness to man|kind have perhaps been hindered by the superfluity of his knowledge, and the celerity of his mind.

Polyphilus was remarkable at school for surpassing all his companions, without any visible application: and, at the university, was distinguished equally for his successful progress, as well through the rough and thorny mazes of science, as the smooth and flowing parts of politer literature; without any strict confinement to hours of study, or any remarkable forbearance of the common amusements of young men.

When Polyphilus was at the age in which men usually chuse their profession, and prepare to enter into a public character, every academical eye was fixed upon him; and all were curious to enquire what this universal genius would fix upon for the employment of life; and, no doubt was made but, that he would leave all his cotemporaries behind him, and mount to the highest honors of that class in which ••e should inlist himself, without those delays and pauses which must always be endured by meaner abilities.

Polyphilus, though by no means insolent, or as|suming, had been sufficiently encouraged by unin|terrupted success, to place great confidence in his own parts; and was not below his companions in the indulgence of his hopes and expectation of the astonishment with which the world would be struck, when first his lustre would break out upon it; nor could he help to join sometimes in the mirth of his friends, at the sudden disappearance of those, who having shone a while, and drawn the eyes of the public upon their feeble lustre, were now doomed to fade away before him.

It is natural for a man to catch advantageous no|tions of the condition, which those with whom he converses are striving to attain. Polyphilus, in a ramble to London, fell accidentally among the phy|sicians, and was so much pleased with the prospect of turning philosophy to profit, and so highly delighted with a new theory of fevers, which darted into his imagination, and which, after having considered, in a few hours, he found himself able to maintain against all the advocates for the ancient system, that he resolved to apply himself to anatomy, botany, and chemistry; and to leave no part unconquered, either of the animal, mineral, or vegetable kingdoms.

He, therefore, read authors, contrasted systems, and tried experiments. But unhappily, as he was going to see a new plant in flower at Chelsea, he met,

(in crossing Westminster, to take the water) the Chancellor's coach. He had the curiosity to follow him into the hall, where a remarkable cause hap|pened to be tried; and found himself able to produce so many arguments, which the lawyers had omitted on both sides, that he determined to quit physic for a profession in which he found it would be so easy to excel, and which promised high honours, and large profits, without melancholy attendance upon misery, mean submission to peevishness, and contin|ual interruption of rest and pleasure.

He immediately took chambers in the Temple, bought a common place book, and confined himself for some months to the perusal of the statutes, year books, pleadings, and reports. He was a constant hearer of the proceedings in the courts, and began to put cases with reasonable accuracy. But he soon discovered, by considering the patience of lawyers, that preferment was not to be got by acuteness, learning, and eloquence. He was perplexed by the absurdities of attornies, and misrepresentations made by his clients of their own causes; by the useless anxiety of the one, and the incessant impor|tunity of another. He began to repent of having devoted himself to a study, which was so narrow in its comprehension, which could never carry his name to any other country, and thought it unworthy of a man of parts, to sell his life only for money. The barrenness of his fellow students, forced him general|ly into other company at his hours of entertainment; and among the varieties of conversation through which his curiosity was daily wandering, he, by chance, mingled at a tavern with some intelligent officers of the army. A man of letters was easily dazzled with the gaiety of their appearance, and softened into kindness by the politeness of their ad|dress. He therefore cultivated this new acquaint|ance; and when he saw how readily they found, in every place, admission and regard, and how famil|iarly

they mingled with every rank and order of men, he began to feel his heart beat for military honours, and wondered how the prejudices of the University should have made him so long insensible of that ambition, which had fired so many hearts in every age; and negligent of that calling, which is above all others, universally and invariably illustri|ous, and which gives even to the exterior appearance of its professors, a dignity and freedom unknown to the rest of mankind.

These favourable impressions were made still deeper by his conversation with the ladies, whose regard for soldiers he could not observe without wishing himself of that fraternity, to which the fe|male world seemed to devote all their charms and kindness. The love of knowledge, which was still his predominant inclination, was gratified by the recital of adventures, and accounts of foreign coun|tries; and, therefore, he thought there was no way of life in which all his views could so completely concentre as in that of a soldier. In the art of war he thought it not difficult to excel, having observed his new friends not very much versed in the princi|ples of tactics, or fortification; and, therefore, he studied all the military writers, both ancient and modern; and, in a short time, could tell how to have gained every remarkable battle that had been lost from the beginning of the world. He often shewed at a table how Alexander should have been checked in his conquest, what was the fatal error at Pharsalia, how Charles of Sweden might have esca|ped his ruin at Pultowa, and Marlborough might have been made to repent his temerity at Blenheim. He entrenched armies upon paper, so that no supe|riority of numbers could force them; and modelled in clay many impregnable fortresses, on which the present arts of attack would be exhausted without effect.

Polyphilus in a short time obtained a commission,

but before he could rub off the solemnity of a scho|lar, and gain the true air of military vivacity, a war was declared, and forces sent to the continent. Here Polyphilus unhappily found, that study alone would not make a soldier; for being much accus|tomed to think, the sense of danger sunk into his mind, and he felt at the approach of any action, that terror which a sentence of death would have brought upon him. He saw that instead of conquering their fears, the endeavours of his gay friends were only to escape them; but his philosophy chained his mind to its object, and rather loaded him with shackles than furnished him with arms. He, how|ever, suppressed his misery in silence, and passed through the campaign with honour, but found him|self utterly unable to support another.

He then had recourse again to his books, and continued to range from one study to another. As I usually visit him once a month, and am admitted to him without previous notice; I have found him within this last half year decyphering the Chinese language, making a farce, collecting a vocabulary of the obsolete terms of the English law, writing an inquiry concerning the ancient Corinthian brass, and forming a new scheme of the variations of the needle.

Thus his powerful genius, which might have extended the sphere of any science, or benefited the world in any profession, is dissipated in a boundless variety, without any profit to others or to himself. He makes sudden irruptions into the regions of knowledge, and sees all obstacles give way before him; but he never stays long enough to complete his conquest, to establish laws, or bring away the spoils.

The Way of the World.

FULVIUS was a very good natured fellow, but is now no more. He was bred in a compting-house, and his father dying just as he was out of his time, left him an handsome fortune, and many friends to advise with. The restraint in which he had been brought up, had thrown a gloom upon his temper, which some regarded as prudence; and, from such considerations he had every day repeated offers of friendship. Such as had money, were ready to offer him their assistance that way; and those who had daughters, frequently, in the warmth of affection, advised him to marry. Fulvius was in good circumstances; he wanted neither money, friends, nor a wise; and therefore modestly declined their proposals.

He was brought to a different way of thinking by some errors in the management of his affairs, and several losses in trade; and he at last considered, that it was his best way to let his friends know that their offers were at length acceptable. His first address was to a scrivener, who had formerly made him fre|quent offers of money and friendship, at a time when, perhaps, he knew those offers would have been refused. As a man, therefore, confident of not being refused, he requested the use of an hun|dred guineas for a few days, as he just then had occasion for money. "And pray, Sir," replied the scrivener, "do you want all this money?" "Want it, Sir," says the other, "if I did not want it I should not have asked it." "I am sorry for that," says the friend, "for those who want money when they borrow, will always want money when they come to pay. To say the truth, Sir, money is money now; and I believe it is all sunk in the bottom of the sea, for my part; he that has got a little is a fool if he does not keep what he has got."

Fulvius was not quite disconcerted by this refu|sal,

and was resolved to apply to another, whom he knew was the very best friend he had in the world. The gentleman whom he now addressed, received his proposal with all the affability that could be ex|pected from generous friendship. "Let me see, you want an hundred guineas; and pray, my dear friend, would not fifty answer?" "If you have but fifty to spare, Sir, I must be contented." "Fifty to spare; I do not say that, for I believe I have but twenty about me." "Then I must borrow the other thirty from some other friend." "And pray," replied the friend, "would it not be the best way to borrow the whole money from that other friend, and then one note will serve for all, you know? You know, my dear Sir, that you need make no ceremony with me at any time; you know I am your friend; and when you chuse a bit of dinner, or so—You, Tom, see the gentleman down. You won't forget to dine with us now and then. Your very humble servant."

This treatment distressed, but did not discourage him, and he was at last resolved to find that assist|ance from love, which he could not have from friendship. A young lady, a distant relation by the mother's side, had a fortune in her own hands; and, as she had already made all the advances that the modesty of her sex would permit, he made his proposal with confidence. He soon, however, per|ceived, that no bankrupt ever found the fair one kind. She had lately fallen deeply in love with ano|ther, who had more money, and the whole neigh|bourhood thought it would be a match.

Every succeeding day now began to strip him of his former finery; his cloaths flew piece by piece, to the pawnbroker's, and he seemed at length equip|ped in the genuine livery of misfortune. But still he thought himself secure from actual necessity; the numberless invitations he had received to dine, even after his losses, were yet unanswered; he was

therefore now resolved to accept of a dinner because he wanted one; and in this manner he actually lived among his friends a whole week without being openly affronted. The last place he went to, he had, as he fancied, just nicked the time of dinner, for he came in as the cloth was laying. He took a chair without being desired, and talked for some time without being attended to. He assured the company that nothing procured so good an appetite as a walk in the Park, where he had been that morning. He went on, and praised the figure of the damask table-cloth; talked of a feast where he had been the day before, but that the venison was overdone. But all this procured him no invitation: finding therefore the gentleman of the house insen|sible to all his fetches, he thought proper, at last, to retire, and mend his appetite by a second walk in the Park.

O ye sons of misfortune whoever you be, whether in rags or lace; whether in Kent-street or the Mall; whether at the Smyrna or St. Giles's, be advised by a friend, never seem to want the favour which you solicit. Apply to every passion but human pity for redress: you may find permanent relief from vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, but from com|passion never. The very eloquence of a poor man is disgusting, and that mouth which is opened even by wisdom, is seldom expected to close without the horrors of a petition.

If you wish to ward off the gripe of poverty, you must pretend to be a stranger to her, and she will at least use you with ceremony. If you be caught dining upon a halfpenny porringer of pease-soup and potatoes, praise the wholesomeness of your fru|gal repast. You may observe, that Dr. Cheyne has prescribed pease-broth for the gravel; hint that you are not one of those who are always making a deity of their belly. If, again, you are obliged to wear a slimsy stuff in the midst of winter, be the first to

remark, that stuffs are very much worn at Paris; or, if there be found some irreparable defects in any part of your equipage, which cannot be concealed by all the arts of sitting cross-legged, coaxing, or derning, say, that neither you nor Sampson Gideon were ever very fond of dress. If you be a philoso|pher, hint that Plato or Seneca are the taylors you choose to employ; assure the company that man ought to be content with a bare covering, since what now is so much his pride, was formerly his shame. In short, however caught, never give out; but as|cribe to the frugality of your disposition what others might be apt to attribute to the narrowness of your circumstances. To be poor, and to seem poor, is a certain method never to rise: pride in the great is hateful: in the wise it is ridiculous; but beggar|ly pride is a rational vanity, which I have been taught to applaud and excuse.

On Pleasure.

IT has been the object of writers of every age to shew that pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offered for our amusement. If the soul be happily disposed, every thing becomes capable of affording entertainment, and distress will almost want a name. Every occurrence passes in review like the figures of a procession; some may be aukward, others ill-dressed; but none but a fool is for this enraged with the master of the ceremonies.

An instance of the truth of this was seen in the person of a slave in a fortification in Flanders, who appeared no way touched with his situation. He was maimed, deformed, and chained; obliged to toil from the appearance of day till night, and con|demned to this for life; yet, with all these circum|stances of apparent wretchedness, he sung, would

have danced, but he wanted a leg, and appeared the merriest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a practical philosopher was here! an happy constitu|tion supplied philosophy; and, though seemingly destitute of wisdom, he was really wise. No reading or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy-land around him. Every thing furnished him with an opportunity of mirth; and, though some thought him, from his insensibility, a fool, he was such an ideot as philosophers should wish to imitate; for all philosophy is only forcing the trade of happiness, when nature seems to deny the means.

Those who, like our slave, can place themselves on that side of the world in which every thing ap|pears in a pleasing light, will find something in every occurrence to excite their good humour. The most calamitous events, either to themselves or others, can bring no new affliction; the whole world is to them a theatre, on which comedies only are acted. All the bustle of heroism, or the rants of ambition, serve only to heighten the absurdity of the scene, and make the humour more poignant. They feel, in short, as little anguish at their own distress, or the complaints of others, as the under|taker, though dressed in black, feels sorrow at a funeral.

The famous Cardinal de Retz possessed this hap|piness of temper in the highest degree, more per|haps than any other man in the world. As he was a man of gallantry, and despised all that wore the pedantic appearance of philosophy, wherever plea|sure was to be sold, he was generally foremost to raise the auction. Being an universal admirer of the fair sex, when he found one lady cruel, he gen|erally fell in love with another, from whom he ex|pected a more favourable reception: if she too re|jected his addresses, he never thought of retiring into desarts, or pining in hopeless distress. He persua|ded himself, that, instead of loving the lady, he on|ly

fancied that he had loved her, and so all was well again. When fortune wore her angriest look, and he at last fell into the power of his most deadly ene|my Cardinal Mazarine, (being confined a close pris|oner in the castle of Valenciennes) he never attempt|ed to support his distress by wisdom or philosophy, for he pretended to neither. He only laughed at himself and his persecutor, and seemed infinitely pleased at his new situation. In this mansion of dis|tress, though secluded from his friends, though de|nied all the amusements, and even the conveniences of life, he still retained his good humour; laughed at all the little spite of his enemies; and carried the jest so far as to be revenged, by writing the life of his gaoler.

To be stubborn or sullen under misfortunes, is all that the wisdom of the proud can teach. The Cardinal's example will instruct us to be merry in circumstances of the highest affliction. It matters not whether our good humour be construed by others into insensibility, or even ideotism; it is hap|piness to ourselves, and none but a fool would mea|sure his satisfaction by what the world thinks of it: for my own part, I never pass by one of our prisons for debt, when I do not envy that felicity which is still going forward among those people who forget the care of the world by being shut out from its ambition.

The following account of a good natured fellow, who actually subsists at this moment, is a case in point. Whenever he fell into any misery, he usually called it seeing life. If his head was broke by a chairman, or his pocket picked by a sharper, he comforted himself by imitating the Hibernian dia|lect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing came amiss to him. His inatten|tion to money matters had incensed his father to such a degree, that all the intercession of friends in his fav••••r was fruitless. The old gentleman was

on his death-bed. The whole family, and Dick among the number, gathered around him. "I leave my second son Andrew," said the expiring miser, "my whole estate, and desire him to be frugal" Andrew, in a sorrowful tone, as is usual on these occasions, prayed Heaven to prolong his life and health to enjoy it himself. "I recommend Simon, my third son, to the care of his elder brother, and leave him beside four thousand pounds." "Ah! father," cried Simon (in great affliction to be sure) "May Heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself." At last, turning to poor Dick, "As for you, you have always been a sad dog; you will nev|er come to good; you will never be rich; I will leave you a shilling to buy an halter." "Ah! father," cries Dick, without any emotion, "may Heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself." This was all the trouble the loss of fortune gave this thoughtless imprudent creature. However, the tenderness of an uncle recompensed the neglect of a father; and he is now not only excessively good-humoured, but competently rich.

Let the world cry out at a bankrupt who appears at a ball; at an author who laughs at the public which pronounces him a dunce; at a General who smiles at the reproach of the vulgar, or the lady who keeps her good humour in spite of scandal; but such is the wisest behaviour that any of us can possibly assume; it is certainly a better way to op|pose calamity by dissipation, than to take up the arms of reason or resolution to oppose it: by the first method, we forget our miseries; by the last, we only conceal them from others; by struggling with misfortunes, we are sure to receive some wounds in the conflict; but a sure method to come off vic|torious, is by running away.

MARIA: An affecting Narrative.

PART I.

THEY were the sweetest notes I ever heard; and I instantly let down the fore-glass, to hear them more distinctly.—It is Maria, said the pos|tillion, observing I was listening—Poor Maria, con|tinued be (leaning his body on one side to let me see her, for he was in a line betwixt us) is sitting upon a bank playing her vespers upon her pipe, with her little goat beside her.

The young fellow uttered this with an accent, and a look so perfectly in turne to a feeling heart, that I instantly made a vow, I would give him a four and twenty sous piece, when I got to Moulines—

—And who is poor Maria? said I.

The love and pity of all the villages around us, said the postillion—it is but three years ago that the sun did not shine upon so fair, so quick witted, and amiable a maid; and a better fate did Maria deserve, than to have her banns forbid by the intrigues of the curate of the parish who published them—

He was going on, when Maria, who had made a short pause, put the pipe to her mouth, and began the air again—they were the same notes—yet were ten times sweeter; it is the evening service to the virgin, said the young man—but who has taught her to play it—or how she came by her pipe, no one knows; we think that Heaven has assisted her in both; for ever since she has been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only consolation—she has never once had the pipe out of her hand, but plays that service upon it both night and day.

The postillion delivered this with so much dis|cretion and natural eloquence, that I could not help decyphering something in his face above his condi|tion, and should have sifted out his history, had not poor Maria's taken possession of me.

We had got up by this time almost to the bank where Maria was sitting: she was in a thin white jacket, with her hair, all but two tresses, drawn up into a silk net, with a fine olive leaf twisted a little fantastically on one side—she was beautiful; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest heart ach, it was the moment I saw her—

—God help her! poor damsel! above an hun|dred masses said the postillion, have been said in the several parish churches and convents around, for her—but without effect; we have still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that the virgin at last will restore her to herself; but her parents, who know her best, are hopeless upon that score, and think her senses are lost for ever.

As the postillion spoke this, Maria made a cadence so melancholy, so tender and querulous, that I sprung out of the chaise to help her, and found myself sitt|ing betwixt her and her goat before I relapsed from my enthusiasm.

Maria looked wishfully for some time at me, and then at her goat—and then at me—and then at her goat again, and so on alternately.—

—Well, Maria, said I softly—What resem|blance do you find?

I do intreat the candid reader to believe me, that it was from the humblest conviction of what a beast man is, that I asked the question; and that I would not have let fall an unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable presence of misery, to be entitled to all the wit that even Rabelais scattered.

Adieu, Maria!—adieu, poor helpless damsel!— some time, but not now, I may hear thy sorrows from thy own lips—but I was deceived, for that moment she took her pipe, and told me such a tale of woe with it, that I rose up, and with broken and irregular steps walked softly to my chaise.

PART II.

WHEN we had got within half a league of Mo|lines, at a little opening in the road leading to a thicket, I discovered poor Maria sitting under a poplar—she was sitting with her elbow in her lap, and head leaning on one side within her hand—a small brook ran at the foot of the tree.

I bade the postillion go on with the chaise to Mou|lines—and La Fleur to bespeak my supper—and that I would walk after.

She was dressed in white, and much as my friend described her, except that her hair hung loose, which before was twisted within a silk net. She had super-added likewise to her jacket, a pale green ribband, which fell across her shoulder to the waist, at the end of which hung her pipe. Her goat had been as faithless as her lover, and she had got a little dog in lieu of him, which she had kept tied by a string to her girdle; as I looked at her dog, she drew him towards her with a string.—"Thou shalt not leave me, Sylvio," said she. I looked in Maria's eyes, and saw she was thinking more of her father than of her lover, or her little goat; for as she ut|tered them, the tears trickled down her cheeks.

I sat down close by her, and Maria let me wipe them away, as they fell, with my handkerchief. I then steeped it in my own—and then in her's—and then in mine—and then I wiped her's again—and as I did it—I felt such undescribable emotions within me, as I am sure could not be accounted for from any combinations of matter and motion.

I am positive I have a soul, nor can all the books with which materialists have pestered the world ever convince me of the contrary.

When Maria had come a little to herself, I asked her if she remembered a pale thin person of a man, who sat down betwixt her and her goat about two

years before: She said she was unsettled much at that time, but remembered it upon two accounts— that ill as she was, she was sure the person pitied her; and next, that her goat had stolen his hand|kerchief, and she had beat him for the theft—she had washed it, she said, in the brook, and kept it ever since in her pocket to restore it to him, in case she should ever see him again; which, she added, he had half promised her. As she told me this, she took the handkerchief out of her pocket to let me see it; she had folded it up neatly in a couple of vine leaves, tied round with a tendril—on opening it, I saw an S marked in one of the corners.

She had since that, she told me, strayed as far as Rome, and walked round St. Peter's once—and re|turned back—that she found her way alone across the Appenines—had travelled over all Lombardy without money—and through the flinty roads of Savoy without shoes—how she had borne it, and how she had got supported, she could not tell—but God tempers the wind, said Maria, to the shorn lamb.

Shorn indeed! and to the quick, said I; and wast thou in my own land, where I have a cottage, I would take thee to it, and shelter thee, thou shouldst eat of my bread, and drink of my own cup. I would be kind to thy Sylvio—in all thy weaknesses and wanderings I would seek after thee, and bring thee back—when the sun went down I would say my prayers, and when I had done, thou shouldst play thy evening song upon thy pipe, nor would the in|cense of thy sacrifice be worse accepted for entering heaven along with that of a broken heart.

Nature melted within me as I uttered this; and Maria observing, as I took out my handkerchief, that it was steeped too much already to be of use, would needs go wash it in the stream. And where will you dry it, Maria? said I. I will dry it in my bosom, said she—it will do me good.

And is your heart still so warm, Maria? said I.

I touched upon the string on which hung all her sorrows—she looked with wistful disorder for some time in my face, and then, without saying any thing, took her pipe and played her service to the virgin. The string I had touched ceased to vibrate—in a moment or two Maria returned to herself—let her pipe fall—and rose up.

And where are you going, Maria? said I. She said, to Moulines.—Let us go, said I, together. Maria put her arm within mine, and lengthening the string, to let the dog follow—in that order we entered Moulines.

Though I hate salutations and greetings in the market-place, yet when we had got into the middle of this, I stopped to take my last look, and last fare|well of Maria.

Maria, though not tall, was nevertheless of the first order of fine forms—affliction had touched her looks with something that was scarce earthly— still she was feminine—and so much was there about her of all that the heart wishes, or the eye looks for in woman, that could the traces be ever worn out of her brain, and those of Eliza's out of mine, she should not only eat of my bread, and drink of my cup, but Maria should lie in my bosom, and be unto me as a daughter.

Adieu, poor luckless maiden! imbibe the oil and wine which the compassion of a stranger, as he journieth on his way, now pours into thy wounds— the being who has twice bruised thee can only bind them up for ever.

Religion and Superstition contrasted. A VISION.

THE following remarkable dream made so strong an impression upon the mind of Castillus, that we will relate it in his own words.

Methought I was in the midst of a very entertain|ing set of company, and extremely delighted in at|tending to their lively conversation; when on a sudden, I perceived one of the most shocking figures imagination can frame, advancing towards me. She was dressed in black; her skin was contracted into a thousand wrinkles; her eyes deep sunk in her head; and her complexion pale and livid as the countenance of death. Her looks were filled with terror and unrelenting severity; and her hands arm|ed with whips and scorpions. As soon as she came near, with an horrid frown, and a voice that chilled my very blood, she bade me follow her. I obeyed; & she led me through rugged paths, beset with briars and thorns, into a deep solitary valley. Wherever she passed, the fading verdure withered beneath her steps, her pestilential breath infected the air with malignant vapours, obscured the lustre of the sun, and involved the fair face of heaven in universal gloom. Dismal howling resounded through the forest; from every baleful tree the night raven ut|tered his dreadful note, and the prospect was filled with desolation and horror. In the midst of this tremendous scene, my execrable guide addressed me in the following manner:

"Retire with me, O rash, unthinking mortal! retire from the vain allurements of a deceitful world, and learn that pleasure was not designed the portion of human life. Man was born to mourn and to be wretched. This is the condition of all below the stars, and whoever endeavours to oppose it, acts in contradiction to the will of heaven. Fly then from the fatal enchantments of mirth and social delight, and here consecrate the solitary hours to lamentation and woe. Misery is the duty of all sublunary beings: and every enjoyment is an offence to the Deity, who is to be worshipped only by the mortification of every sense of pleasure, and the everlasting exercise of sighs and tears."

This melancholy picture of life quite sunk my spirits, and seemed to annihilate every principle of joy within me. I threw myself beneath a blasted yew, where the winds blew cold and dismal round my head, and dreadful apprehensions chilled my heart. Here I resolved to lie till the hand of death, which I impatiently invoked, should put an end to the miseries of a life so deplorably wretched. In this sad condition I espied on one hand of me a deep muddy river, whose waves rolled on in slow sullen murmurs Here I determined to plunge, and was just upon the brink, when I found myself suddenly drawn back. I turned about, and was surprised by the sight of the loveliest object I ever beheld. The most engaging charms of youth and beauty appear|ed in all her form: effulgent glories sparkled in her eyes, and their awful splendor were softened by the gentlest looks of compassion and peace. At her approach, the frightful spectre, who had before tor|mented me, vanished away, and with her all the horrors she had caused. The gloomy clouds bright|ened into cheerful sunshine, the groves recovered their verdure, and the whole region looked gay and blooming as the garden of Eden. I was quite trans|ported at this unexpected change, and reviving pleasure began to gladden my thoughts; when, with a look of inexpressible sweetness, my beauteous de|liverer thus uttered her divine instructions.

"My name is Religion. I am the offspring of Truth and Love, and the parent of Benevolence, Hope, and Joy. That monster from whose power I have freed you, is called Superstition; she is the child of Discontent, and her followers are Fear and Sorrow. Thus, different as we are, she has often the insolence to assume my name and character, and seduce unhappy mortals to think the same, till she at length drives them to the borders of despair, that dreadful abyss into which you were just going to sink.

"Look round and survey the glorious beauties of this globe, which heaven has destined for the seat of the human race; and consider whether a world thus exquisitely framed, could be meant for the abode of misery or pain. For what end has the lavish hand of Providence diffused such innumera|ble objects of delight, but that all might rejoice in the privilege of existence, and be filled with grati|tude to the beneficent Author of it? Thus to enjoy the blessings he has sent, is virtue and obedience; and to reject them merely as means of pleasure, is pitiable ignorance, or absurd perverseness. Infin|ite goodness is the source of created existence. The proper tendency of every rational being, from the highest order of raptured seraphs, to the meanest rank of men, is to rise incessantly from lower degrees of happiness to higher. They have each faculties assigned them for various orders of delights."

What! cried Castillus, is this the language of Religion? Does she lead her votaries through flow|ery paths, and bid them pass an unlaborious life? Where are the painful toils of virtue, the mortifica|tions of penitents, and the self-denying exercises of saints and heroes?

"The true enjoyment of a reasonable being (ans|wered she mildly) does not consist in unbounded indulgence, or luxurious ease, in the tumult of pas|sions, the languor of indolence, or the flutter of light amusements. Yielding to immoral pleasure corrupts the mind; living to animal and trifling ones debases it; both in their degrees disqualify it for its genuine good, and consign it over to wretch|edness. Whoever would be really happy, must make the diligent and regular exercise of his superior powers his chief attention, adoring the perfections of his Maker, expressing good will to his fellow creatures, and cultivating inward rectitude. To his lower faculties he must allow such gratifications as will, by refreshing them, invigorate his noble pur|suits.

In the regions inhabited by angelic natures, unmingled felicity for ever blooms; joy flows there with a perpetual and abundant stream, nor needs there any mound to check its course. Beings con|scious of a frame of mind originally diseased, as all the human race has cause to be, must use the regi|men of a stricter felf-government. Whoever has been guilty of voluntary excesses, must patiently submit both to the painful workings of nature, and needful severities of medicine, in order to his cure. Still he is entitled to a moderate share of whatever alleviating accommodations this fair mansion of his merciful Parent affords, consistent with his recovery. And in proportion as this recovery advances, the liveliest joy will spring from his secret sense of an amended and improved heart. So far from the horrors of despair is the condition even of the guilty. Shudder poor mortal at the thought of the gulph into which thou wast just now going to plunge.

"While the most faulty have every encourage|ment to amend, the more innocent soul will be sup|ported with still sweeter consolations under all its experience of human infirmities, supported by the gladdening assurances, that every sincere endeavour to outgrow them, shall be assisted, accepted, and rewarded. To such a one, the lowest self-abasement is but a deep laid foundation for the most elevated hopes; since they who faithfully examine and ac|knowledge what they are, shall be enabled under my conduct to become what they desire. The Christian and the hero are inseparable; and to the aspirings of unassuming trust and filial confidence are set no bounds. To him who is animated with a view of obtaining approbation from the Sovereign of the universe, no difficulty is insurmountable. Secure in this pursuit of every needful aid, his con|flict with the severest pains and trials, is little more than the vigorous exercise of a mind in health. His patient dependance on that Providence which

looks through all eternity, his silent resignation, his ready accommodation of his thoughts and beha|viour to its inscrutable ways, is at once the most excellent sort of self-denial, and source of the most exalted transports. Society is the true sphere of human virtue. In social, active life, difficulties will be perpetually met with, restraints of many kinds will be necessary, and studying to behave right in respect of these, is a discipline of the human heart, useful to others, and improving to itself. Suffering is no duty, but where it is necessary to avoid guilt, or to do good, nor pleasure a crime, but where it strengthens the influence of bad inclinations, or les|sens the generous activity of virtue. The happiness allotted to man in his present state, is indeed faint and low, compared with his immortal prospect and noble capacities; but yet, whatever portion of it the distributing hand of heaven offers to each indi|vidual, is a needful support and refreshment for the present moment, so far as it may not hinder the attaining his final destination.

"Return then with me from continual misery to moderate enjoyment, and grateful alacrity; return from the contr••cted views of solitude, to the proper duties of a relative and dependent being. Religion is not confined to cells and closets, nor restrained to fullen retirement. These are the gloomy doctrines of superstition, by which she endeavours to break those chains of benevolence and social affection, that link the welfare of every particular with that of the whole. Remember, that the greatest honor you can pay the Author of your being, is such a cheerful behaviour, as discovers a mind satisfied with his own dispensations."

Thus ended this delightful lecture, when Castil|lus was awakened by a ring of bells from the neigh|bouring village.

On the extreme Folly of being dissatisfied with our present Circumstances, exemplified in the re|markable History of Horatio,

written by Himself.

I AM the son of a younger brother of a good fam|ily, who, at his decease, left me a little fortune of about one hundred pounds per annum. I was put early to Eton school, where I learned Latin and Greek, from whence I went to the University, where I learned not totally to forget them. I came to my fortune while I was at college, and having no inclination to follow any profession, I removed my|self to town, and lived for some time as most young fellows do, by spending four times my income. But it was my happiness, before it was too late, to fall in love with, and to marry a very amiable young creature, whose fortune was just sufficient to repair the breach made in my own. With this agreeable companion I retreated to the country, and endea|voured as well as I was able, to square my wishes to my circumstances. In this endeavour I succeeded so well, that excepting a few private hankerings after a little more than I possessed, and now and then a sigh when a coach and six happened to drive by me in my walks, I was a very happy man.

I can truly say, that though my family oeconomy was not much to be boasted of, and in consequence of it, we were frequently driven to great straits and difficulties, I experienced more real satisfaction in this humble situation, than I have ever done since in more enviable circumstances. We were some|times indeed a little in debt, but when money came in, the pleasure of discharging what we owed, was more than equivalent for these pains it put us to; and though the narrowness of our circumstances subjected us to many cares and anxieties, it served to keep the body in action as well as the mind; for, as our garden was somewhat large, and required

more hands to keep it in order than we could afford to hire, we daily laboured in it ourselves, and drew health from our necessities.

I had a little boy who was the delight of my heart, and who probably might have been spoiled by nur|sing, if the attention of his parents had not been otherwise employed. His mother was naturally of a sickly constitution, but the affairs of her family, as they engrossed all her thoughts, gave her no time for complaint. The ordinary troubles of life, which to those who have nothing else to think of, are almost insupportable, were less terrible to us than to persons of easier circumstances, for it is a certain truth, that where the mind is divided among many cares, the anxiety is lighter than when there is only one to contend with. Even in the happiest situation, in the midst of ease, health, and affluence, the mind is generally ingenious in tormenting itself, losing the immediate enjoyment of those invaluable blessings, by the painful suggestion that they are too great for continuance.

These are the reflections that I have made since, for I do not attempt to deny, that I sighed frequent|ly for an addition to my fortune. The death of a distant relation, which happened five years after our marriage, gave me this addition, and made me for a time the happiest man living. My income was now increased to six hundred a year; and, I hoped, with a little oeconomy, to be able to make a figure with it. But the ill health of my wife, which in less easy circumstances had not touched me so near|ly, was now constantly in my thoughts, and soured all my enjoyments. The consciousness too of hav|ing such an estate to leave my boy, made me so anx|ious to preserve him, that instead of suffering him to run at pleasure where he pleased, and to grow hardy by exercise, I almost destroyed him by confine|ment. We now did nothing in our garden, because we were in circumstances to have it kept by others;

but as air and exercise were necessary for our healths, we resolved to abridge ourselves of some unnecessary articles, and to set up an equipage. This, in time, brought with it a train of expences, which we had neither prudence to foresee, nor courage to prevent. For, as it enabled us to extend the circuit of our visits, it greatly increased our acquaintance, and sub|jected us to the necessity of making continual enter|tainments at home, in return for those which we were invited to abroad. The charges that attended this new manner of living, were much too great for the income we possessed; insomuch, that we found ourselves in a very short time more necessitous than ever. Pride would not suffer us to lay down an equipage, and to live in a manner unsuitable to it, was what we could not think of. To pay the debts I had contracted, I was soon forced to mortgage my estate; and, at last, to sell the best part of it; and, as it was utterly impossible to keep up the parade any longer, we thought it adviseable to remove of a sudden, to sell our coach in town, and to look out for a new situation, at a greater distance from our acquaintance.

But unfortunately for my peace, I carried a habit of expence along with me, and was very near being reduced to absolute want, when by the unexpected death of an uncle, and his two sons, who died within a few weeks of each other, I succeeded to an estate of 7000l. a year.

In this situation I might be called a very happy man, and so indeed I was; I set about the regulation of my family with the most pleasing satisfaction. The splendor of my equipage, the magnificence of my plate, the crowd of servants that attended me, the elegance of my house and furniture, the gran|deur of my park and gardens, the luxury of my ta|ble, and the court that was every where paid me, gave me inexpressible delight so long as they were novelties; but no sooner were they become habitual

to me, than I lost all manner of relish for them, and I discovered in a very little time, that by having no|thing to wish for I had nothing to enjoy. My appe|tite grew palled by satiety, a perpetual crowd of visitors robbed me of all domestic enjoyment, my servants plagued me, and my steward cheated me.

But the course of greatness did not end here. Daily experience convinced me that I was compelled to live more for others than for myself. My uncle had been a great party man, and a zealous opposer of all ministerial measures; as his estate was the largest of any gentleman in the county, he supported an interest in it beyond any of his competitors. My father had been greatly obliged by the court party, which determined me in gratitude to declare myself on that side; but the difficulties I had to encounter were too many and too great for me; insomuch that I have been baffled and defeated in almost every thing I have undertook. To desert the cause in which I have embarked would disgrace me; and to go greater lengths in it will almost undo me. I am engaged in a perpetual state of warfare with the principal gentlemen of the county, and am cur|sed by my tenants and dependants for compelling them at every election to vote (as they are pleased to tell me) contrary to their consciences.

My wife and I had once pleased ourselves with the thoughts of being useful in the neighbourhood, by dealing out our charity to the poor and industrious; but the perpetual hurry in which we live, renders us incapable of looking out for objects ourselves, and the agents we intrust are either pocketing our bounty, or bestowing it on the undeserving. At night when we retire to rest, we are venting our com|plaints on the miseries of the day, and praying heartily for the return of that peace, which was the only companion of our humblest situation.

Where pain, sickness, and absolute want, are out of the question, no external change of circumstances

can make a man more lastingly happy than he was before. It is to our ignorance of this truth, that the universal dissatisfaction of mankind is principally to be ascribed. Care is the lot of human life; and he that aspires to greatness in hopes to get rid of it, is like one, who throws himself into a furnace to avoid the shivering ague.

The only satisfaction I can enjoy in my present situation is, that it has not pleased Heaven in its wrath to make me a king.

On the Amusements of Sunday.

IT is astonishing to conceive what quantities of bread, cheese, cakes, ale, &c. are constantly consumed on a Sunday, in all the little towns near London. It is incredible how many thousand buns are devoured in that one day at Chelsea, and the neighbouring villages, and how much beer is swal|lowed at Islington, and Mile-end, as well as what oceans of tea and coffee, and cart loads of hot loaves at White Conduit House, Bagnigge, Wells, Canon|bury House, the Spa, &c.

Could an exact estimate be formed, the review would be very entertaining, and we must conclude that the Sabbath is a most excellent institution, since the very breaking of it is the support of half the villages about the metropolis.

That part of the fourth commandment which prohibits the doing any work on Sunday, is very strictly observed by the common people, who seem to understand it as if it gave them an uncontrolled licence to pleasurable indulgences. They take this opportunity of walking as far as the island of St. Helena, or eating white bait at Blackwall. As they all aim at going into the country, nothing can be a greater misfortune to the meaner part of the inhab|itants

of London and Westminster, than a rainy Sunday. How many city apprentices, merchants' clerks, as well as several other people of different professions, would be disappointed of a ride once a week, if the legislature were to limit the hired horses, and one horse chaises, from working on that day to a certain number.

The plodding tradesman is carried to his snug box, which has nothing rural about it except the ivy which over-runs the front, and is placed as near to the road as possible, where the pleasure of seeing carriages pop under his window, compensates for being almost smothered with dust. The young ap|prentices, clerks, &c. above alluded to, are seen whipping and spurring their broken winded jades up the hills; and the good natured husband, toge|ther with his mate, are dragged along the road to the admiration of the foot passenger, who trudges patiently with a child in one arm, while his beloved doxy leans on the other.

The country in itself has not any peculiarly at|tractive charms, for the people who thus prostitute it, think themselves out of the world if they are not within the sound of Bow bell; but it in general serves for an excuse for eating and drinking, and they get out of town merely because they have nothing to do at home; a brick-kiln smells as sweet to them as a farm-yard; they would pop by a barn or an hay|stack, without notice, but they rejoice at the sight of every hedge alehouse that promises good home brewed. As the rest of a citizen's life is regular and uniform, so his Sunday diversions have little variety. His journal in general runs thus:

Sunday—Overslept myself, did not rise till nine, was a full hour in pulling on my new double-chan|nelled pumps, could get no breakfast, my wife be|ing busy in dressing herself for church.

At Eleven—Family at church, walked by myself to Mother Redcaps at Holloway, smoaked half a pipe, and d••••nk a pint of Calvert's.

Dined at one; pudding not boiled enough, suet musty, wife was to drive me in a one horse chaise as far as Endfield Wash, but it looked likely to rain, took a nap, and posted seven pages of my day-book till five.

At six, Mrs. Deputy came to drink tea with my wife; I hate their slip slops; called on my neigh|bour the Common Council man, and took a walk with him to Islington.

From seven to eight, smoaked a pipe, eat an heart-cake, and drank two pints of cyder.

At nine got to town again, very much fatigued with my journey, pulled off my claret coloured coat, and blue satin waistcoat, went to club, smoaked three pipes, came home at twelve, and slept very soundly.

To people of one class, Sunday wears the same face as the rest of the week. It is really a matter of wonder and astonishment, that no public place, such as Ranelagh, and Vauxhall, should not be open of a Sunday evening, where persons of fashion might pass away the hours that hang so heavy upon their hands, till the time arrives when they might with propriety sit down to the card table, for it certainly is more decent to make assignations there than at church, which we are sorry to say is too much fre|quented for that purpose alone; though this is pretty well remedied by the concourse of people who attend the Mall and Kensington Gardens. Now we are upon the subject, we may make some observations upon the modern method of church going, which as it is practised, may be reckoned among our Sunday amusements, as people are induced ••o appear in a place of worship, from the same motives that they frequent the public places. To some it answers all the purposes of a route or an assembly, to see and be seen by their acquaintance, and from their bows, nods, courtsies, and loud conversation, one might conclude that they imagined themselves in a draw|ing

room; to others it affords a cheap opportunity of shewing their taste for dress; not a few are drawn together in our cathedrals and large churches, by the influence of the music, rather than by the prayers, and are kept awake by a jig from the organ loft, though they are lulled asleep by the harangue from the pulpit

A well disposed Christian will go a mile from his own house to St. Paul's, for the sake of the anthem rather than the sermon, and many a Methodist will trudge to the Lock chapel, not because M— is to preach, but because Lockhart plays on the organ, and Miss— leads the enchanting train of female singers.

Upon modern principles it appears very strange, that going to church should be deemed a kind of amusement, at least it is so wholly incompatible with the polite system of life, that a person of fashion, as affairs are now managed, finds it absolutely impos|sible to comply with the practice. The service al|ways begins a•• such unfashionable hours, that in the morning a person must huddle on his clothes, like a boy to run to school; and in an afternoon must inevitably go without his dinner. In order to remove all these objections, and that some ritual may be established in this kingdom agreeable to our inclinations, and consistent with our general practice, we propose the following scheme for the considera|tion of the public.

It is proposed that Christianity be abolished by Act of Parliament, and that no other religion be im|posed on us in its stead; but as the age grows more and more enlightened, we may at last be quite de|livered from the influence of superstition and bigo|try; that in order to prevent our ever relapsing into pious errors, and that the common people may not lose their holiday, be it enacted, that every Sunday be set a part to commemorate our victory over all reli|gion; that the churches be turned into free-think|ing

meeting houses, and discourses read in them to confute the doctrine of a future state, the immor|tality of the soul, and other absurd notions, which some people now regard as objects of belief; that a ritual be appointed, diametrically opposite to our present liturgy, and instead of reading portions of Scripture, the first and second lessons shall consist of a section of the posthumous works of Lord Bolingbroke, or of a few pages of the writings of Voltaire, Hume, Shaftsbury, Kaimes, and other Deistical writers; that the usual feasts and fasts, such as Christmas|day, Easter Sunday, Whitsunday, Trinity Sunday, &c. be still preserved, but that on those days dis|courses be delivered suitable to the occasion, con|taining a refutation of the nativity, resurrection, and descent of the Holy Ghost; the doctrine of the Trinity, and many other ridiculous antiquated opin|ions; that instead of the vile and odious method of a clerk bawling out two staves of Sternhold and Hopkins, or Tate and Brady, or a Cathedral choir singing anthems from the Psalter, Mrs. Kennedy, Miss Brown, Miss C••tley, and Mr. Leoni, be em|ployed in singing the most fashionable canta••as, ••o••gs, or catches, and that instead of collecti••g money for the trifling purpose of educating and clothing a parcel of charity children, a subscrip|tion be entered into for bringing over Signiora Ga|brielli from Italy, that our entertainment may be the more refined; that the whole service be con|ducted with such taste and elegance, as may render these free-thinking me••ting-houses, as agreeable as the Pantheon, on a masquerade night, or Miss Har|rop's benefit, and that they may be even more ju••i|ciously calculated for the propogation of infidelity, than the various theological disputing societies in this metropolis, and are subversive of the true prin|ciples of government, and genuine patriotism, as the associations at Westminster, and many other Repub|lican assemblies.

Thoughts on Popularity.

FAME is so capricious a goddess, and I must own I have such an indifferent opinion of the vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that merit which raises their shout; at le••st I am certain to find those great, and sometimes good men, who find satisfaction in such accl••mations, m••de worse by it; and history has too frequently taught me, that the head which has grown this day giddy with the roar of the mil|lion, has the very next been fixed on a pole.

An instance of this occurred as Alexander VI. was entering a little town in the neighbourhood of Rome, which had been just evacuated by the enemy. He perceived the townsmen busy in the market|place in pulling down from a gibbet a figure which had been designed to represent himself. There were some als•• knocking down a neighbouring statue of one of the Orsini family, with whom he was at war, in order to put Alexander's effigy in its place. It is possible that a man who knew less of the world, would have condemned the adulation of those bare-faced flatterers; but Alexander seemed pleased at their zeal, and turning to Borgia, his son, said with a smile, Vides, mi fili, quam leve discri|minem palibulum inter et statuum. "You see, my son, the small difference between a gibbet and a statue." If the great could be taught any lesson, this might serve to teach them upon how weak a foundation their glory stands, which is built upon popu••ar ap|plause; for, as such praise what seems like merit, they as quickly condemn what has only the appear|ance of guilt.

The report of James II. abdicating the throne of Great Britain, occasioned the lighting of many bon|fires, a second report of his establishment upon it the next day, produced the same effects.

The following story is much to my present pur|pose.

A Chinese, who had long studied the works of Confucius, who knew the characters of fourteen thousand words, and could read a great part of every book that came in his way, once took it into his head to travel into Europe, and observe the cus|toms of a people whom he thought not very much inferior, even to his own countrymen, in the arts of refining upon every passion. Upon his arrival at Amsterdam, his passion for letters naturally led him to a bookseller's shop; and, as he could speak a little Dutch, he civilly asked the bookseller for the works of the immortal Xixofou. The bookseller assured him he had never heard the book mentioned before. "What, have you never heard of that immortal poet?" returned the other much surprised, "that light of the eyes, that favourite of kings, that rose of perfection! I suppose you know nothing of the immortal Fipsihihi, second cousin to the moon?" "Nothing at all, indeed, Sir," returned the other. "Alas!" cries our traveller, "to what purpose, then, has one of these f••sted to death, and the other offered himself up as a sacrifice to the Tartar enemy, to gain a renown which has never travelled beyond the precincts of China!"

So prevalent is this that there is scarce a village in Europe, and not one university, that is not thus furnished with its little great men. The head of a petty corporation, who opposes the designs of a prince, who would tyrannically force his subjects to save their best cloaths for Sunday; the puny pedant, who finds one undiscovered property in the polype, or describes an unheeded process in the skeleton of a mole; and whose mind, like his microscope, per|ceives nature only in detail; the rhymer, who makes smooth verses, and paints to our imagination, when he should only speak to our hearts: all equally fancy themselves walking forward to immortality, and desire the crowd behind them to look on. The crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, Philoso|pher,

and Poet, are shouted in their train. "Where was there ever so much merit seen? No times so important as our own; ages, yet unborn, shall gaze with wonder and applause!" To such music, the important pigmy moves forward, bustling and swell|ing, and aptly compared to a puddle in a storm.

How vain and unstable is popularity! I have lived to see Admirals and Generals who once had crowds hollowing after them wherever they went, who were praised by newspapers and magazines, those echoes of the voice of the vulgar, and yet they have long sunk into merited obscurity, with scarce even an epitaph left to flatter. A few years ago the herring fishery employed all Grub-street; it was the topic in every coffee-house, and the burden of every ballad. We were to drag up oceans of gold from the bottom of the sea; we were to supply all Europe with herrings upon our own terms At pres|ent we hear no more of all this. We have fished up very little gold that I can learn; nor do we furnish the world with herrings, as was expected. Let us wait but a few years longer, and we shall find all our expectations in herring-fishery.

I should not at all wonder if the caprice of the populace which made the skies ring with the name of a Keppel, should repeat, if possible, louder huzzas at the advancement of his adversary.

Animadversions on the Conduct of the Clergy.

IT is undoubtedly true, that our English divines receive a more liberal education, and improve that education, by frequent study, more than any others of this reverend profession in Europe It may be observed also in general, that a greater degree of gentility is affixed to the character of a student in England than elsewhere; by which means our clergy

have an opportunity of seeing better company while young, and of soon wearing off those prejudices which they are apt to imbibe even in the best regu|lated universities, and which may be justly termed the vulgar errors of the wise.

Nevertheless, it is very obvious with all these ad|vantages, that the clergy are no where so little thought of, by the populace, as here; and, though our divines are foremost, with respect to abilities, yet they are found last in the effects of their ministry; the vulgar, in general, appearing no way impressed with a sense of religious duty. I am not for whining at the depravity of the times, or for endeavouring to paint a prospect more gloomy than in nature; but certain it is, no person who has travelled will con|tradict me, when I aver, that the lower orders of mankind, in other countries, testify, on every occa|sion, the profoundest awe of religion; while in Eng|land they are scarcely awakened into a sense of its duties, even in circumstances of the greatest ••s.

Foreigners are apt to attribute this dissolute and fearless conduct to climate and constitution; may not the vulgar, being pretty much neglected in our exhortations from the pulpit, be a conspiring cause? Our divines seldom stoop to their mean capacities; and they who want instruction most, find least in our religious assemblies.

It seems to me a principal duty, whatever may become of the higher orders of mankind, who are generally possessed of collateral motives to virtue, the vulgar should be particularly regarded, whose beha|viour in civil life is totally hinged upon their hopes and fears. Those who constitute the basis of the great fabric of society, should be particularly regard|ed; for, in policy, as in architecture, that maxim holds good, ruin is most fatal when it begins from the bottom.

It is the misfortune of men of real sense and un|derstanding to prefer a prudent mediocrity to a

precarious popularity; and, fearing to outdo their duty, leave it half done. Their discourses from the pulpit are generally dry, methodical, and unaffecting; delivered with the most insipid calmness; insomuch, that, should the peaceful preacher lift his head over the cushion, which alone he seems to address, he might discover his audience, instead of being awaken|ed to remorse, actually sleeping over his methodical and laboured composition.

Some people call this method of preaching, an ad|dress to reason, and not to the passions; this is stiled the making of converts from conviction: but such are indifferently acquainted with human nature, who are not sensible, that men seldom reason about their deb••••cheries till they are committed; reason is but a w••••k antagonist when headstrong passion dic|tates; in all such cases we should arm one passion against another; it is with the human mind as in nature, from the mixture of two opposites the result is most frequently neutral tranquility. Those who attempt to reason us out of our follies, begin at the wrong end, since the attempt naturally presupposes us capable of this, which is one great point of the cure.

In order to become a popular preacher, there are but few talents requisite, for the people are easily pleased if they perceive any endeavours in the orator to please them; the meanest qualifications will work this effect, if the preacher sincerely sets about it. Perhaps little, indeed very little more is required, than sincerity and assurance; and a becoming sin|cerity is always certain of producing a becoming assurance. "Si vis me fiere, dolendum est primum tibi ipsi," is so trite a quotation, that it almost de|mands an apology to repeat it; yet, though all allow the justice of the remark, how few do we find put it in practice! Our orators, with the most faulty bash|ful••ess, seem impressed rather with an awe of their audience than with a just respect for the truths they

are about to deliver; they, of all professions, seem the most bashful, who have the greatest right to glory in their commission.

It is the custom with the French preachers gener|ally to assume all that dignity which becomes men who are ambassadors from Christs whilst the English divines, like erroneous envoys, seem more solicitous not to offend the court to which they are sent, than to drive home the interests of their employer. The bishop of Massilon, in the first sermon he ever preach|ed, found the whole audience, upon his getting into the pulpit in a disposition no way favourable to his intentions▪ their nods, whispers, or drowsy beha|viour, shewed him that there was no great profit to be expected from his sowing in a soil so improper; however, he soon changed the disposition of his au|dience by his manner of beginning: "If," says he, "a cause, the most important that could be con|ceived, were to be tried at the bar before qualified judges; if this cause interested ourselves in particu|lar; if the eyes of the whole kingdom were fixed upon the event; if the most eminent council were employ|ed on both sides; and if we had heard from our infancy of this yet undetermined trial; would you not all sit with due attention, and warm expectation, to the pleadings on each side? Would not all your hopes and fears be hinged upon the final decision? And yet, let me tell you, you have this moment a cause of much greater importance before you; a cause where not one nation, but all the world, are spectators; tried, not before a fallible tribunal, but the awful throne of heaven, where not your temporal and transitory interests are the subject of debate, but your eternal happiness or misery, where the cause is still undetermined; but, perhaps the very moment I am speaking may fix the irrevocable decree that shall last for ever; and yet, notwithstanding all this, you can hardly sit with patience to hear 〈◊〉〈◊〉 tidings of your own salvation; I plead the cause of heaven, and yet am scarcely attended to, &c."

It may be urged, that the stile, the abruptness of a beginning like this, in the closet would appear absurd; but in the pulpit it is attended with the most lasting impressions: that stile which, in the closet, might justly be called flimsy, seems the true mode of eloquence here. I never read a fine composition, under the title of a sermon, that I do not think the author has miscalled his piece; for the talents to be used in writing well, entirely differ from those of speaking well. The qualifications for speaking, as has been already observed, are easily acquired; they are accomplishments which may be taken up by every candidate who will 〈◊〉〈◊〉 at the pains of stooping. Impressed with a sense of the truths he is about to deliver, a preacher disregards the applause or contempt of his audience, and he insensibly assumes a just and manly sincerity. With this talent alone we see what crowds are drawn around enthusiasts, even destitute of common sense; what numbers converted to Christianity. Folly may sometimes set an example for wisdom to prac|tise, and our regular divines may borrow instruction even from methodists, who go their circuits, and preach prizes among the populace. Let clergymen do their duty, and the number of these people will decrease.

Some perhaps will say, that, by confining the ex|cellencies of a preacher to proper assurance, earn|estness, and openness of style, I make the qualifica|tions too trifling for estimation: there will be some|thing called oratory brought up on this occasion; action, attitude, grace, elocution, may be repeated as absolutely necessary to complete the character; but let us not be deceived; common sense is seldom swayed by fine tones, musical periods, just attitudes, or the display of a white handkerchief; oratorial behaviour, except in very able hands indeed, gener|ally sinks into aukward and paltry affectation.

It is necessary to remark, that these rules are cal|culated

only for him who would instruct the vulgar, who stand in most need of instruction. To address philosophers, and to obtain the character of a polite preacher among the polite—(a much more useless, though more sought-for character)—requires a dif|ferent method of proceeding. All I shall observe on this head is, to intreat the polemic divine, in his controversy with the Deists, to act rather offensively than to defend; to push home the grounds of his belief, and the impracticability of theirs, rather than to spend time in solving the objections of every op|ponent. It is ten to one," says a late writer on the art of war, "but that the assailant who attacks the enemy in his trenches, is always victorious."

I am clearly of opinion, that upon the whole, our clergy might employ themselves more to the benefit of society, by declining all controversy, than by ex|hibiting even the profoundest skill in polemic dis|putes; their contests with each other often turn on speculative trifles; and their disputes with the Deists are almost at an end, since they can have no more than victory, and that they are already possessed of, as their antagonists have been driven into a confes|sion of the necessity of revelation, or an open avowal of atheism. To continue the dispute longer would only endanger it; the sceptic is ever expert at puz|zling a debate which he finds himself unable to continue; "and, like an Olympic boxer, generally fights best when undermost."

New and genuine Anecdotes of Dean Swift.

IT appears by a memorandum in one of the ac|count books which Dean Swift always made up yearly, that his mother died in the year 1710. On each page of this memorandum book, the Dean en|tered minutely all his receipts and expences in every

month, beginning his year from the first of Novem|ber. He observed this method all his life time to his last illness. At the foot of that page which includes his expences of the month of May 1710, at the glebe house of Laracor, in the county of Meath, where he was then resident, are these remarkable words, which shew, at the same time, his filial piety, and the re|ligious use which he thought it his duty to make of that melancholy event. "Memorandum, On Wednesday, between seven and eight in the evening, May 10, 1710, I received a letter in my chamber at Laracor (M Percival, and J. Beaumont, being by) from Mrs. F—, dated May 9, with one inclosed sent by Mrs. Mouall at Leicester, to Mrs. F—, giving an account that my dear mother, Mrs. Abi|gail Swift, died that morning, Monday, April 24, 1710, about 10 o'clock, after a long sickness, being ill all winter, and lame, and extremely ill about a month or six weeks before her death. God grant I may live to be as well prepared for it as I confident|ly believe her to have been: If the way to heaven be thro' piety, truth, justice, & charity, she is there. J.S."

The Dean always treated his mother during her life, with the utmost duty and affection; and she sometimes came to Ireland to visit him after his set|tlement at Laracor. She lodged at Mr. Brent's a Printer in George Lane, Dublin. She asked Mrs. Brent, the landlady, whether she could keep a secret: She replied, she could very well. Upon which she enjoined her not to make the matter public which she was now going to communicate to her. "I have a spark in this town, that I carried on a correspondence with while I was in England; he will be here presently to pay his ad|dresses, for he hath heard by this time of my arrival; but I would not have the matter known." Soon after this a rap was heard at the door, and Dean Swift walked up stairs; Mrs. Brent retired, but after a little time she was called, and then Mrs. Swift intro|duced her to her son, and said, "This is my spark

I was telling you of, this is my lover, and indeed the only one I shall ever admit to pay their addresses to me." The Doctor smiled at his mother's humour, and afterwards paid his duty to her every day, un|suspected by Mrs. Brent, whom he invited some years afterwards to take care of his family affairs, when he became Dean of St. Patrick's; and when Mrs. Brent died, he continued her daughter, a poor widow, in the same office.

Dr. Sacheverel, in consequence of a most inflam|matory sermon, preached before the Lord Mayor, on November 5, 1709. was impeached at the bar of the House of Lords, in the name of the Commons of Great Britain, for high crimes and misdemeanours, &c. Having been tried before the Lords, and found guilty, he was silenced for the space of three years, and his sermon was condemned to be burnt by the hands of the common hangman, which sentence was rigidly executed.

When this affair was over, the ministry took very little notice of him, and treated him with great indifference; but upon the rectory of St. Andrew's, Holborn, being vacant, the Doctor applied to them for that living, but they paid no regard to his solici|tation. Upon which he went to Dr. Swift, with whom he had a very slender acquaintance, to request his interest with the government for that parish; and set forth how much he had suffered for them, and their cause. Dr. Swift immediately carried this letter to Lord Bolingbroke, then Secretary of State, who railed much at Sacheverel, calling him a busy intermeddling fellow; a prig, and an incendia|ry, who had set the kingdom in a flame, which could not be extinguished, and therefore deserved censure instead of a reward, To which Swift replied, "True, my Lord, but let me tell you a story. In a sea-fight in the reign of Charles II. there was a very bloody engegement between the Dutch and the En|glish fleets; in the heat of which a Scotch seaman was very severely bit by a louse in his neck, which

he caught, and stooping down to crack it between his nails, many of the sailors near him had their heads taken off by a chain-shot from the enemy, which scattered their brains and blood about him. On this he had compassion upon the poor louse, re|turned him to his place, and bid him live there at discretion; for as he had saved his life, he was bound in gratitude to save his." The recital of this threw my Lord B••lingbroke into a fit of laughter, who when it was over, said, "The louse shall have the living for your story," and soon after Sacheverel was presented to it.

In Dublin, as in other large cities, fires have some|times happened, by which people of all denomina|tions have been sufferers; upon which melancholy occasion, the Dean always exerted himself not only in person, by going from house to house to make collections for them, but wrote and recommended their melancholy cases to the public. He would go to the afflicted sufferers, offer them his services, and would be the first to subscribe in a most princely and generous manner to their relief, which worthy example of his the benevolent citizens of Dublin would imitate.

His charity appears to have been a settled princi|ple of duty, more than an instinctive effort of good nature; but as it was then founded and supported, it had extraordinary merit, and seldom f••••led to exert itself in a manner that contributed most to render it most beneficial. He did not lavish his money upon the idle and worthless; he nicely dis|criminated characters, and was seldom the dupe of imposition. Hence his generosity always turned to an useful account, while it relieved distress it encour|aged industry, and rewarded virtue.

Nevertheless, he was a very peculiar man in every respect. Some people have said, "What a man he would have been had he been without those whims and infirmities, which shaded both his genius and

his character." But perhaps the peculiarities com|plained of were inseparable from his genius. The vigour and fertility of the root could not fail now and then of throwing out superfluous suckers that produced these, produced also the more beautiful branches, and the fruit with all its richness.

It must even be acknowledged, that the Dean's fancy hurried him into great absurdities and incon|sistencies, for which nothing could atone but extra|ordinary talents and virtues discovered in other in|stances. The rancour he discovered towards the Dissenters is well known; no sect or party of men could have merited it in the degree in which he always shewed it to them; for in some instances it bordered on downright persecution. He doubtless had his reasons for exposing their principles into ridicule, and might perhaps have sufficient grounds for some of his accusations against their principal leaders in Ireland; but nothing could justify his vir|ulence against the whole body. Indiscriminate re|flections in a community at large, are generally the offspring of ignorance or malice. It is impossible to put down his prejudices to the account of the former, and we should be sorry to impute them to a worse principle. So great was the Dean's chagrin in the choice which the Corporation of Dublin had made of a Dissenter for a physician to an hospital in that city, that he immediately altered a will in which he had nominated them trustees to a public charity of his own; this action strongly marked his temper, but he should have considered that the Corporation had acted not in a religious, but in a civil capacity, so that it was at least possible a man might be a very skilful physician, without being an orthodox church-man.

The Dean's particular aversion to Lord Wharton, is well known and accounted for by a curious anec|dote, communicated by the late Dr. Salter.

"Lord Somers, recommended Dr. Swift, at his

own request, to Lord Wharton, when that Earl went as Lord Lieutenant to Ireland, in 1708, but without success; and the answer his Lordship is said to have given, was never forgotten or forgiven by Dr. Swift, but seems to have laid the foundation for that par|ticular rancour with which he always mentions Lord Wharton. I saw and read (says Dr. Salter) two letters of Jonathan Swift, then Prebendary of St. Patrick's, Dublin, to Lord Somers; the first ear|nestly intreating his favour, pleading his poverty, and professing the most unalterable attachment to his Lordship's person, friends, and cause; the second acknowledging Lord Somers's kindness in having recommended him, and concluding with the like solemn professions."

"Not more than a year before, Swift deserted Lord Somers, and all his friends, writing avowedly on the contrary side, and (as he boasts himself) libel|ling all the junto round. I saw also the very letters which Lord Somers wrote to the Earl of Wharton, in which Swift is very heartily and warmly recom|mended; and I well remember the short and very smart answer that Lord Wharton is said to have given, which as I observed, Swift never forgave or forgot. It was to this purpose: "Oh my Lord! We must not prefer or countenance these fellows; we have character enough ourselves."

Dean Swift was likewise very angry with Dr Sharp, Lord Archbishop of York, who replied to Queen Anne, when she was consulting the Doctor about making Swift a bishop, "I hope your Majesty will first be satisfied that Dean Swift is a Christian." It is very certain that this speech favoured of extreme asperity, and it was never forgiven by Swift.

Repeated disappointments increased the natural acrimony of Swift's temper; this gave a splenetic tinc|ture to his writings, and amidst the duties of private and domestic life, it too frequently appeared to shade the lustre of his more eminent virtues. A pre-senti|ment

which he had long entertained of that wretch|edness which would inevitably overtake him towards the close of life, by the failure of his intellects, crouded his mind with the most melancholy ideas, and tinged every object around him. How far his gloomy sentiments prevailed, we learn from a very remarkable anecdote, preserved by Dr. Young, in his conjectures upon original composition. Mr. Faulk|ner, in his letter to Lord Chesterfield, hath given one of a very similar nature, which we will tran|scribe: "One time in a journey from Dorgheda to Navan, the Dean rode before the company, made a sudden stop, dismounted his horse, fell on his knees, lifted up his hands and prayed in the most devout manner. When his friends came up, he desired and insisted on their alighting, which they did, and asked him the meaning; "gentlemen, said he, pray join your hearts in fervent prayers with mine that I may be never like this oak tree, which is decayed and withered at top, whilst all the other parts are sound."

The concluding scene of his life was truly affect|ing, and afforded a striking lesson to check the pride of human genius, and great abilities. Mr. Faulkner gives the following account of it:

"Swift was never very outrageous, but his mem|ory failed him by degrees for several years together, insomuch that he forgot all his friends and domes|tics; he could not call any of them by their names, nor for clothes, food, nor any of the necessaries he wanted. In short, his forgetfulness grew so much upon him, that he could not remember any one pas|sage of his life, nor read, nor even tell his letters for near two years before his death. He likewise lost the use of his speech, excepting now and then utter|ing some incoherent, rambling words, being incapa|ble of asking any questions, or returning any answers; nor could he ask for one necessary of life. During this melancholy situation, great care was taken of his person and food, as he was incapable of dressing,

undressing, or helping himself to clothes or victuals; and so totally was he deprived of all rational facul|ties, that he was treated like a new-born infant, being taken out of bed, undressed, and put into bed like the youngest child; and had the actions of one, being fond of gold and silver toys, which he would play with, or put in his mouth. When he was dead, Mr. Whiteway, an eminent surgeon, nearly related to him, opened his skull, and found much water in the brain."

Thus ended this great man, whose writings have made so much noise in the world!

On Liberty and Slavery.

DISGUISE thyself as thou wilt, still Slavery! still thou art a bitter draught; and though thou|sands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account.—It is thou, Liberty thrice sweet and gracious goddess, whom all in public, or in private, worship; whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till nature herself shall change—no tint of words can spot thy snowy man|tle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron— with thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious heaven! grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion, and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good unto thy divine providence, upon those heads which are aching for them.

Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my ta|ble, and leaning upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement; I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fel|low creatures, born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it nearer me, and that the multi|tude of sad groupes in it did but distract me—

—I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I beheld his body half wasted away with long ex|pectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer I saw him pale and feverish; in thirty years the Western breeze had not once fanned his blood—he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time.—nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice.— His children—

But here my heart began to bleed—and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.—

He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest corner of his dungeon, which was al|ternately his chair and bed; a little calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there. —He had one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of mis|ery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up an hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down, shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle—he gave a deep sigh—I saw the iron enter into his soul—I burst with tears—I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.

The Prudent Wife—A True Story.

IN the libidinous reign of king Charles II. there was a young lady named Isabella, who was one of the maids of honour to the duchess of York, that drew the attention of the whole court upon her; she was the reigning to••st of that galtant age, and equally admired by the men of pleasure, and men of wit; with her beauty she was strictly modest; with her wit she was prudent and good-natured. Among her numerous train of admirers, none seemed so agreeable and deserving her esteem, as the young Viscount Belmour, who, incapable of any base de|signs, even when such designs were thought rather an honour than a reflection, gave such assurances of his love, that Isabella easily surrendered her heart. Isabella's aunt, who was her guardian, readily con|sented to the match, and the nuptials were celebra|ted with mutual joy. As this was a marriage not made up by treaty, but free choice and inclination, they did not fall into that modish coldness and com|plaisant indifference people of fashion are soon apt to do. The Viscount was a man of unusual sweet|ness and affability of temper, which, when joined to that of Isabella's, must necessarily make him hap|py with his wife; yet this happiness of temper drew him into some misfortunes; his easiness and credu|lity of the generosity and openness of some com|panions, had like to have lessened his domestic felici|ty, had not Isabella's discretion prevented it. My lord had contracted a most intimate acquaintance with one Mr. Horneck, a man of a pleasant conver|sation, had a pretty knack of telling a story, sung agreeably, was an arch mimic; and, in short, an humourous companion. Such was his public cha|racter; but this was only a mask to conceal the tricking gamester, and the designing pander. To render himself more powerful with men of quality, he made himself instrumental to their follies or their

vices, and was never without some new face to en|gage his acquaintance. Viscount Belmour was not inclined to any of these vices that Horneck was pro|curer of; yet this wretch had cunning enough to draw him into all: with drinking, his health soon began to impair; with losses, his temper was often soured; with wenching, that fondness and cordial love he was used to shew to his lady, began to cease. Isabella was not a little alarmed at this conduct; she was too well informed of his vices, yet prudently thought, that any violent opposition would but heighten the mischief; on the contrary, she took care to make home as easy to him as possible; studi|ous to oblige him, she never disgusted him with harsh reproaches, or satirical reflections on his conduct; neither, though careful to please him, did she run into an extreme of fondness; she was not fond when she thought it would be disagreeable; for she knew that a wife without discretion may make the tender|est endearments the most troublesome. Isabella was gay or fond, as she sound my lord in the temper to receive either; and without letting him know she had information of his gaming abroad, would pro|pose cards or hazard at home, with such company as she thought would please him; and never forgot to include Mr. Horneck among them.

Sometimes her proposal was accepted, and by that means found out the sharper, the pander, the flatterer, and the villain, in Mr. H••rneck.

Luckily for this discreet lady it happened, that, at the same time, Florella, a beautiful lady, who had married my lord's brother, was extremely unea|sy by her jealousy; for, being certainly informed of her husband's keeping a woman of the town, and, at the s••me time being ruined by sharpers at ••••ming, Florella came one day to my lord to complain of his brother's conduct, and falshood to her bed: she cri|ed, she raved, she threatned to live not a moment longer with him. My lord did what he could to

pacify her, but all in vain; my lady succeeded bet|ter, who taking this opportunity to shew my lord his own foibles, thus addressed herself to her sister: "I fancy, dear sister, said she, you want only a little prudential good humour to reclaim your husband; beauty and wit will not avail without discretion. There is a passive kind of virtue necessary to shew him his follies; it must not be done with ill nature and constant reproaches on his conduct, which, I am afraid, is your method. If my lord Belmour were guilty of the same follies, (which I dare affirm he never will) I should myself act as I advise you. You have beauty enough to please a husband; have therefore an equal desire to do it; be the more stu|dious of his humour, as he is the more faulty in his conduct; and let your affability shew his injustice in wronging you: nor can you think this policy false, when the mistresses men visit, exert all their little arts to please them, and render their company agreeable; and this for gain only, without honour, without conscienc••, and without love. Why then should not a virtuous woman shew as great a desire to please her husband, as the artful jilts do to please their gallants? In short, make home entirely easy to him, and by endeavouring to fix his felicity, you will fix your own."

Florella was pleased with her advice; my lord ap|proved it, and was secretly touched to the soul, for his transgressions against so incomparable a wife, who had acted what she spoke, and had more per|sonal charms than the woman his false friend had introduced him to. When he had recollected him|self, he proposed that his sister should bring her husband to dinner ne••t day, and that his lady should repeat what she had already said, and he was assured it would have an excellent effect. It was agreed, but with this prudent condition of lady Isabella, that her discourse should be directed to my lord, to

take off any suspicion, that her discourse was direct|ed to his brother. The next day they met, and my lord saw himself discreetly attacked by his lady for his real faults, while she seemed to take them for imaginary. To what she had said before, she added some reflections on the ill choice men of quality make of their acquaintance; among whom are laughing buffoons, who lead them into all the vices of the age, under the false pretence of friendship; at which words looking at my lord in the most ten|der manner, she concluded, "These, my lord, are wretched friends, who lead you into such evils; on the contrary, the friendship between man and wife is cemented by virtue, love, and interest; and can|not be dissolved without destroying the happiness of both. Let not then any false friend deceive you to your ruin; I desire a continuance of your love only so long as I endeavour to deserve it."—At these words, my lord, overcome with the soft reproach, flung himself about her neck, and, amidst a thou|sand kisses, promised mutual love and mutual hap|piness. These transports were followed by the bro|ther and his wife, who owned himself a convert to virtue and matrimonial love. Thus, what neither beauty nor wit could effect, prudence did; their lives afterwards were prosperous, and their deaths happy.

The Advantage of uniting Gentleness of Manners with Firmness of Mind.

I Mentioned to you sometime ago, a sentence which I would most earnestly wish you always to retain in your thoughts, and observe in your conduct; it is suaviter in modo, fortiter in re. I do not know any one rule so unexceptionably useful, and necessary, in every part of life.

The suaviter in modo alone would degenerate and sink into a mean, timid complaisance and passive|ness, if not supported and dignified by the fortiter in re; which would also run into impetuosity and bru|tality, if not tempered and softened by the suaviter in modo,; however, they are seldom united. The warm choleric man, with strong animal spirits, despises the suaviter in modo, and thinks to carry all before him by the fortiter in re. He may possibly by great acci|dent now and then succeed, when he has only weak and timid people to deal with; but his general fate will be, to shock, offend, be hated and fa••l. On the other hand, the cunning crafty man, thinks to gain all his ends by the suaviter in modo only; he becomes all things to all men; he seems to have no opinion of his own, and servilely adopts the present opinion of the present person; he insinuates himself only into the esteem of fools, but is soon detected and surely despised by every body else. The wise man (who differs as much from the cunning, as from the choleric man) alone joins the suaviter in modo with the for••iter in re.

If you are in authority, and have a right to com|mand, your commands delivered suaviter in modo will be willingly, cheerfully, and consequently well obeyed; whereas if given only fortiter in re, that is, brutally, they will rather, as Tacitus says, be inter|preted than executed. For my own part, if I bid my servant bring me a glass of wine, in a rough insult|ing manner, I should expect, that in obeying me, he would contrive to spill some of it upon me, and I am sure I should deserve it. A cool steady resolution should show, that where you have a right to com|mand, you will be obeyed; but at the same time, a gentleness in the manner of enforcing that obedi|ence, should make it a cheerful one, and soften as much as possible, the mortifying consciousness of inferiority, If you are to ask a favour, or even to solicit your due, you must do it suaviter in modo, or

you will give those who have a mind to refuse you, either a pretence to do it, by resenting the manner; but on the other hand, you must by a steady perse|verence and decent tenaciousness show the fortiter in re. In short, this precept is the only way I know of in the world, of being loved without being des|pised, and feared without being hated. It consti|tutes the dignity of char••cter, which every wise man must endeavour to establish.

If therefore you find that you have a hastiness in your temper, which unguardedly breaks out into indiscreet sallies, or rough expressions, to either your superiors, your equals, or your inferiors, watch it narrowly, check it carefully, and call the suaviter in modo to your assistance: at the first impulse of pas|sion be silent, till you can be soft. Labour even to get the command of your countenance so well, that those corrections may not be read in it; a most un|speakable advantage in business! On the other hand, let no complaisance, no gentleness of temper, no weak desire of pleasing on your part, make you recede one jot from any point that reason and pru|dence have bid you preserve; but return to the charge, persist, persevere, and you will find most things attainable that are possible. A yielding timid meekness, is always abused and insulted by the unjust and the unfeeling; but meekness when sustained by the fortiter in re is always respected, commo••ly successful. In your friendships and con|nections, as well as in your enmities, this rule is particularly useful; let your firmness and vigour preserve and invite attachments to you; but at the same time, let your manners hinder the enemies of your friends and dependants from becoming yours; let your enemies be disarmed by the gentleness of your manners, but let them feel at the same time, the steadiness of your just resentment; for there is great difference between bearing malice, which is always ungenerous, and a resolute self-defence, which is always prudent and justifiable.

I conclude with this observation, that gentleness of manners, with firmness of mind, is a short, but full description of human perfection, on this side of religious and moral duties.

SELECT SENTENCES, Worthy the Observation of the Present Age.

A Man may have a thousand intimate acquain|tances, and not a friend among them all. If you have one friend think yourself happy. When once you profess yourself a friend, endeavour to be always such. He can never have any true friends, that will be often changing them.

Complaisance, or as Lord Chesterfield calls it, the suaviter in modo, re••ders a superior amiable, an equal agreeable, and an inferior acceptable.

Excess of ceremony shews want of breeding. That civility is best which excludes all superfluous for|mality.

No man hath a thorough taste of prosperity, to whom adversity never happened.

None more impatiently suffer injuries than those who are most forward in doing them.

A more glorious victory cannot be gained over another man, than this, that where the injury began on his part, the kindness should begin on ours.

We should take a prudent care for the future, but so as to enjoy the present. It is no part of wisdom, to be miserable to day, because we may happen to be so to-morrow.

The man who is destitute of good sense, is unhap|py in having learning; for he has thereby more ways of exposing himself.

The character of the person who commends you, is to be considered before you set a value on his esteem. The wise man applauds him whom he

thinks most virtuous; the rest of the world him who is most wealthy.

A good man will love himself too well to los••, and his neighbours too well to win, an estate ••y gaming. The love of gaming will corrupt the best principles in the world.

It is the infirmity of little minds to be taken with every appearance, and dazzled with every thing that sparkles; but great minds have but little admira|tion, because few things appear new to them.

He that is truly polite▪ knows how to contradict with respect, and to please without adulation; and is equally remote from an insipid complaisance, and a low familiarity.

Nobility is to be considered only as an imaginary distinction, unless accompanied with the practice of those generous virtues by which it ought to be at|tained. Titles of honour conferred upon such as have no personal merit, are at best but the royal stamp set upon base metal.

Truth is always consistent with itself, and needs nothing to help it out. It is always near at hand, and sits upon our lips, and is ready to drop out be|fore we are aware; whereas a lie is troublesome, and sets a man's invention upon the rack; and one trick needs a great many more to make it good.

He that lies in bed all a Summer's morning, loses the chief pleasure of the day; he that gives up his youth to indolence, undergoes a loss of the same kind.

Fine sense and exalted sense are not half so valu|able as common sense. There are forty men of wit for one man of sense; and he that will carry nothing about him but gold, will be every day at a loss for want of ready change.

A man should never be ashamed to own he has been in the wrong; which is but saying in other words, that he is wiser to day than he was yesterday.

Wherever I find a great deal of gratitude in a

poor man, I take it for granted there would be as much generosity if he were a rich man.

Flowers of rhetoric in sermons or serious discour|ses, are like the blue and red flowers in corn, plea|sing to those who come only for amusement, but prejudicial to him who would reap the profit.

It often happens that they are the best people, whose characters have been most injured by slander|ers; as we usually find that to be the sweetest fruit ••hich the birds have been picking.

The eye of a critic is often like a microscope, made so very fine and nice, that it discovers the atoms, grains, and minutest articles, without ever comprehending the whole, comparing the parts, or seeing all at once the harmony.

Honour is but a fictitious kind of honesty; a mean, but a necessary substitute for it in societies who have none; it is a sort of paper credit, with which men are obliged to trade, who are deficient in the sterling cash of true morality and religion.

The chief advantage that ancient writers can boast over the modern, seems owing to simplicity. Every noble truth and sentiment was expressed by the for|mer in a natural manner, in word and phrase sim|ple, perspicuous and incapable of improvement. What then remained for later writers, but affecta|tion, witticism, and conceit?

If to do, were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes palaces. He is a good divine who follows his own instructions; I can easi••r teach twenty what were good to be done, than to be one of the twenty to follow my own teaching.

Description of the Nursery of a Maiden Lady.

WHEN I went the other day to visit Mrs. Pene|lope Doat, after I had been waiting some time in the parlour, the servant returned with her mistress's compliments, and acquainted me, that she was extremely busy, and begged to be excused com|ing down to me, but that she should be very happy to see me in the nursery. I was a good deal surpri|sed at the message, as I knew she was a maiden lady; but I thought proper to follow the servant up stairs to her mistress, whom I found coming a little white dog that lay in her lap, with a grey parrot perching on one arm of the sopha where she sat, a monkey on the back, and a tabby cat with half a dozen kittens in the other corner. The whole room, which was a very large one, was a nursery for all kinds of ani|mals, except those of the human species. Cages hung all round it, containing parrots, mackaws, Canary birds, nightingales, linnets, goldfinches, &c. On the chairs were several cars reposing themselves on soft cushions; and there were little kennels in the Chinese taste in almost every corner of the room, filled with pugs, fidos, and King Charles's breed.

As soon as the chattering of the birds, the bark|ing of the dogs, and the m••wing of the cats, which my entrance occasioned, began to cease, "You find me, Sir, (said the lady) tending my little family, the only joy of my life; here is a dear pretty creature! (holding up the little dog while combing) a beauty, Sir, a fine long eared snub nosed beauty! Lady Faddle advertised three quarters of a year, and could not get the fellow to it. Ah, bless it and love it, sweet soul!" And then she stroked it, and kissed it for near two minutes, uttering the whole time all those inarticulate sounds, which cannot be commit|ted to paper, and which are only addressed to dogs, cats, and children, and may very properly be stiled the language of the nursery.

The lady observed me smile at the embraces she bestowed on her motley darling, and said, "I am afraid, Sir, you do not love these pretty creatures. How can you be so cruel? Poor dumb things! I would not have them hurt for all the world; nor do I see why a lady should not indulge herself in having such sweet little company about her, as well as you men run out estates in keeping a pack of filthy hounds." She then laid Pompey on his velvet cushion by the fire side, and railed at the barbarity of the human species to the rest of the creation, and entered into a long dissertation on tenderness and humanity.

An humane disposition is indeed so amiable either in man or woman, that it ought always to be cher|ished and kept alive in our bosoms; but at the same time we should be cautious not to render the first virtue of our nature ridiculous. The most com|passionate temper may be sufficiently gratified by relieving the wretched of our own species; but who would even boast of their generosity to a lap-dog, and their conferring eternal obligations on a mon|key? Or would any person deserve to be celebrated for their charity, who should deny support to a rela|tion or a friend, because he maintains a litter of kittens? For my own part, before I would treat a Dutch puppy with such absurd fondness, I must be brought to worship dogs as the Egyptians did of old; and before I would so extravagantly doat upon a monkey, I would change my humanity with a baboon.

My female friend is not the only instance of this fondness for the brute creation being carried to such ridiculous lengths. Many grave Doctors of the faculty have been called in to feel the pulse of a lap-dog, and inspect the u••ine of a squirrel, and one lady of my acquaintance, carried the absurdity so far, as to discharge her chaplain because he refused to bury her monkey; another friend of mine, but

of the other sex, caused his favourite dog to be buried in Hyde-Park, his house-keeper and other servants attended, and they had each mourning rings upon the occasion, with the name and age of the dog enamelled thereon, the enamel was white, because my friend asserted that his favourite was a batchelor.

But of all follies, surely it is the greatest to pro|vide for these animals by will, which absurd legacies deserve as little the title of humanity, as those donors merit the epithet of charitable, who in a death-bed fright starve their relations by leaving their estates to found an hospital. It is very much to be wished, that money left in trust for such uses, were subject to some statutes of mo••t••ain; or at least, that the gentlemen of the long robe would centrive some scheme to cut off the entail from monkeys, mack|aws, Italian grey hounds, and tabby cats.

It is not so surprising that a stage coachman should love his horses better than his wife or children; or a country Esquire be fond of his hounds and hunt|ers, because the reason of this regard for them is easily accounted for; upon the same principles, a sea captain has been known to contract an affection for his ship; but no coachman would like Caligula, tie his horses to a golden rack, but thinks he shews suf|ficient kindness by filling them with good wholesome provender; and the country sportsman takes care to provide his hounds with a good kennel and horse-flesh, but would never dream of placing them on cushions before the fire, feeding them with fricassees, or breeding them with as much care as the heir to his estate,

Among the fair sex this irregular passion is most frequently to be found. How often has the slighted gallant envied the caresses given to a lap-dog, or kisses bestowed on a squirrel! and "I would I were thy bird!" has been the fond exclamation of many a Romeo. But this affection for birds and beasts generally wears off after marriage, and the

ladies commonly discard their four-footed darlings, and feathered favourites, when they can bestow their endearments on an husband. On this account, these dry nurses to pugs and grimalkins, are gener|ally to be met with among those females, who have been disappointed in the affairs of love, and have, against their will, retained the flower of their vir|ginity till it has withered in their possession. It some|times happens that there is a kind of analogy be|tween the gallant they once loved, and the animal on which they afterwards fix their affections; and I very well remember an instance of a lady's passion for a lawyer being converted into dotage on a parrot, and have an old maiden aunt, who once languished for a beau, whose heart is now devoted to a monkey.

After what has been said, it will not appear strange, that a lady should be very solicitous to pre|serve the breed of her favourite animals; a gentle|man in St. James's street, lately sent his little Cupid in a sedan chair as far as Grosvenor-square, to wait upon a lady's Venus for this purpose; and I shall always remember a card which was sent to another lady on a like occasion, expressed in the following terms:

Mr. H—k's compliments to lady Betty L—, is glad to hear Miss Chloe is safely delivered, and begs as a particular favour, that her ladyship would be pleased to set him down for a puppy.

On the Pythagorean Doctrine of the Transmi|gration of Souls.

THE doctrine of transmigration, supposes that human souls upon their leaving the body, be|come the souls of such kind of brutes as they most resemble in their manners; or to give an account of it as Mr. Dryden has described it in his translation

of Pythagoras, his speech in the fifteenth book of Ovid, where that philosopher dissuades his hearers from eating flesh:

Thus all things are but alter'd, nothing dies, And here and there th' unbody'd spirit flies: By time, or force, or sickness dispossess'd, And lodges where it lights, in bird or beast. Or hunts without till ready limbs it find, And actuates there according to their kind: From tenement to tenement is toss'd, The soul is still the same, the figure only lost. Then let not piety be put to flight, To please the taste of glutton appetite; But suffer inmate souls secure to dwell, Lest from their seats your parents you expel; With rapid hunger feed upon your kind, Or from a beast dislodge a brother's mind.

Plato in the vision of Erus the Armenian, records some beautiful transmigrations; as that the soul of Orpheus, who was musical, melancholy, and a wo|man-hater, entered into a swan; the soul of Ajax, which was all wrath and fierceness, into a lion; the soul of Agamemnon, that was rapacious and impe|rious into an eagle; and the soul of Thersites, who was a mimic and a buffoon, into a monkey.

Mr. Congreve, in a prologue to one of his come|dies, has touched upon this doctrine with great hu|mour:

Thus Aristotle's soul of old that was, May now be damn'd to animate an ass; Or in this very house, for ought we know, Is doing painful penance in some beau.

As we are upon this subject, we will annex the following account from the Spectator, supposed to be written by a monkey to a lady who kept him:

"Madam—Not having the gift of spe••ch, I have

a long time waited in vain for an opportunity of making myself known to you; and having at pres|ent the conveniences of pen, ink, and paper by me, I gladly take the occasion of giving you my history in writing, which I could not do by word of mouth.

You must know, Madam, that about a thousand years ago, I was an Indian Brachman, and versed in all those mysterious secrets which your European philosopher called Pythagoras, is said to have learn|ed from our fraternity. I had so ingratiated myself by my great skill in the occult sciences with a daemon whom I used to converse with, that he promised to grant me whatever I should ask him. I desired that my soul might never pass into the body of a brute creature; but this he told me was not in his power to grant me. I then begged that into whatever creature I should chance to transmigrate, I might still retain my memory, and be conscious that I was the same person who lived in different animals. This he told me was within his power, and accordingly promised on the word of a daemon, that he would grant me what I desired. From that time forth I lived so very unblameably, that I was made president of a college of Brachmans, an office which I discharged with great integrity till the day of my death.

I was then shuffled into another human body, and acted my part so well in it, that I became first minister to a prince who reigned on the banks of the Ganges. I here lived in great honour for several years, but by degrees lost all the innocence of the Brachman, being obliged to rifle and oppress the people to enrich my sovereign; till at length I be|came so odious, that my master, to recover his cred|it with his subjects, shot me through the heart with an arrow, as I was one day addressing myself to him at the head of his army.

Upon my next remove I found myself in the woods,

under the shape of a jackall, and soon listed myself in the service of a lion. I used to yelp near his den about midnight, which was his time of rousing and seeking after his prey. He always followed me in the rear, and when I had run down a fat buck, a wild goat, or an hare, after he had feasted very plen|tifully upon it himself, would now and then throw me a bone that was but half picked for my encour|agement; but upon my being unsuccessful in two or three chaces, he gave me such a confounded gripe in his anger, that I died of it.

In my next transmigration I was again set upon two legs, and became an Indian tax-gatherer; but having been guilty of great extravagances, and be|ing married to an expensive jade of a wife, I ran so cursedly in debt, that I durst not shew my head. I could no sooner step out of my house, but I was arrested by some person or other that lay in wait for me. As I ventured abroad one night in the dusk of the evening, I was taken up and hurried into a dun|geon, where I died a few months after.

My soul then entered into a flying fish, and in that state led a most melancholy life for the space of six years. Several fishes of prey pursued me when I was in the water, and if I betook myself to my wings, it was ten to one I had a flock of birds aiming at me. As I was one day flying amidst a fleet of En|glish ships, I observed an huge sea gull whetting his bill, and hovering just over my head; upon my dip|ping into the water to avoid him, I fell into the mouth of a monstrous shark that swallowed me down in an instant.

I was some years afterwards, to my great surprise, an eminent banker in Lombard-street; and remem|bering how I had formerly suffered for want of mon|ey, became so very sordid and avaricious, that the whole town cried shame of me. I was a miserable little old fellow to look upon, for I had in a manner starved myself, and was nothing but skin and bone when I died.

I was afterwards very much troubled and amazed to find myself dwindled into an emmet. I was heart|ily concerned to make so insignificant a figure, and did not know but some time or other I might be reduced to a mite if I did not mend my manners. I therefore applied myself with great diligence to the offices that were allotted me, and was generally looked upon as the notablest ant in the whole mole|hill. I was at last picked up as I was groaning un|der a burden, by an unlucky cock-sparrow that lived in the neighbourhood, and had before made dep|radations upon our commonwealth.

I then bettered my condition a little, and lived an whole summer in the shape of a bee; but being tired with the painful and penurious life I had un|dergone in my two last transmigrations, I fell into the other extreme, and turned drone. As I one day headed a party to plunder an hive, we were received so warmly by the sw••rm which defended it, that we were most of us left dead upon the spot.

I might tell you of many other transmigrations which I went through; how I was a town rake, and afterwards did penance in a bay gelding for ten years; as also how I was a taylor, a shrimp, and a tom tit. In the last of these my shapes I was shot in the Christmas holidays by a young jackanapes, who would needs try his new gun upon me.

But I shall pass over these and several other stages of life, to remind you of the young bean who made love to you about six months since. You may re|member, Madam, how he masked, and danced, and sung, and played a thousand tricks to gain you; and how he was at last carried off by a cold that he got under your window one night in a serenade; I was that unfortunate young fellow, whom you were then so cruel to. Not long after my shifting that unluc|ky body, I found myself on a hill in Ethiopia, where I lived in my present grotesque shape, till I was caught by a servant of the English factory, and sent over

into Great Britain; I need not inform you how I came into your hands; you see, Madam, that this is not the first time that you have had me in a chain; I am however very happy in this my captivity, as you often bestow on me those kisses and caresses which I would have given the world for when I was a man. I hope this discovery of my person will not tend to my disadvantage, but that you will still con|tinue your accustomed favours to

Your most devoted humble servant, PUGG.

The Generosity of a Lord Chancellor.

A Living of five hundred pounds per annum falling into the gift of a late Lord Chancel|lor, the Premier recommended one of his friends as deserving it, whom his lordship approved. In the interim, the curate, who had served the late incum|bent many years, for thirty pounds per annum, came up with a petition signed by many of the inhabi|tants, testifying his good behaviour, and setting forth that he had a wife and seven children to maintain, and begging his lordship would stand his friend, that he might be continued in the curacy; and in consideration of his large family, if he could prevail with the next incumbent to add ten pounds a year he should for ever pray for him. His lordship pro|mised to use his utmost endeavours to serve him. The reverend gentleman for whom the living was designed, soon after going to pay his respects to his lordship, my lord told him the affair of the curate, with this difference only, that he should allow him sixty pounds a year instead of thirty. The parson in some confusion replied, that he was very sorry he could not grant his lordship's request, sor that he had promised the curacy to another, and could not go back from his word. How! said his lordship,

have you promised the curacy before you were pos|sessed of the living? Well, to keep your word with your friend, I will give him the curacy, but the liv|ing I assure you I will give to another; and having so said, left him. The next day the poor curate coming to know his destiny, his lordship told him, that he had used his endeavours to serve him as to the curacy, but with no success, the reverend gen|tleman having disposed of it before. The curate, with a deep sigh, thanked his lordship for his good|ness, and was going to withdraw; when my lord calling him back, said with a smile, "Well, my friend, it is true I have it not in my power to give you the curacy, but if you will accept the living it is at your service." It is not in the power of words to describe the curate's surprize and joy at this sud|den turn in his favour, who, with the most moving expressions of gratitude, returned his lordship thanks, whose goodness had in a moment raised him and his family from the most necessitous condition to ease and affluence: and my lord to complete his gen|erosity, ordered his clerks to make out the diploma, without taking their customary fees.

Anecdote of the late Earl of Ross.

THE late Earl of Ross, was in character and dis|position, like the humourous Earl of Rochester. He had an infinite fund of wit, great spirits; was fond of all the vices which the beau monde call plea|sures, and by that means first impaired his fortune as much as he possibly could; and finally, his health beyond repair.

The poor Earl having led this life till it brought him to death's door, the Reverend Dean Madden, a man of exemplary piety and virtue, having heard his lordship was given over, thought it his duty to

write him a very pathetic letter, to remind him of his past life; the particulars of which he mentioned, such as whoring, gaming, drinking, rioting, blas|pheming his Maker, and, in short, all manner of wickedness, exhorting him in the tenderest manner, to employ the few moments that yet remained to him, in penitently confessing his manifold trans|gressions, and soliciting his pardon from an offended Deity, before whom he was shortly to appear.

It is proper to acquaint the reader, that the late Earl of Kildair was one of the most pious noblemen of the age, and, in every respect, a contrast in cha|racter to Lord Ross. When the latter, who retained his senses to the last moment, and died rather for want of breath, than want of spirits, read over the Dean's letter (which came to him under cover) he ordered it to be put in another paper, sealed up, and directed to the Earl of Kildair; he likewise pre|vailed on the Dean's servant to carry it, and to say it came from his master, which he was encouraged to do by a couple of guineas, and his knowing no|thing of the contents. Lord Kildair was an effem|inate, puny, little man, extremely formal and deli|cate, insomuch that, when he was married to lady Mary O'Brien, one of the most shining beauties then in the world, he would not take his wedding gloves off when he went to bed. From this single instance, it may be judged with what surprise and indignation he read over the Dean's letter, containing so many accusations for crimes he knew himself entirely in|nocent of. He first ran to his lady, and informed her that Dean Madden was actually mad; to prove which, he delivered her the epistle he had just re|ceived. Her ladyship was as much confounded and amazed at it, as he could possibly be, but withal ob|served, that the letter was not written in the stile of a madman, and advised him to go to the archbishop of Dublin about it; accordingly his lordship order|ed his coach, and went to the episcopal palace,

where he found his grace at home, and immediately accosted him in this manner: "Pray, my lord, did you ever hear that I was a blasphemer, a whoremon|ger, a rioter, and every thing that is base and infa|mous?" "You, my lord, said the bishop, every one knows you are the pattern of humility, godliness, and virtue." "Well, my lord, what satisfaction can I have of a reverend Divine, who, under his own hand, lays all this to my charge?" "Surely, (ans|wered his grace) no man in his senses, that knows your lordship, would presume to do it. And if any clergyman has been guilty of such an offence, your lordship will have satisfaction from the spiritual court." Upon this lord Kildair delivered to his grace the letter, which he told him was delivered by the Dean's servant, and which both the archbishop and the Earl knew to be the Dean's own hand-wri|ting. The archbishop immediately sent for the Dean, who, happening to be at home, instantly obeyed the summons; before he entered the room, he advised lord Kildair to walk into another apart|ment, which his lordship accordingly did. When the Dean entered, his grace looked very sternly, and demanded if he had written that letter; the Dean answered, "I did, my lord." "Mr. Dean, (returned the prelate) I always thought you a man of sense and prudence, but this unguarded action must lessen you in the esteem of all good men. To throw out so many causeless invectives against the most unblem|ished nobleman in Europe, and accuse him of crimes to which he and his family have ever been strangers, must certainly be the effect of a distempered brain; besides, Sir, you have by this means laid yourself open to a prosecution, which will oblige you either publicly to retract what you have said, or to suffer the consequence." "My lord, answered the Dean, I never think, act, or write any thing for which I am afraid to be called to an account before any tribunal upon earth; and, if I am to be prosecuted for dis|charging

the duties of my function, I will suffer pa|tiently the severest penalties in justification of it." And so saying, the Dean retired with some emotion, and left the two noblemen as much in the dark as ever. Lord Kildair went home, and sent for a proctor, to whom he communicated the Dean's letter, and ordered a citation to be sent him as soon as possible; in the mean time, the archbishop, who knew the Dean had a family to provide for, and foresaw that ruin must attend his entering into a suit with so powerful a person, went to his house, and recommended to him, to ask my lord's pardon before the matter became public; "ask his pardon! said the Dean, why, the man's dead." "Lord Kildair dead!" "No, lord Ross." "Good God! said the archbishop, did you not send a letter yesterday to lord Kildair?" "No, truly my lord, but I sent one to the unhappy Earl of Ross, who was then given over, and I thought it my duty to write to him in the manner I did." Upon examining the servant, the whole was rectified, and the Dean saw with great regret, that lord Ross died as he had lived; nor did he continue in this life above four hours, after he sent off the letter. The footman lost his place by the jest, and was, indeed, the only sufferer for my lord's last piece of humour.

The Convocation of Old Maids, or the Resolutions of the Female Parliament at Carlisle-House.

Written and signed by PATTY POS.

PATTY addresses herself to the President, who it seems is a gentleman, and says, "You know, Sir, that you men have had all the rule and authority in your own hands; you have taken upon you to be judges in your own disputes, and have imposed a rigid custom on us, not to speak till we are spoken

to, under the penalty of forfeiting our modesty and reputation; but have indulged yourselves, good souls! with the liberty of never speaking at all; and if we are so unfortunate as never to be asked the question, or to refuse the only deformed wretch who perchance opens his mouth, it is such an evi|dence of our guilt, that we are branded with infamy for being old maids, and doomed to scorn and con|tempt here, and apes and devils hereafter.

"Our case is very hard, for is it not enough that we, who are arrant flesh and blood, are obliged to dissemble our passions, seem what we are not, and speak what we do not think; that we must appear all ice, when at least we may have some flame; and when the man of our heart asks our love, we must turn aside, blush, bridle, look silly, and cry No; — lest by a too ready compliance we should seem to break a ridiculous custom, or spoil the spark's squeamish appetite. Is it not enough that we must starve our passions, and lose our youth and beauty; that we must live hopeless, and die childless, unless you, good gentlemen, should graciously condescend to ask us to become wives? Is it not enough that we must bear the rivalship of steam in wine, and nause|ous tobacco, and see your sex lavish their time, money, and health, in the pursuit of prostitutes, the scandal of our sex? Are not these enough, but we must be exposed to infamy, for being what your neglect alone has made us against our wills, against our consciences too?—Oh! more than Egyptian task masters, either give us materials to make our bricks, or punish us not for being idle.

"The times are now altered, for though our sex might formerly have trembled to make op••••••ition to your lordly wills, the present age is grown wiser; and therefore I shall not value any reflections you make on my freedom of speech, thinking myself no longer bound by silly customs imposed by tyrants; but henceforth shall speak as I think, according to

real nature, truth, and reason; and not as you have been pleased to paint them.

"This determination is not made by myself alone; the insults and ill usage of your sex, have, for some time, formed numerous parti••s of old maids, who, at first, only presumed tenderly to complain of their hardships, and barely vindicate themselves from your unjust censures; but as now our numbers are in|creased, many parties which were used to meet in different assemblies, have now united themselves in a regular manner, and are become a very formidable society, under the title of The Convocation of Old Maids▪ or Female Parliament.

"Though after the manner of the clerical parlia|ment, we might have divided ourselves into two houses, yet we chose one assembly only, for fear of the distinction of being a member of the upper and the lower house, might create jealousies and animosi|ties about precedency, and render our whole political scheme abortive. Besides, in reality, we are only the representatives of the inferior order of old maids; for our preliminary articles were, that none could be admitted, as yet, whose fortunes exceeded 1000l. down, all above that being most concerned in inter|est; that none under thirty-five be admitted to have a vote, nor under thirty to have any office or place within or without doors, as attendants on this hon|orable house. These preliminaries being fixed by the commissioners appointed, our general meeting was held, and what were our several proceedings and resolutions is my duty to transmit to you; and your duty, by the nature of your office, to publish to the world.

"You may imagine, that our first meeting was much confused, as there were no antient standing orders to regulate ourselves by; all were full of com|plaints, some were merry, some sad, some rallied, some bewailed, more inveighed against the present state of affairs; but all, nem. con. concluded it high

time to put an end to our misfortunes; many pretty speeches were lost for want of being heard; many pretty faces disfigured for want of temper. I know not what would have been the consequence, had not I exerted the whole strength of my lungs, and, by the dint of vociferation, been heard above them all. Though I was heard, yet, for some time, it was but indistinctly, till a good lady seconded me with hear her, hear her.—Hear her, hear her, was the unan|imous voice of the whole assembly; then, after a little pause of silence, I moved that every one might take her seat; but this motion had not its desired effect; a precedence for places, and a seat at the up|per end of the room seemed to be universally aimed at. To prevent this inconvenience, a sage lady ob|served to them, that in this assembly respect and precedency were only due to seniority. This speech occasioned quite an opposite difficulty; for now the whole stream of the crowd ran to the lower end of the room to be thought youngest; nay, a desire of youth seemed by far a stronger passion than that of honour; and we were reduced to a sad dilemma. But, with an happy presence of mind, and a patriot ambition, I myself, though but in my seventy-third year, walked up to the deserted place, and there, in a pathetic speech, set forth the misery of private views when the public good was in question; and desired they would all concur in a vote, that there should be no distinction, but all sit at a round table. If they might hereafter think proper for precedence to be insisted on, that the several registers might be searched, the true ages known, and the degrees accordingly adjusted.

"Whether the fear of having their ages divulged, or (what I rather hope) a public spirit for the pub|lic good, affected them, they all immediately, with|out distinction, seated themselves; and, on the mo|tion of the lady who before seconded me, they ••oted nem. con. that Miss Patty Pos should take the

chair in the place where she now stands, and be the prolocutress of this house. The chair was carried, and I took my place accordingly."

Ordered, That this honourable house, being fa|tigued with debates, and adjusting its rules, shall adjourn themselves till to-morrow evening six o'clock.

Adjourned accordingly; and being met at the time,

Resolved, That chastity is a virtue; vi••ginity no disgrace to a woman of any age, unless it can be proved she has refused an agreeable and suitable match, since her age of discretion, and capacity of judging for herself.

Resolved, That ••ll usages and customs, contradic|tory to the prior resolution, are immoral and ridic|ulous.

Resolved, That too great a number of unmarried women has ever been judged ill policy, and is con|tradictory to the natural ends of society; whereas marriage has ever been encouraged by all wise nations.

Resolved, A petition from several distressed maid|ens, who, in every part of the United States, labour under great calamities, setting forth, that the peti|tioners are now of the age of twenty five, and so on to twenty nine inclusive; that they have never in their lives been asked the question, are now in terri|ble apprehensions that they will come under the de|nomination of old maids, and die without husbands, which they own is against their consciences; there|fore they humbly pray the assistance of this honour|able and reverend house to take their case under consideration, and to find out such remedies as they in their great judgment shall think fit.

Ordered, That a committe be appointed to con|sider the merits of the above petition, and have lib|erty to send for papers, letters, persons, records, and parish registers.

Ordered, That Mrs. Deborah Single, Dame Mary

Longfort, Dame Susanna Marrywood, Lady Betty Youthlove, and Miss Ursula Feeble, be of the said committee.

Resolved, That the present number of maids in the United States is a national grievance; and that it will be the utter ruin and depopulation of these States.

Resolved, That a day be appointed to inquire into the grounds and reasons of the prodigious number of old maids in the United States.

Resolved, That in a committee of the whole house, the said inquiry-be made on Tuesday next, and that till then the convocation shall stand adjourned.

By virtue of an order of the convocation of Old Maids, or Female Parliament. I do appoint these votes to be printed at Boston. PATTY POS, Prolocutress.

An Useful Essay on Laughter.

THE famous Mr. Hobbs, in his discourse upon Human Nature, after making curious obser|vations upon laughter, concludes thus: "The passion of laughter is nothing else but sudden glory arising from some sudden conception of some emi|nency in ourselves, by comparison with the infirm|ity of others, or with our own formerly; for men laugh at the past follies of themselves, when they come suddenly to remembrance, except they bring with them any present dishonour."

According to this Author therefore, when we hear a man laugh excessively, instead of saying he is very merry, we ought to tell him he is very proud. And indeed if we look into the bottom of the matter, we shall meet with many observations to confirm us in his opinion. Every one laughs at some body that is in an inferior state of folly to himself. It was

formerly the custom for every great house in Eng|land, to keep a tame fool dressed in petticoats, that the heirs of the family might have an opportunity of joking upon him and diverting themselves with his absurdities. For the same reason idiots are still in request in most of the courts of Germany, where there is not a Prince of any great magnificence, who has not two or three dressed, distinguished, undis|puted fools in his retinue, whom the rest of his cour|tiers are always breaking their jests upon.

The Dutch, who are more famous for their indus|try and application, than for wit and humour, hang up in several of their streets what they call the sign of the gaper, that is the head of an idiot dressed in a cap and bells, and gaping in a most immoderate manner; this is a standing jest in Amsterdam.

Thus every one diverts himself with some person or other that is below him in point of understand|ing, and triumphs in the superiority of his genius, while he has such objects of derision before his eyes. Mr. Dennis has very well expressed this in a couple of humourous lines, which are part of the transla|tion of a satire in Monsieur Boileau.

Thus one fool ••olls his tongue out at another, And shakes his empty noddle at his brother.

Mr. Hobbs' reflection gives us the reason why the insignificant people above mentioned, excite laugh|ter among men of a gross taste; but as the more understanding part of mankind do not find their risibility affected by such ordinary objects, it may be worth our while to examine into the several provo|catives of laughter in men of superior sense and knowledge.

In the first place, there is a set of merry drolls, whom the common people of all countries admire, and seem to love so well that they could eat them according to the old proverb; I mean those circum|feraneous

wits whom every nation calls by the name of that dish of meat which it loves best In Holland they are termed Pickle Herrings; in France, Jean Pottages; in Italy, Maccaronies; and in Great Britain, Jack Puddings. These merry wags from whatsoever food they receive their titles, that they may make their audiences laugh, always appear in a fool's coat, and commit such blunders and mistakes in every step they take, and every word they utter, as those who listen to them would be ashamed of.

But this little triumph of the understanding under the disguise of laughter, is no where more visible than in that custom which prevails every where among us on the first day of April, when every body takes it into his head to make as many fools as he can. In proportion as there are more follies dis|covered, so there is more laughter raised on this than on any other day in the whole year.

Thus we see in proportion as one man is more refined than another, he chuses his food out of a lower or higher class of mankind, or to speak in a more philosophical language, that secret elation and pride of heart which is generally called laughter, arises in him from comparing himself with an ob|ject below him, whether it so happens that it be a natural or an artificial fool. When a man of wit makes us laugh, it is by betraying some oddness or infirmity in his own character, or in the represen|tation which he makes of others.

A new and remarkable History of Fayette and Grasse.

MANY people who have travelled, may remem|ber to have seen Fayette and Grasse at school, in the town of ••ssoir, in A••verg••e, which place is celebrated over the whole world for its college and

its kettles. Fayette was the son of a horse dealer of high renown, and Grasse derived his birth from an able husbandman, who with the help of four horses cultivated a neighbouring farm, and when he had paid the poll tax, the subsidy, the excise, the salt tax, the poundage, the capitation, and the twenti|eth penny, we cannot suppose he was overburdened with riches.

Fayette and Grasse were comely well looking lads for Auvergnes••, and contracted a great intimacy and friendship for each other; they had their little schemes and tete-a-tetes by themselves, upon which they reflected with great pleasure when they were together in other company.

The time of their stay at school was nearly expi|red, when a taylor brought Fayette a suit of figured velvet, and a rich waistcoat, made up in a very good taste, with a letter addressed to Mons. de la Fayette. Grasse admired the cloaths without envy, but Fay|ette assumed an air of superiority which very much grieved Grasse. From this time Fayette forsook his learning, and employed his time almost wholly in the looking-glass, which, added to the contempt with which he treated his supposed inferiors, made him very disagreeable.

A short time after this elevation of our gentleman, a valet de chambre came post with another letter, directed to M••nsieur the Marquis de la Fayette, which contained an order from Monsieur his father, for his coming to Paris. This Fayette instantly obeyed, and as he got into the ch••ise, took Grasse by the hand, and gave him a smile of protection with as much of the consequential air as could be expected; Grasse, touched with an humiliating sense of his own inferiority, melted into tears, and Fayette drove away in all the glory of his n••w dignity.

But as our readers will naturally inquire how Fayette came by this dignity, it is necessary to in|form them, that the father had suddenly acquired

an immense fortune; Mons. Fayette was an hand|some man, and Madam was not without her charms. When she was still in her bloom, they were brought to Paris by a law suit, which totally ruined them; but fortune who delights in the capricious exalta|tion and debasement of mankind, just then threw them in the way of a Commissary, who had con|tracted to furnish the military hospitals during the war; the Commissary was a man of great talents, and could boast of having killed more soldiers in one year than gunpowder had killed in ten; the Commissary's wife was smitten with Fayette, and the Commissary himself was smitten with Fayette's wife. Fayette soon came in for a share of the contract, and undertook other business on his own account.

When a man once gets into the middle of the stream, the tide itself will carry him along; this is verified in the instance of Commissaries and Con|tractors, who get immense sums very frequently with little or no trouble; such was the prosperous fortune of Fayette, the father, who became immedi|ately Mons. de la Fayette, and soon after having bought a Marquisate, which at once ennobled him and his children, he sent for the Marquis his son from school, that he might place him among the beau monde at Paris.

Graf••••, who still remembered his old school fellow with a tender sensibility, wrote him a few lines to congratulate him; the new Marquis sent him no answer, and Grasse was indisposed on account of this neglect.

The father and the mother of Fayette procured a tutor for their son, who was a man of genteel ap|pearance, but knew nothing, and consequently could not teach him any thing. The father was desirous the son should learn latin, but the mother opposed; after much debate it was agreed that the question should be referred to an author, who was celebrated for many agreeable performances. He was there|fore

invited to dinner, and the master of the house began by saying, "Sir, as you are a latin scholar, and a man of the world"—"I a latin scholar!" said the belle esprit, "I do not know one word of the language, and so much the better for me; these people certainly speak their own language best, whose attention is not divided between that and others. Consider only the ladies, how much more pleasing is their wit than ours! their letters are written with infinitely more elegance, and this supe|riority is certainly owing to their not having learned latin."

"Very well (says Madam) am I not then in the right? I would have my son a man of wit, I would have him make a figure in the world, and you see plainly if he learns latin, he will be undone; are operas and plays, I would fain know, performed in latin? Do lawyers speak latin at the bar? Or do young gentlemen make love in latin?"

Mo••s. de la Fayette being wholly unable to resist this amazing force of argument, immediately passed sentence, and it was concluded that the young Mar|quis should not lose his time in getting acquainted with Cicero, Horace, Juvenal or Virgil.

"But then, said the father, what shall he learn? for certainly it is necessary that he should learn something. May he not be taught a little geogra|phy?" "Of what service will that be?" says the tutor. When the Marquis shall think proper to visit his estates, do you think the postillions will not know the road? Take my word for it, there is no danger of their losing their way. A man of fash|ion can travel very well without a quadrant, and go with great conveniency from Paris to Auvergne, without knowing what latitude he is in."

"You are certainly right, fays the father, but I have heard something of a fine science which I think they call astronomy." It is a pity, says the tutor, you ever heard of it at all; what occasion is there

for people in this world to regulate their motions by the stars? Is it fit that the young Marquis should be fatigued to death by the calculation of an eclipse, when he may find the time exactly by consulting an almanack, which will also acquaint him with all the moveable feasts, the age of the moon, and of all the sovereign princes in Europe?"

Madam entirely agreed with the tutor in this par|ticular▪ the young Marquis his son was over joyed, and the father was in suspence—"What then, said he, must my son learn?"—"To be amiable," replied the friend they had consulted, "if he knows the art of pleasing, he knows all that is worthy to be known, and this art he cannot fail of learning under his mother's eye, though neither she nor you should give yourselves the least trouble about it."

Madam was so delighted with this compliment that she embraced the pleasing dunce who paid it. "Ah! Sir, said she, it is easy to discover that you are wiser than all the world besides; my son will be wholly indebted to you for his education; but per|haps, after all, it would not be amiss for him to learn a little of history." "Alas; Madam, replied the or|acle, what good can that do him? Certainly no his|tory is either useful or pleasing but that of the day. All ancient histories, as one of our belle esprits has very justly observed, are nothing more than fables artfully put together; and as for modern histories, they are a chaos which it is impossible to reduce to order. Of what importance is it to your son that Charlemagne instituted the twelve Peers of France? And that his son had an impediment in his speech?"

"There never was a more true observation, cried the tutor; the young mind is often buried under a load of useless learning, by which its native powers are first restrained, and then destroyed; but of all that is absurd among what are called the sciences, the most absurd is geometry. The objects of geom|etry are surfaces, lines, and points, which have no

existence in nature; and an hundred curve lines are fancied between a circle and a straight line that touches it, though in reality there is not room for a straw. In short, geometry is no better than a dull joke."

The father and mother scarcely understood one word of this ingenious argument against geometry, which notwithstanding made a great impression upon them, and they declared themselves entirely of the tutor's mind.

"A great lord (continued he) like Monsieur the Marquis, ought not to puzzle his brains with vain speculations. If he should ever have occasion for the most sublime part of this science to lay down a plan of his estates, he may have them surveyed for his money; if he would trace his nobility back to the remotest ages, he may without difficulty find a Benedictine monk that will do it; the same may be said of all the arts; a young lord of illustrious birth, is neither a painter, a musician, an architect, nor a statuary; but he makes all those arts flourish by his munificence; and it is certainly better to patronise than practise them. It is enough for the Marquis to have taste; it is the duty of artists to exert their skill for his pleasure and advantage, and it is there|fore well said, that persons of quality, I mean those who are very rich, know all things without learning any; their taste enables them to judge of every thing which they command and for which they pay."

The master of the art of pleasing then interposed: "You have observed, Madam, said he, that the great purpose of life is to succeed in the world, but will any man pretend that this purpose can be ans|were•• by the sciences? Who is there that would thi••k of mentioning geometry in good company? Would any person ask a gentleman what star rose in a morning with the sun; or inquire at our enter|tainment, whether Clovis the hairy p••ssed the Rhine?" "Certainly not, replied the Marchioness, (whose

charms had given her some introduction to the beau monde) and it is by no means proper, that the Mar|quis, my son, should cramp his genius by the study of all this trumpery; but at last what shall we teach him, for certainly as his father has observed, a young gentleman ought to be qualified to shine upon oc|casion. I remember to have heard an Abbe say, that there was one science extremely agreeable and genteel; I cannot recollect the name of it, but it begins with a B." "With a B. Madam, said the genius, it could not be botany;" "No, (replied Madam) it was not botany, yet it ended something like that too." "O, I know what it was, said he, it was blazonry; but I assure you it is by no means the mode at present; it has been wholly laid aside ever since painting coats of arms upon coaches went out of fashion; it was, to be sure, at that time the most useful knowledge in the world, but the case is altered now; besides, at present the study of heraldry would be infinite, for there is not a bar|ber who has not his coat of arms, and when a thing becomes common, you know people of fashion should disregard it." Upon the whole, this sag••cious and illustrious society, having fairly discussed the sciences, it was at last determined that Monsieur the Marquis de la Fayette should learn to dance.

Nature, however, who indeed does every thing, had given this flower of nobility a talent which very soon displayed itself with astonishing success. This happy talent was that of singing a good song; the graces of youth, joined to this superior endowment, drew every one's eyes upon him as a young gentle|man of great expectation; he was a very great fa|vourite among the ladies, and having his head full of songs, he could easily form new out of the old by a different combination of the phrases and figures that he was continually repeating; but as his verses had a foot too little or too much, he got them cor|rected at the rate of twenty louis d'ors a song, and he at last got into the annals of literature, and was

classed with the La Fairs, the Chaulieus, the Hamil|tons, the Sarazines, and the Voltures of the time.

The Marchioness then considered herself as the mother of wit, and gave suppers to the wits of the town; the young man's head was turned; he acqui|red the art of speaking without knowing what he would say, and became perfect by habit in being sit for nothing.

When his father sound him thus amazingly elo|quent, he very much regretted that he had not taught him latin, as he then might have bought him a considerable place in the law. His mother, who looked still higher, undertook to get him a regiment, and in the mean time the young gentleman thought proper to make love.

As love is rather an expensive article, so it cost our hero more than a regiment; his expences were very great, and his parents ran out their fortunes very fast by living like people of the first quality.

But as the state of their finances was known only to themselves, a young widow of great rank, but of middling circumstances, in the neighbourhood, sup|posing them to be very rich, resolved to secure their fortune to herself by making the young Marquis her husband.

She accordingly threw out a lure that brought him to her house; she suffered herself to be loved, and convinced him that he was not indifferent to her; she led him on by degrees; he was at length altogether fascinated by her wiles and her charms, so that her conquest was complete; at the same time she gave him so many commendations, and so much good advice, that the father and mother considered her as the best friend they had in the world.

An old lady in the neighbourhood proposed the marriage on the part of the widow, and the Marquis and Marchioness de la Fayette, dazzled with the splendor of such an alliance, accepted the proposi|••ion with joy. They gave their only son to their

dearest friend. The youth was on the point of mar|rying a lady whom he adored, and who returned his passion; he received the congratulations of his friends, the marriage articles were drawing up, and the wedding clothes and verses were making.

He was kneeling one morning at the feet of the dear angel, whom love, esteem, and friendship were soon to make his own for ever; they were enjoying, in a conversation that touched every string of tender|ness and sensibility, a foretaste of their approaching felicity, and laying out a scheme of life in which one delight should perpetually succeed another, when a servant of the Marchioness his mother, arrived in great haste, and with looks as wild as if he had seen an apparition: "I am come, said he, with news very different from what you think of; the sheriff's offi|cers are in possession of my lord's house, they have seized all the goods, they talk of securing his person, and as I have not a moment to lose, I am going to secure my wages."

"Do not be in such a violent hurry, said the Marquis, let us see a little what this affair is." "Do, says the widow, run this instant, punish the wretches for their insolence."

The Marquis went home directly, and found that his father was already taken to prison, and that all the servants were gone off, each having carried away what he could lay his hands upon. He found his mother totally deserted, without succours, and with|out comfort, sitting on the floor, and drowned in tears, with nothing left but the remembrance of her fortune and her beauty, her follies and her faults.

After her son had wept with her till the tumult of his mind a little subsided, and he was able to speak, he endeavoured to alleviate her distress by a reflec|tion that had soothed his own, "do not let us des|pair, said he, the widow whom I was about to marry is yet more generous than rich; I will answer for all that is in her power; I will fly to her this moment and bring her hither."

He returned to his mistress with great precipitan|cy, and found her tete-a-tete with an handsome young officer of the army. "What, is it you, Monsieur de la Fayette, said she, what in the name of wonder have you to do here? How could you think of leav|ing your poor mother? Go back to her for heaven's sake, and tell her how sorry I am for her misfortune; I always wished her well; and upon my word as my woman is going away, I will not think of another till I have given her the refusal of the place."— "My good lad, said the officer, you seem to be well made, and if you will enter into my corps, I will list you upon good terms."

The Marquis was struck speechless with rage and indignation, and bursting away without reply, he went directly to his old tutor, to pour his sorrows into his bosom, and derive comfort from his advice. This gentleman proposed that he should undertake the education of children. "Alas, said the Marquis, I know nothing, you have taught me nothing, and that indeed has been the cause of all my misfor|tunes." "Write novels, says a belle esprit who was then present; it is now an excellent expedient to get money at Paris."

The young man now sunk deeper in despair than ever, went as his last resource, to a monk of great reputation, who had been his mother's confessor, and who attended nobody in that capacity but peo|ple of rank and condition. The monk, as soon as he saw him, ran towards him in a rapture of surprise and joy, and cried out, "My God! Monsieur le Marquis, what do you do here a foot! For heaven's sake where is your coach, and how does the worthy lady Marchioness your mother!" The unhappy youth replied by giving him an account of the ruin of his family; as he advanced in his narrative, the monk's countenance became gradually more grave, more indifferent, and more important. "My son, said he, we may now see plainly what God intended for

you; riches serve only to corrupt the heart; God has therefore been graciously pleased to reduce your mother to beggary; yes, Sir, and a very merciful dispensation it is, for it will certainly ensure the sal|vation of her soul." The Marquis replied, "but father, while we are waiting for that event in the next world, is there no means of obtaining some assistance in this?" "My son, said the monk, God be with you, adieu! there is a lady of great fashion waiting for me at court."

The poor Marquis, who was very near fainting away at this treatment of the monk, was treated in nearly the same manner by the whole circle of his acquaintance, and gained more knowledge of the world in half a day than he had done in all the rest of his life.

As he stood rumin••ting in the street, almost stu|pified by his misfortunes, a kind of covered tumbril, with leather curtains, came rumbling along, follow|ed by four carts, all heavily laden. In this vehicle sat a young man, cleanly but not coarsely clad, with a ruddy sun-burnt countenance, that expressed at once the highest happiness and good humour. A young, healthy, comely fresh coloured girl, that seemed to be his wife, sat jolting by his side, for the carriage did not move like the ••ourt chariot of a petit maitre. The master as he drove on had time to contemplate the Marquis, who stood torpid in suspense, motionless, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground. "Bless my soul, said he, when he came almost up to him, surely this is not Fayette!" At this name the Marquis started as from a dream, and looked up, and the driver instantly stopped his cart. "Yes, by my faith, said he, it is Fayette himself;" and with that he made but one leap to the ground, and caught him in his arms; Fayette at once recol|lected his old school-fellow Grasse, and his face was instantly covered with confusion and tears. "You have forsaken me, said Colin, but you may be as

great a lord as you will, I am determined to love you for all that." Fayette whose tenderness and confusion increased every moment, told him in a few words a part of his history. "Come along, said Grasse, you shall go home with me to the inn where I put up, and tell the rest at your leisure; salute my little wife, this is she, and let us make haste to dinner."

Grasse and his wife, and the Marquis, thus pro|ceeded on foot following the baggage. "Pray, said Fayette, what is all this, does it belong to you?" "Yes, said Grasse, the whole belongs to me and my wife, we are just come out of the country; I am at the head of a good manufacture of brass and tin; I married the daughter of a man who had acquired very considerable substance by making and selling a commodity that is equally necessary to rich and poor; we work very hard; Providence has blessed our en|deavours; we continue to get forward in the world; we are very happy in ourselves, and thank God we have it in our power to assist our friend Fayette; do not be a Marquis any longer, all the great peo|ple in the world are not worth one true friend; you shall go along with me into the country, you shall learn my trade which will be easily done, I will take you in partner, and we will live cheerfully together in the obscure but happy retreat where we were born."

Fayette heard this proposal with undescribeable sensations; his heart was divided between grief and joy, tenderness and shame, and turning to his true friend said, in an humble voice, "all my gay friends have deserted me, and Gr••sse whom I injuriously neglected, has afforded me that comfort, which from him I did not deserve." What a lecture is this for those who are entering into life? The virtue of Grasse called out the virtue which lay hidden in the breast of Fayette, and which all his habits of folly and dissipation had not destroyed. He felt a

secret repugnance to desert his father and mother. "We will take care of thy mother, said Grasse, and as to the good man thy father, who is in prison, I know a little of the world, and his creditors know|ing he has nothing to satisfy them, will compound their debts for a trifle, and I will take upon me to make an end of matters with them, and set him once more clear in the world." Grasse was very soon as good as his word; the old man was discharged out of prison, and his creditors gave him a general release. Fayette returned with his friends into his native country, and took his parents with him, who followed their original profession. Fayette married Grasse's sister, who being of the same amiable dis|position with her brother, made him very happy; and Fayette the father, Fayette the mother, and Fayette the son, were at last thoroughly convinced, that happiness is not to be found in vanity.

New Observations on Apparitions.

AT a little distance from an old gentleman's house in the country, among the ruins of an old abbey, there is a long walk of aged elms, which are shot up so very high, that when one passes under them, the rooks and crows that rest upon the top of them, seem to be cawing in another region. I am very much delighted with this sort of noise, which I consider as a kind of natural prayer to that Being who supplies the wants of his whole creation, and who, in the beautiful language of the Psalms, feedeth the young ravens that call upon him. I like this retire|ment the better, because of an ill report it lies under of being haunted; for which reason (as I have been told in the family) no living creature ever walks in it besides the chaplain. My good friend the butler desired me with a grave face, not to venture myself

after sun-set, for that one of the footmen had been frighted almost out of his wits by a spirit that ap|peared to him in the shape of a black horse without a head; to which he added, that about a month ago, one of the maids coming home late that way, with a pail of milk upon her head, heard such a rustling that she let it fall.

I was taking a walk in this place last night be|tween the hours of nine and ten, and could not but fancy it one of the most proper scenes in the world for a ghost to appear in. The ruins of the abbey are scattered up and down on every side, and half covered with ivy and elder bushes, the harbours of several solitary birds, which seldom make their ap|pearance until the dusk of the evening. The place was formerly a church-yard, and has still several marks in it of graves and burying places; there is such an echo among the old ruins and vaults, that if you stamp but a little louder than ordinary, you hear the sound repeated. At the same time, the walk of elms, with the croaking of the ravens, which from time to time are heard from the tops of them, looks exceeding solemn and venerable. These objects naturally raise seriousness and attention; and when night heightens the awfulness of the place, and pours out her supernumerary horrors upon every thing in it, I do not at all wonder that weak minds fill it with spectres and apparitions.

Mr. Locke, in his Chapter of the Association of Ideas, has very curious remarks to show how by the prejudice of education, one idea often introduces into the mind a whole set that bear no resemblance to one another in the nature of things. Among several examples of this kind he produces the fol|lowing instance: "The ideas of goblins and sprights, have really no more to do with darkness than light; yet let but a foolish maid inculcate these often on the mind of a boy, and raise them there together, possibly he shall never be able to separate them again

so long as he lives, but darkness shall ever afterwards bring with it those frightful ideas, and they shall be so joined, that he can no more bear the one nor the other." As I was walking in this solitude, where the dusk of the evening conspired with so many other occasions of terrors, I observed a cow grazing not far from me, which an imagination that was apt to startle, might easily have construed into a black horse without an head, and I dare say the poor footman lost his wits upon some such trivial occasion.

My old friend in the country has often told me with a good deal of mirth, that at his first coming to his estate, he found three parts of his house alto|gether useless; that the best room in it had the rep|utation of being haunted, and by that means was locked up; that noises had been heard in his long gallery, so that he could not get a servant to enter it after eight o'clock at night; that the door of one of his chambers was nailed up, because there was a story in the family, that a butler had formerly hang|ed himself in it; and that his mother who lived to a great age, had shut up half the rooms in the house, in which either her husband, a son, or daughter had died. My friend seeing his habitation reduced to so small a compass, and himself in a manner shut out of his own house, upon the death of his mother, ordered all the apartments to be flung open, and exorcised by his chaplain, who lay in every room one after another, and by that means dissipated the fears which had so long reigned in the family.

General Instructions from a Mother to a Daugh|ter, for her Conduct in Life.

IN the plan of your education, my dear Julia, I have consulted your glory more than my own, and shall be completely happy to see you perfect,

without any vanity in having doubly formed you, by blood and precepts. The only pleasure I pro|pose to myself is seeing you follow them, which your docility in listening flatters me you will do. I give you my instructions in writing, that in what place or condition you are, they may be always present with you, and that when death deprives you of me, it may not at the same time rob you of that which may be more useful to you than myself. A custom wisely introduced into the world, having made me trust your bringing up to persons who are, by being shut in a cloister, secured from all worldly troubles, will therefore prevent two things equally unhappy; either too great an inclination for a monastic life, or too violent for an abhorrence of it; be upon your guard, my dearest Julia, against both. Youth always fond of novelty, often surrenders itself without consulting reason. The tranquillity of a monastic life, the enticing discourses of those whose only aim is to make you embrace the vows they are already bound by, make me appre|hend your adding to the number of so many young creatures, who are, by an accessible grate often ren|dered more wretched than those whose morals have been corrupted by the world. When remorse as|saults one in the cloister, we must be very particu|larly endowed with grace to find any remedy, since the only ones that can be applied, are the very causes of our affliction; as retirement, prayer, and a reg|ular religious life. Some are then apt to paint the world in such lively and beautiful colours, that they burn with impatience to be in it, and cannot forbear lamenting the impossibility there is of ever doing it. How will the mind, in such a case, be racked with ten thousand torturing ideas! We think those very things fi••••ed with charms, which are in reality subjects only of sorrow and vexation; vice appears dressed in the shape of virtue, and without sinning in the practical part, we do so doubly in the theoretic.

When a person has lived in the world, and has the misfortune to give into some of the little follies of it, the remorse of an irregular conduct, and the disgust of a life filled with intrigue, every one sees in proper colours, and we look on retirement as the most sovereign blessing. We ought therefore to know ourselves thoroughly before we enter into such a life; but perhaps you will say, must we then plunge ourselves into vice, that our return to virtue may be with the more vigour? No, that is not what I mean, but I would have you be a witness of the failings of others, without erring yourself, that ill examples may serve as a preservative to your dis|cretion; and that comparing the troubles, noise, hurry, and confusion of an interesting and intrig••|ing world, with the serene comforts of retirement you may consult your heart in the choice, and t••••••n embrace that to which you are most inclined. We may live as regularly in the world as in a cloister, and perhaps better; a generous mind, when it has the power of doing evil, will rather avoid it, than when it is under a constraint.

The charms with which heaven has blessed you, while they delight the eye, make me tremble for you hereafter. Beauty has often been the rock on which virtue has split, when care has not been taken to enrich the mind with measures which may defend it in all the various changes of life. A splendid for|tune is ever attended by luxury, whose companion is coquetry. The adoration of the men, and the perpetual flatteries from them are often too pleasing to our vanity, and by listening to a number, the heart is uncertain in its determination, and we in|sensibly give up to a crowd that reputation which we fear to trust with one person, and which ought to be dearer to us than our life. Poverty, misfor|tunes, and a life embittered with eternal vexations, are no less fatal to virtue; such a woman is apt to make use of her beauty to subdue her enemies, to

procure her friends in time of need; she meets it is probable with dangerous consolers, and her hon|our is the sacrifice to gratitude. To prevent these accidents, wisdom is the only means, but endeavour to be wise without affectation; wisdom does not require so much outward shew as vice and severity. Be prudent without being a prude; let your modesty be accompanied with gaiety, and your reserve with good nature; apply yourself to learn what will em|bellish your mind, but let not vanity attend your knowledge; let your philosophy be Christian; be affable and obliging to all, intimate but with few; pity the misfortunes you are in no prospect of feel|ing, behave without too much submission to your equals, and without pride to your inferiors; com|fort the distressed of all conditions; do nothing but what is praise worthy, without aiming at praise; for the ostentation of a good action often eclipses the glory which it would otherwise deserve. If fate allots you to a happy marriage, make the blessing permanent by love, virtue and a generous confidence. If on the contrary you are unfortunately so, and your mind torn and distracted with the agonies of domestic jars, look out for friends who have a greater regard for your virtue than your beauty; and if by that means you get no relief, seek it from him who alone can extricate us out of the deepest distress. If you love your husband passionately, and he but ill returns your tenderness, let mildness, complaisance, and a blameless conduct, be the only arms wherewith you combat his ill humour; jealousy, sullenness, or a peevish melancholy, will never regain a heart liable to wandering. If the match is disproportioned, and he happens to be very agreeable in his humour, but the contrary in his person, never cease endeavouring to conquer your dislike, and remember the beauties of the mind are by far the most preferable. If you chance to be equally indifferent to each other, let not that draw you into any irregularities, shun the

opportunities of finding in another the charms that are wanting in your husband, and let the force of duty supply the defects of fondness.

It is in such circumstances as these that it is diffi|cult to preserve one's virtue; but then it is at these times, that it is most requisite, and appears with greater lustre. A woman perfectly happy, who is not wanting in her duty, is esteemed without being praised, because having no complaint, she has no pretence for doing otherwise; but a woman that is unfortunate and yet wise, seems to exceed even ex|pectation. The virgin or the widow state also seems to me as much or more exposed to danger, as a young woman that is left without father or mother, and entirely mistress of her actions, cannot be too cir|cumspect in them. She takes no step that does not endanger her reputation. If she keeps a great deal of company, she passes for a coquette; if she con|fines herself to a few select friends, she then has some secret intrigue; in short, every body passes their judgment upon her with less charity, because they know she has nobody to be responsible for her con|duct. It is then I advise retirement, but without entering into religious orders. If you should marry, and your husband die, take care not to imitate those women, who think, because they have nobody to whom they are obliged to be accountable for what they do, they may with safety abandon themselves to an irregular conduct, believing that under the umbrage of their crape, they may conceal the loose inclinations of their hearts. A widow ought to be more nice in her behaviour than either a wife or a maid; the state she has passed through should make her observe a gre••t d••corum, since she ought to re|sume the modesty and innocence of a maid, with the knowledge of a wife. Wisdom must be her in|separable guide, or she will be li••ble to censure; if she can therefore be disengaged from the cares of a family, and the affairs which are capable of re|taining

her in the world, the best thing she can do, is to retire herself from it; she knows all the defi|ciencies of it, the injustice, the cruelty, and the afflictions of it; the pleasure she has enjoyed not having recompensed the pains, a cloister is for her a safe and a sure asylum.

Thus, my dearest Julia, have I led you through the different stages of human life, and hope when you read this, you will rather think it came from a friend, whose tenderness endeavoured to make you perfect, than from a mother grown secure by age; and do not inquire whether she who gave these les|sons observed them herself; only think, that she who could give them, was capable of following them. The faults of others do not lessen ours, but ought to serve as examples to deter us from them. I flat|ter myself from the observations I have made on your temper, that this abridgement of your conduct may be serviceable to you in all the vicissitudes of your life, on which I beseech the divine Being to pour his holy blessings.

The Penitent Ghost, or Wonderful Stratagem. A WHIMSICAL TALE.

JACK WILDING, the son of a late worthy citi|zen, was contracted, by the mutual consent of the parents, to Miss Seymour, the daughter of a very respectable merchant; but such was the wild infat|uated disposition of the young man, that, becoming an easy dupe to pleasure, he not only slighted, but totally neglected the fair object of this contract— Eliza, who was partial to her unworthy intended, saw with regret the volatile character of her unde|serving lover—for lover was a title he always aspired to, in hopes of rendering himself agreeable in the

eyes of every young lady; but to Eliza ••he was less a lover, than to those fair ones who were less worthy of his love.—In short, he was a general gallant, and would have taken unwarrantable liberties with Miss Sey••our, had not her delicacy and virtue prudently defended themselves.

Wilding, upon the death of his father, became more and more the libertine; while such was Miss Seymour's situation, that she was entirely subject by this contract, to the wavering disposition of Wilding; unable, except upon a very severe forfeit (which her father would not submit to) to procure a liberation, and be free to marry another. By some unaccount|able means indeed she had given her heart to the man who thus deferred the acceptance of her hand, and by a cruel procrastination proved that it was never his intention to fulfil an engagement, which unfortunately he was not compelled to by any pen|alty in the contract, through the neglect of Mr. Sey|mour, who never suspected his inconstancy and ca|price; of this however the old gentleman soon re|pented; and no doubt it was the sole occasion of his sudden death; for he saw the unhappy fate of his poor orphan child.

Miss Seymour, now fatherless, became more sub|ject to the insults of Wilding; who, laughing at her punctilious notions of virtue, made many unworthy attempts to injure it; however, to the great HONOR of Miss Seymour be it added, all his endeavours were happily ineffectual.

The young lady being rather in a solitary situa|tion, and more in want of a female companion than many of her sex, now prevailed on the daughter of a late worthy friend of her deceased father to remain with her a few months; hoping by her advice and assistance not to recover—(for it never was Won) but obtain, and then secure the affection of this harum|scarum youth. Lydia Harcourt, whose nature was exceedingly good and sympathetic, readily acqui|esced

with the invitation; for she pitied her unfor|tunate companion, and, notwithstanding her just hatred to Wilding, was induced, by her transcen|dant love for Eliza, to ••e both her constant com|panion and occasional friend.

During the visit of Miss Harcourt, Wilding was a more constant guest; but the reason soon became evident—he wished to add to the list of his ruined favorites, the bosom friend and confidant of his con|tracted Eliza. One day when Lydia was nobly in|terceding for the wronged Miss Seymour, and by the eloquence of friendship pleading her cause— during which time the trembling Eliza was atten|tively listening—the thoughtless youth attributed all his neglect, all his inconstancy, to the transcen|dant beauty of the fair advocate.

"O!" cried he in a tone of rhapsody and well-dissembled love, "how is it possible that you can behold my indifference to Miss Seymour, and not immediately perceive the cause, thou dear bewitch|ing thief—it is thou who hast stolen my heart, and rendered me totally inc••pable of fulfilling the con|tract with Eliza—but smile upon me now, I conjure you, by your friendship for Miss Seymour, smile— only satisfy my ardent passion for you, and it may be the better for your friend; for by extinguishing the flame which has been long, untimely kindled within my heart for you, perhaps it may be the means of kindling another for your friend Eliza; for then, whoever is dear to you must certainly be so to one—"

Miss Harcourt listened to this enthusiastic declar|ation with profound attention, and when he had concluded, she coolly withdrew her hand, and, smi|ling, wished that her friend Eliza was present to witness his dissembled passion, as then, she was very sure, all esteem she could entertain for him must certainly be at an end; and that she would suffer any thing on her part before she would marry him.

This very deliberate manner of address and re|monstrance had no kind of effect upon Wilding—On the contrary, it only served to spur him on more in his wicked designs, and excite new projects of mali|cious gallantry. He now proceeded to violence. Such was Eliza's situation, that she did not interpose —fearful if she had discovered herself, she would seem to have suspected the friendship of Miss Har|court, or met with the ill-timed sarcasms of an un|thinking libertine—However, the seasonable in|terruption of Jenny the servant, put an end at pres|ent to Mr. Wilding's intention. He seemed exceed|ingly mortified at the intrusion, and speedily took leave.

Miss Harcourt was determined to be revenged on him for this audacious attempt. She communicated her sentiments to Jenny, who wished much to invent some stratagem for punishing the presumption of the youth, and make him at the same time sensible of the injury he had offered Miss Harcourt.

Eliza, who had overheard their wishes to be ac|complices in a plot, now resolved, as she was most particularly concerned, to be herself the inventress. She accordingly imparted her design to a nephew of the late Mr. Seymour's; who, having fortunately procured an acquaintance with Wilding, assured her that every thing in his power he would, without the least hesitation, accomplish. This young man, we shall call Charles, associated on purpose with Wild|ing; seemed an advocate for pleasure like himself, and shared in all manner of wild intoxication.

Miss Seymour had now moved her residence to a country village, and, in order to allure Wilding to follow them, Charles (who was prudently admitted into the secret) very sagaciously laid a wager with his friend Wilding, that he would never accomplish his design over Miss Harcourt. This stimulated the young man to follow them; and Charles▪ with Col. Riot (who was not in the plot) were consequently his companions.

The place which Miss Seymour repaired to, was a lonely unneighbourly town. The cottage, formerly a castle, was large, wild, and disordered—a gloomy aspect hung over the place, and was seemingly well-suited for the daring project which ran in her head. —Jenny, and Tom a man-servant, were the only attendants which she took.

Wilding, in order to gain his purpose over Miss Harcourt, attempted to bribe Jenny. This sagacious girl, to avoid suspicion, accepted his money (which was rather tempting, being plentifully offered) with little or no reluctance, seeming rather to acquiesce with his designs, and inclined to give the assistance which he pretended to want so much.

Charles, on the evening intended for Wilding's bold essay, now under pretence of spiriting him up to action, invited him to a bottle. This was the time for him to perform his arduous part, on which depended the whole stratagem, and this he did both honorably and successfully. He seized an happy opportunity of mixing opium with Wilding's liquor, which, in addition to the spirits (for Charles made him drink more than usual) had such an effect over his understanding, as to render him totally insensi|ble and almost dead.

While in this insensible state of ignorant inebria|tion, Charles had the unfeeling body of his friend conveyed, by proper servants, to a room which was on purpose fitted up in this melancholy and wild residence that Miss Seymour had designedly chosen: it was hung with black, and every thing that could render it dismal and awful was most industriously executed: the skulls and bones of departed friends were here and there scattered. Memento mori seemed to be the motto of all around; a coffin with glim|mering lights was carefully placed before him. In short, the whole scene was both interesting and tremendous.

Wilding, who had been, during his translation,

ignorant of all that was said or done, how snored away his intoxication, and suddenly awaked in this room of horror; he rubbed his eyes, for some time gazing with wonder around, then doubtful that he was yet awake, he rubbed again; he looked at the skulls; took them up in his hands, then gazing at the arms and legs he went to the door, beheld two mutes who looked horror and death; he spoke to them, but they gave no answer, nor seemed to per|ceive him; he returned, walked about, beheld the coffin; this roused his curiosity; he read the super|scription, and was no doubt astonished to find that John Wilding (himself) died suddenly the very day he was drinking with his friend Charles. This amazed him; he could not believe his eyes, and in|deed no wonder; he was however resolved to exam|ine more closely into the matter, and endeavour to open the coffin for the pleasure of seeing his own dead body; but herein he was disappointed; for the pro|jectors of the scheme had it so well screwed down, that all his ability was in vain; now, in a state of melancholy reflection, he stood▪ some time; at last Miss Seymour and her confidant entered in deep mourning; he addressed them, but they took no notice of him; he spoke to them, but they did not answer; and, when they did break silence, their words were entirely foreign to the questions proposed.

"I will—cried Miss Seymour in a fit of seeming distraction—I will give vent to my sorrow and bewail the untimely death of this poor youth."

"No, don't," cried Wilding, "look at me, I am not dead, upon my soul."

Totally indifferent to Mr. Wilding's request, she mourned most plentifully over the coffin, and now and then would stare him in the face, to convince him that she did not see him.

"Come away;" exclaimed Miss Harcourt, who under pretence was administering all the consolation in her power, "come, you did not know the char|acter

of this man, or you would not now lament his deserved fate; he had the impudence (I would not confess it to you, my dear, only he is now dead and gone) to attack even my virtue, and seek my utter ruin; last night I am told he had determined to complete his evil purpose; and heaven (I am sure) inflicted this punishment upon him, for which I must always be thankful, to frustrate his dangerous design; otherwise he would not so suddenly have died of that small crust of bread, which I am told stuck in his throat."

"Speak not so harshly I conjure you," cried Miss Seymour, "he was young, and surely youth is some plea for his foibles; look at his coffin, he is no more than twenty, poor young man, had he lived, no doubt he would have atoned for all his errors."

"Perhaps, my dear, it is happier for you that he is now gone; consider that you are thereby released from a detestable contract; you are free, and I am sure, if men suffer punishment after their death, he must feel NOW for his cruel treatment to you, and his wicked designs upon me."

"Suffer!" echoed Wilding, "dear! dear! I believe I shall always be in hell."

Jenny now entered, and seemed to bewail with equal sorrow the untimely fate of poor Wilding: he did all in his power to shew himself, but such was his misfortune, he could not appear to any; it was now Jenny discovered his intention of procuring ad|mittance to Miss Harcourt by the bribes he had given her; in short, all his sins and iniquities seem|ed to stare him in the face, and rise, as it were, in judgment against him.

The servant brought in word that the undertaker was ready to inter the body; they all prepared, as mourners, to attend this awful funeral, even Charles now appeared in fable dress with watery eyes; the ladies went out first, and Wilding, who was left alone with his companion, endeavoured all in his power

to appear to him, but to no effect, he could not, for he would not see him.

"Well by the—no I won't swear as I am dead," exclaimed Wilding, "but by my soul, for that is still living, if you won't hear me, you shall feel me."

Upon this Wilding gave Charles a most violent knock on the head, but, happily, the other attribu|ted it to a sudden head-ach, and convinced poor Wilding that he was a penitent ghost indeed.

The dismal situation of our hero cannot be descri|bed, particularly when he saw Charles, his bosom friend, preparing to pay his sad respects to his sup|posed remains— The women, Miss Seymour▪ Miss Harcourt, and Jenny, went into one coach. Wild|ing resolved to be among them, and, both out of respect to them, and love for the memory of himself, joined them in this strange excursion—the ladies artfully took no notice of his entering the carriage, and he sat between Eliza and Lydia, who alternately lamented his fate, particularly the latter, who hoped (with a serious face while gazing inattentive to him) that heaven would have pity on his youth, and for|give him the manifold crimes he was guilty of.

"But, alas!" continued Miss Harcourt, "when I think on the heinous vices of which he has been guilty, I fear that brimstone and fire must be his eternal lot—"

"Heaven deliver me," ejaculated the terrified Wilding, who became conscious of the sins he had committed, and was rather apprehensive of future punishment.

In this affecting manner the company proceeded; while Jenny, who sat opposite to Wilding, was rail|ing violently against his juvenile follies, the tender Eliza beseeching her to desist, for this was no time to war with the dust—While thus they were add|ing still to the terrors of Wilding, to complete both his astonishment and perturbation, they sung the following

DIRGE.

Farewell, farewell, my love, my heart! Poor Jack, Poor Jack, Is flown away! Alack, Alack, And well-a-day! Adieu, adieu, dear soul, dear youth! Poor Jack, Poor Jack, Is snatch'd away By tyrant death's devouring tooth! Alack, Alack, And well-a-day!!!

They now descended from their coaches in solemn and silent sorrow; Wilding approached the ground where he saw himself laid. The funeral rites (being on purpose paid for by Miss Seymour) were duly performed, and Wilding was left in the church-yard to bewail his dismal and untimely end.

Now was the time when this unfortunate youth began to repent; now was the time when he saw his follies, and wished himself alive again, that he might lead a new life. Eliza, who had so contrived that he should be left behind, returned as it were to mourn over the remains of her dear but unworthy inconstant—Wilding beheld her well-dissembled grief; he looked at her, and wept likewise—She, with seasonable cunning, started at his appearance.

"Good heaven!" exclaimed she, "it is—it is the shade of Mr. Wilding—"

Wilding was happy that she saw him—he con|fessed that he was that unfortunate youth who was just now buried; he implored her forgiveness, and earnestly prayed that she would intercede for him

with her friend, and procure his pardon for the in|sults he had offered: "this perhaps may be the means (he added) of rendering me some rest; for I assure you, though I do sleep in this yard, I have not had one moment's quiet since I died."

During this interesting scene Colonel Riot hap|pened to pass by, and, being "ripe for sport," hailed his friend Wilding, whose pallid and melan|choly countenance somewhat astonished him.

"Heyday!" cries he, "What is the matter, Jack?"

"And do you see me too—O then, my friend, take warning—beware of my untimely end—forbear these unlimited bounds of pleasure—be wise ere it be too late."

"Why? Why? What the devil is the matter? You seem to be quite dull—you that were once all alive. Come, let us take a bottle together."

"Ask me to take a bottle with you!—What do you mea••? Consider what I am."

"Why, what the devil are you? I thought you were an honest fellow—Come—O! Miss Seymour, are you here?—So, so, I see what you have been both at—but what an odd place you have chosen to meet in. Come, what's the matter with me?"

"The matter! Why do you ask—Why do you insult me? O beware, my friend, lest a crust of bread may fatally explain to you what has happened to me—"

At this instant, Charles, who had accompanied Eliza, and during this scene secreted himself behind a tree, discovered himself by a loud laugh—the noise of which surprised Wilding; for, struck with every sound, he seemed apprehensive that the devil was coming for him—he was happy however to see him in the shape of Charles his friend, who now re|vealed the plot; flattering himself that the effect thereof was both happy and successful.

Wilding, rejoicing to hear that he was not dead, availed himself of the glad opportunity of repenting;

and changed the rites of his funeral to the tranquil ceremonies of Hymen; while Lydia, participating of the universal happiness, made a double union by giving her hand to Charles.

The Maid of the Village. A WONDERFUL TALE.

THE fair Matilda was placed under the care of an old lady, who possessed a cottage some distance from town. Her birth was obscure, but her man|ners declared she was descended from noble blood. It happened that Wilmot, the adopted heir of Sir Jeffery Woodstock, beheld and loved her—the bar|onet approved his choice—for the charms of Matil|da far exceeded the old man's conception, or even the description of the lover.

Wilmot had been the son of an honest but unfor|tunate man; he had found a friend in Sir Jeffery beyond his warmest expectations: for so great was this baronet's partiality for the youth, that he not only indulged him in all his juvenile pursuits, but even appointed him as heir to his large fortune.

This uncommon partiality, the reader may sup|pose, resulted from uncommon generosity. But no: revenge, malignity, and all the secret impulses of inward resentment, occasioned this apparent benev|olence; his own son was abandoned, disinherited— and why? The unfortunate youth had married a worthy but an indigent fair, and, being provoked that he should have so little regard to his lineage and consequence, determined never to see him more. In vain did Henry (for that was his name) endeavour to recover his father's good graces; the baronet was inexorable, and it was entirely owing to the heat of his passion, that Wilmot, the son of his neighbour,

was appointed heir to his estate. This adopted son was exceedingly young, but very good natured. He was ignorant of the cause of Sir Jeffery's seeming humanity; and, like the majority of spectators, at|tributed all to his urbanity; but Henry seized many an opportunity of conversing with the young man, and, being unknown to him, very wisely resolved to keep the name of his obdurate parent still concealed. They became so intimate at last, that Wilmot fre|quently invited him to his house, anxious, he said, to introduce him to Sir Jeffery; but Henry by con|tinual evasions declined this, and always contrived so as to meet the young man when his father was out of the way.

Wilmot, struck with the appearance of his new friend, was exceedingly desirous to know his story; he often interrogated him about his parentage, and at last Henry gave the following account.

"I was the son of both a titled and a rich man—I say I was, because I no longer am—and yet he is not dead, as you may naturally suppose, by this de|claration;— I am—Oh! my dear friend, banished from his presence, because I happened to marry the daughter of an humble farmer, whose virtue and beauty, I deemed a sufficient portion; and had it pleased heaven that my dear Euphemia had lived to bless the remainder of my life, I would still have smiled at the frowns of my father, for her sake—but ah! I fear his displeasure, added to the bitter pangs of poverty, were the sad means of her dissolution— she died, my friend, of a broken heart!—my Euphe|mia is no more! My father was informed of this, and I thought, the unhappy cause of our disunion being removed, that all his resentment would have died likewise; but herein I deceived myself—his anger lives still, and seems likely, I think, to remain for ever—he has substituted in my place a youth, whose manners and ch••racter indeed entitle him to every one's love—though my enemy, I look upon

him as my friend—though the adoption is somewhat unnatural, I esteem him as a real brother—he is to enjoy the inheritance which is my right—with all my heart—be it so; and long may he be happy there|with."

Wilmot was exceedingly moved with this short history; he railed bitterly against the unknown father's cruelty, and cursed the youth that could retain so unjustly what was another's legal right and due—

But Henry interrupted him, while thus railing against himself—

"Forbear; you know not who you abuse; I have a stratagem in my head, that I hope will baffle all the vindictive designs of my cruel father—Yes, I hope to punish his unkindness, by means of the punishment he intends for me."

Wilmot pressed him to be more explicit; he prayed earnestly that he would confide in him, pro|mising not only profound secrecy, but even his assistance in any scheme that was honorable and likely to succeed.

Henry thanked the youth for his generous offer— assured him that his assistance was absolutely necessa|ry, and one day or other he would communicate his intentions—at present his designs were not suffi|ciently ripe for execution, and therefore it was un|necessary, he said, to mention them.

"I cannot," continued Henry, "forbear to re|mark the contradictory passions of my father: he sees faults in me, which, though glaring in his newly adopted son, he is most obstinately blind to: the very crime which I have committed, my brother (give me leave so to call him) has his permission for doing: he is in love with a young girl who is equally as poor as my dear Euphemia was—her birth and parentage equally obscure and mean; yet, wonderful to tell, the old gentleman has not only consented, but absolutely encourages this unequal union.

However, when they are married, I shall take the liberty of making the comparison, and inquiring wherein I am more to be censured than my repre|sentative; but, perhaps, I may be told that I mar|ried without leave, and he had permission; but why had not I the same indulgence, or he the same re|fusal, that his superior duty and filial piety might have been proved?—"

"The remarks are just," answered Wilmot— "Oh! Henry had you been blest with a father like Sir Jeffery, how different had been your lot! (Henry smiled.) "I experience (continued the youth) his superlative goodness every day; since so kind to me, what must he have been to his own son, had he lived?"—For Wilmot was led to suppose that Sir Jeffery's son was dead."

"I am happy," replied Henry, "that my friend enjoys so much uninterrupted bliss."

The youth now extravagantly expatiated upon the baronet's act of generosity, particularly as he had indulged him in his love for Matilda, in praise of whose merit he was equally lavish; he told Henry, that a messenger was to be immediatly dispatched to the old lady, with whom his dear Matilda lived, to inform her of the ardour of his love, and his wish to call her his wife; "this (added he) is also to be urged by the solicitations of Sir Jeffery, who has nobly promised, on the day of marriage, to make a comfortable settlement, exclusive of what he means to give me, on the dear object of my wishes."

Henry suppressed a sigh at this relation; and after mutual promises of serving each other, the friends now parted.

The messenger, who was dispatched to the cottage where Matilda lived, was a young man, who had been some years in the service of Sir Jeffery—his name was Spruce—both vain and illiterate; but being a great lover of intrigue, and often concerned in affairs of love, he was consequently deemed the most proper for this business.

On his arrival at the cottage, Matilda was just gone to take her usual walk in the meadows. Spruce therefore imparted the motives of his visit to the old lady. Dorothy was exceedingly hurt at this sudden declaration of Wilmot's love, and the propo|sals which were made by Sir Jeffery. As Dorothy was a maiden lady, and by her own accounts fre|quently disappointed in love, Spruce conceived that her aversion to this business naturally proceeded from that envy which women in her situation too often discover upon hearing of others, younger than them|selves, advanced to the title of brides; but these were not altogether Dorothy's reasons. Interest was en|tirely her view, and as necessity has no law, she thought it expedient to make Spruce her friend and confidant. She therefore informed him, that if Miss was married, she must consequently lose her cottage, for that this place of residence was only allowed her for the sake of supporting Matilda, whose education had been entirely left to her.

Spruce was alarmed at this account, and being urged on by vanity and assurance resolved to benefit himself by whatever scheme the old lady adopted. After some little consideration and mutual sugges|tions, Dorothy proposed, that Mr. Spruce should entirely reverse his message, and instead of informing Matilda, that it was Wilmot (to whom it was well known the young lady was partial) that intended her the honor of his hand—to declare it was Sir Jeffery Woodstock, the old gentleman himself, who wished to marry her, and that Mr. Wilmot intended to accompany the Baronet, in order to strengthen his supposed solicitation.

"Sir Jeffery," the old lady remarked, "is so old and infirm, that I know Matilda will be disgusted with his appearance, and will absolutely give him a refusal, not knowing at the same time that it is her favorite Wilmot she has rejected. I will take care," cried this artful woman, "their interview shall be so short that no explanation shall take place."

Spruce not only consented, but approved of this scheme, on one condition, that Dorothy would use all her interest and sway over Matilda to recommend his beautiful person; for this vain upstart entertained a passion for the Maid of the Village, and infamously meditated her ruin.

The old infamous woman too readily agreed to Spruce's design. Promises were therefore exchang|ed, and the plot now put into execution.

When Matilda returned from the meadows, the old lady and Spruce began to deceive her. The poor girl was surprised to hear that Sir Jeffery should think of her; but exceedingly grieved that Wilmot, her beloved, should become an advocate for so dis|agreeable an union. Spruce assured her, that it would be a thousand pities her beauty should be sacrificed to the embraces of an old fellow, old enough to be her grandfather; and that he would exert all in his power, to relieve her embarrassments. Dorothy advised her by all means to dismiss them before they began to argue the matter; "D••n't listen to them," cried she, "don't listen to any of their proposals."

Sir Jeffery Woodstock and Wilmot now arrived, while the trembling Matilda, to the great astonish|ment of the latter, endeavoured to avoid them.

Sir Jeffery insisted on her stay, hoping that the business which his servant had orders to communi|cate was perfectly agreeable.

"You do me honor," cried the gentle maid; "but consider, Sir, that I am poor and unknown—my circumstances render me totally unworthy."

"But, my dear," replied the urgent baronet, who now squeezed her hand, "what signifies your being poor—I have enough, and will make an hand|some-provision for you; with your leave, then, a lawyer shall draw up the settlement."

"Excuse me, Sir"—Matilda now withdrew her hand, while sorrow prevented further utterance.

"O, Matilda!" exclaimed the agitated Wilmot; "and is it possible you can be so unkind? Look— look on me—and if I have any influence, which once I flattered myself I had, let me prevail upon you, at least, to consider before you absolutely refuse."

Matilda, struck with astonishment to find Wilmot so warm an advocate, as she supposed, for Sir Jeffery Woodstock, now turned about and took a faint view of Wilmot, as her tears had almost eclipsed him.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, is it possible, Mr. Wilmot, that you can bid me look on you and consider upon this proposal?"

"I am sorry," rejoined the misunderstood lover, "I am sorry to find that I am so very despicable in your eyes."

"You despicable! — how can you say so?"

"Is it not evident by your abhorrence now?"

Sir Jeffery was rather provoked at this seeming indifference to Wilmot.

"What," cried he, "can be the cause of objec|tion? Do you, ill-natured fair one, desire a man younger? Or is it one of the fops of the age who can please you better?"

This severe reproach was deeply felt by the afflic|ted Matilda, who, making no answer, immediately left their presence.

Sir Jeffery was exceedingly chagrined at this re|ception—he knew not what to think. Being enrap|tured himself with the beauty of Matilda, he was almost as eager for this match as even the fond lover; but her behaviour he deemed insupportable Some|times he was for persuading Wilmot to forget her— then imagining that his son had, by some artful pro|ject, occasioned this her aversion, he appeared the more eager for the wedding. At last it was ultimate|ly resolved, that Wilmot should still remain, and, by watching her closely, seize a private opportunity of urging his request.

In the mean time, Spruce and Dorothy were putt|ing their heads together. They rejoiced beyond measure, that so far their scheme had happily suc|ceeded; and now they began to consider among themselves, how they should dismiss Sir Jeffery entirely.

It was immediately conjectured by Spruce, as the surest means of effecting their wishes, that he should meet Matilda, and inform her a dangerous design was in agitation against her; then to prevail upon her to make her escape with him; and when he had conveyed her some distance from the village, put in force all the power of his intreaties, and make him|self master of his wishes.

This horrid scheme was greatly applauded by the infamous Dorothy, who immediately urged him to put it into execution.

Matilda was now alone in the meadows, bewailing her unhappy fate, and railing at the supposed infi|delity of Wilmot. Spruce seized this opportunity to effect his most horrid intention. He addressed her with pretended compassion and anxiety; assured her that a most horrid plot was formed against her, and that it was his wish to preserve her from violence.

The maid, no doubt, was alarmed at this infor|mation, and gratefully thanked Mr. Spruce for the pains he had taken. She timidly inquired what was the plot, and by what means it was possible for her to escape.

"You must know, Madam," cried the artful Spruce, "that my cruel master, Sir Jeffery, perceiv|ing that you were adverse to his proposal, has since consulted with Mr. Wilmot, and it has been agreed among them, that my young master should stay here and watch an opportunity, when by fine speeches he might cajole and amuse you; and then, under pretence of making love to you himself, persuade you to accompany him in a carriage, when his vil|l••inous intention was to deliver you up to the power of Sir Jeffery.

"O heavens! is it possible?" exclaimed Matilda, "that Mr. Wilmot, who has often protested at my feet that he loved and adored but only me, should now ungenerously forget all his vows, and use such clandestine—such base unworthy means of sacrifi|cing and delivering me up to a man I can never love?—"

"Yes, madam, a man, as I said before, that might be your grandfather—a decrepid old fellow, who would fain monopolize all your beauty to himself; but it shall not be—"forbid it honor, and forbid it love;" no, I am resolved to protect and deliver you —yes, madam, command your very humble servant, who is entirely devoted to your service."

"I thank you, Sir, but since Mr. Wilmot has de|ceived me, I can hardly confide in any — him that I thought so generous, so kind, so tender, and so lov|ing; but now I remember he was always expatiating upon the bounty and sincerity of Sir Jeffery; yet he only named him as a parent, not as a lover. Alas! I did not imagine that he was recommending him to me as an husband."

"O my dear, you are but little acquainted with the artifices of men; but I take pity on your inno|cence and youth—I compassionate your situation. Give me leave then to convey you from a place of danger; for I am sure if you remain here any longer, that misfortunes will inevitably ensue; the very car|riage that is intended for your ruin, I will convert to your delivery. Depend upon my truth, I can have no other motive for these persuasions but hon|or and respect. Nay, to assure you of my integrity, the old lady of the house shall accompany us; for I scorn to act clandestinely or basely. O then, think on the danger that awaits, and seize on this happy opportunity of escaping."

Matilda gave way to credulity. Mr. Spruce's offer of taking Dorothy with him removed all sus|picion; and yet, when she recollected the protesta|tions

of her Wilmot, which far exceeded all those of Spruce, she did not know whom to suspect, or whom to believe. At last, unwary maid, she con|sented; and now was willing to run into real dan|ger, by way of avoiding evil that was only imaginary.

The happy Spruce fell on his knees, to adore and praise her for her condescension; but while he was harping upon the designs of Sir Jeffery and Wilmot —behold the latter, who had been listening all the while, now appeared from his place of concealment, to the utter confusion of both Spruce and his belov|ed Matilda—She, poor soul, deluded by the infor|mation she had received, was avoiding her only friend; for instead of loving, she began almost to hate him.

However, the violent indignity of Wilmot, who now revenged himself on the deceitful Spruce, be|gan to operate on the mind of Matilda—there was little time needed to convince the fair how much she had been mistaken—the presence of Sir Jeffery Woodstock confirmed the assertions of the much injured Wilmot. Matilda was, notwithstanding, rejoiced to find her lover was sincere; and he equal|ly happy that his fair one was not unkind.

When Dorothy perceived that the stratagem was totally baffled, she deemed it the best way to keep in with the young lovers. The day was now ap|pointed, and the union of Matilda and Wilmot forthwith celebrated.

The day after marriage (as Matilda had requested to remain the first week in her village) Wilmot, on his return, from straying round the meadows, was exceedingly surprised to find his wife in the arms of his friend Henry—He could hardly believe his eyes, and, that he might be the better convinced, retreat|ed for a short while—but their love, their embraces were too evident; and the violent Wilmot, unable to suppress his indignation any longer, burst forth and insisted upon an explanation.

"O, my dear son!" exclaimed Henry, "for, being now the husband of my dear daughter (I con|gratulate you by that title) come to my arms!"

"Good heavens! are you the father of my Matil|da—and why was this concealed?"

"That I may surprise my obdurate father—I have, till now, secreted the birth of my dear and only child, having provided on purpose this cottage; I have encouraged your addresses, and I have long prayed for this union."

The presence of Sir Jeffery now interrupted them —He railed bitterly at the supposed intrusion of Henry; but who can paint his surprize, when in|formed that it was his grand-daughter whom he had married to his son—that to her he had given up the due inheritance of Henry which otherwise would have been her's—He saw, he felt the justice of hea|ven; and, shaking hands with Henry, grieved that he had not been as kind as he should have been to the mother of Matilda—but hoped all his unjust resentment would be buried in total oblivion, as from henceforth he resolved to reward the faithful love of Wilmot and his wife, and be a father—to the father.

The Cunning Men, or Strange Metamorphose. A WHIMSICAL TALE.

In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas corpora.

OVID.

My fancy leads me to relate Adventures whimsical and great.

OLIVIA was a young lady of beauty and inde|pendence, consequently surrounded with a number of suitors, all of whom professed the great|est regard for her, and vied with each other who

should win her—Being an orphan, and without rela|tions, her situation was indeed critical, but Olivia did not want sense or prudence to conduct herself.

She found a friend and confidant in Sally, who was descended from rather a poor, but worthy fam|ily. The superior beauty of Olivia, above all, her great fortune, gave Sally but little chance of having admirers; there was, however, a young man who paid his addresses to her—Sally was partial to him; indeed she was somewhat more happy in this respect than her friend, not being tormented by numerous solicitations, and consequently puzzled in making a choice. She was only courted by one—and in that one, Thomas, she flattered herself she would find a sincere lover.

Not so with Olivia—she deemed it expedient to change her situation, but was exceedingly embar|rassed about making her choice—the croud was so great—their protestations alike so strong—their families all noble; that it was hard to know whom to prefer. One displayed great notions of honor— another of bravery. In short, she discovered in each some recommendation, some imperfection, and wanted a counsellor to direct her.

Sally having, by some means or other, heard of two cunning men, advised her friend to submit the case to their superior knowledge. One of them, cries she, I understand is both deaf and dumb, con|sequently he can tell no lies; the other is a sort of interpreter, who explains every thing that his bro|ther conjurer does not say; their penetration, I hear, is very profound — they know all the future as well as I know the past; and can read the characters of men with as much ease as I can say my prayers.

Olivia, by this description of the cunning men, was very much induced to see them. Sally rejoiced exceedingly, for she also intended to be convinced of her Thomas's fidelity.

Then, Madam, to tell the truth, exclaims Sally, I

have appointed these men to call in the evening; we must darken the room, as darkness I understand, in a great measure, assists all the conjurations, and if they don't tell us truth, it is agreed that they shall have no reward.

Olivia was highly delighted with this appoint|ment; the servants were ordered to deny her to every gentleman that called, that she might be in|structed by these cunning men, whom she should encourage. Curious to know, however, the means whereby Sally became acquainted with their skill, she requested to know who it was recommended them. Her friend, without reserve, assured her that it was the servant maid who had given this information; she would (continued Sally) have communicated the matter to you herself, but was unwilling that her mistress should think her officious and impertinent —I therefore took it upon me to give permission for their admittance, resolving, if you were scrupu|lous of trying their abilities, to summon courage sufficient to see them alone.

Polly, according to orders, denied her mistress to every lover that called, and in the evening, about the appointed time, announced the arrival of the two cunning men.

The ladies received these learned gentlemen with great dread and perturbation— Sally looking now and then about her to see if the third gentleman in black, old Nick, was visible. The deaf and dumb conjurer made signs that the door should be locked; this, his interpreter immediately complied with.

Olivia now addressing the man that could hear, begged to know who among all her admirers loved her best — the conjurer bowed, and making signs to his comrade, observed to Olivia, that his brother first of all intended to inform her the characters of those pretended admirers whom she saw yesterday — "he will shew you by his book of knowledge, their names and disposition."

This wonderful promise excited the curiosity of both the ladies, upon which the cunning men be|gan their pantomimical discourse—the deaf and dumb one, by signs, now represented a fop, and his inter|preter opening the book, declared his name to be Lord Foppington.

It is impossible to describe Olivia's astonishment; as for Sally, she remained with fixed eyes and open mouth, rivetted, as it were, to the ground. He next represented a gamester; who the interpreter called Mr. Hazard; by staggering and hiccuping, he also expressed a toper, Careless was his name; Gripe, a miser, followed—and 'squire Crop, a huntsman, concluded the account.

The credulous fair ones were now sufficiently assured of the wonderful skill of these men; accord|ingly they requested a further account of their char|acters, as Olivia wished to know if any were deserving of her hand.

When the interpreter communicated their wish to his comrade, he took pen and ink, and wrote the following advice to Olivia, in respect to Lord Foppington.

Remain as plain as bounteous nature made you, Nor thro' ambition seek to be a lady; Abhor Lord Foppington, whose chief desire Is, leading fashions for your fools t' admire; To strut about in gold and silver lace, And charm the fair ones with his pretty face. Mark on the little finger, his fine ring, To shew how insignificant—the thing! Mark how in matters, either right or wrong, His empty honor flies upon his tongue— For ever flying, as, within his breast, Honor can find no place wherein to rest. How oft he gives, how oft forgets his word, How oft will swear, and swearing shew the lord, I know to love thee, he did late protest—

But marry, and he'll say 'twas all a jest. Oh! then beware, for nought will be your gains, What is a powder'd head that lacketh brains?

Olivia was exceedingly grateful for this informa|tion—she determined on dismissing his lordship im|mediately, and erasing him for ever out of the list of her admirers. The conjurer now, on being again importuned, wrote the following character of Mr. Hazard—

Avoid this man, nor take him to your arms, You sacrifice your gold, as well as charms. Tho' great as Dives—yet to-morrow night, He may be Lazarus in dismal plight; And is't not even better to be poor, Than wealth by horrid methods to procure— To rob whole families—to leave forlorn Wife, husband, children, perhaps too th' unborn. But mark the gen'ral end of men like these, When conscience and remorse their bosoms seize; When wild distraction entering the place, Now want and ruin stare him in the face. Should he behold a wife of all bereft, His little ones, whom he has naked left, How often suicide holds up the knife, And frenzy prompts him to attack his life; Then with a coward's arm, he gives the blow, And flies to other ills he did not know!

This was sufficient—Convinced of the danger of marrying such a man, Olivia immediately renounced him. Now Careless was pourtrayed, and the young lady thus cautioned—

This character, a base inconstant proves, For he's another mistress whom he loves. His bottle—whom, with Bacchanalian roars,

He plainly shews that he alone adores; What, tho' you're wonderfully fair he vows, Still greater charms he to his wine allows. And tho' your eyes for brightness may surpass, He sees more sparkling beauties in his glass; What, tho' he swears to be for ever true, His bottle he would ne'er forsake for you; And say, what pleasure could you ever taste With one who, tho' a man, is oft a least, Who turns his night to day, and day to night, And, 'stead of pleasing, is more apt t' affright?

Well, cried Olivia, he may marry his bottle for me—I'll have none of him.

The cunning men now proceeded, and in a few minutes produced the following lines upon Gripe—

The miser view, whose greedy itching palm Squeezes a purse, as beggars would an alm; So very fond of empty glitt'ring pelf, Could he love you who does not love himself? Beware of him, he never could be true, He loves your money, but he loves not you; And tho' you brought him thousand bags of store, Still would he want, still would he covet more. Besides, he's wrinkled, old, then think and say, Shou'd January e'er be join'd with May?

This old gentleman was accordingly struck out of the list of Olivia's pretended admirers. Sally all this while appeared exceedingly mortified and dis|pleased; she felt for her friend—apprehensive that, notwithstanding the number of her boasting lovers, she could not find one that was worthy and sincere.

The next character which appeared in writing was the 'squire's. Thus it follows, with the cunning man's advice—

Oh, scorn this fellow's nothingness and art,

He has a tongue, but wants a feeling heart; No real pleasure does this man pursue, For only game and riot are his view. Were you this worthless creature to embrace, He'd risk you on a wager the next race; Nor would it seem to those, that knew him, strange, If for a dog or horse his wife he'd change.

The cunning men's advice was accepted, and 'squire Crop accordingly rejected.

"Lord, Lord," cried Sally, whose patience was now quite exhausted, "pass over all those unworthy beings, and let my friend know who is most deserv|ing of her hand; then, Sir, I shall trouble you to tell me whether Mr. Thomas is, or is not worthy of his Sally."

The interpreter then requested his comrade to satisfy the wishes of the young ladies; accordingly, he gave Olivia the following paper—

'Tis honest Love well who adores alone, Which modesty prevents the youth to own; He loves you more than fops love dresses fine, Gamesters, good luck, or topers their good wine. Oh yes, believe me, fair, he loves you more Than jockeys, game; or misers, bags of store; Oh, then reward this lover that's so true, And smile on him that thinks of nought but you.

Lovewell!—Olivia was amazed; and no wonder, for she was never importuned by the youth, nor (though she confessed she felt a something in her heart, which was very much in his favour) did she ever suspect the least partiality on his side; for this reason she did not encourage a hope that might have proved both false and fatal.

The interpreter now conjured her, as her future happiness thereupon depended, to grant Mr. Love|well the honor of her hand. Timidity, he said, had

prevented him from yet making known his love, but shortly she should behold him at her feet, when he hoped she would remember his advice.

Oliva declared she would be mindful of his com|mands, and, since he was deserving, she would reward his worth.

"Thanks, my dear angel," exclaimed the dumb man —and throwing off his disguise, behold, Love|well himself was kneeling in her presence.

Olivia was both confused and astonished, while Sally now believed the devil was in the room indeed.

Lovewell! is it possible—and who are you? continued Sally, addressing the interpreter.

Your faithful Thomas, he replied; and I conjure you likewise to smile on him.

The whole business was now unravelled. The lovers, it seems, had invented this scheme, which, by the assistance of Polly, the servant maid, was put into execution, to warn the fair Olivia of those dan|gerous admirers who surrounded her, and, at the same time, discover the real adoration of Lovewell. The grateful Olivia, mindful of the promise she had made, gave Mr. Lovewell her hand, as a gratuity for the pains he had taken—while Sally and Thomas made it a double union.

This strange metamorphose of the lovers created much diversion in the neighbourhood:

But men and women, children, all agreed Lovewell and Tom were Cunning Men indeed.

The Wonderful Escape, or Sagacity Outwitted, A CURIOUS STORY.

Omnia vincit amor.

Tho' guardians threaten, and tho' parents rail, Their menaces but little can avail; Tho' they provide a bar, a lock, a wall! Love breaks them open—Love surmounts them all. Tho' starry Argus should the lovers keep, Love finds the means to close his eyes in sleep.

WILLIAM, the son of an old foolish 'squire who had accumulated a good deal of wealth, saw and admired Delia, the daughter of an eminent mer|chant, whose country house was within a few miles of his father. 'Squire Sturdy having intended to send his son abroad, which he hoped would turn out greatly to his advantage, was exceedingly chagrined upon finding the young man averse to his design; for William's heart being with Delia, he could not possibly think of leaving the place, and thereby giv|ing up all his hopes of future happiness. Sooner than break his vows to his beloved, he was deter|mined, let what would be the consequence, to refuse obedience to his father's will. The old man was exceedingly provoked at this unexpected denial; for William, till now, was always willing and duti|ful; he therefore declared, if he did not obey, he should see him no more; and that he would marry again in hopes of getting another son that might be better deserving of his love and fortune. William with an heavy heart quitted his father's habitation; for, though disagreeable and painful as it was, he had rather leave that than leave his dearest Delia.

The 'Squire was ignorant of William's partiality for Mr. Violent's daughter: sometimes, indeed, the son would have disclosed the secret of his heart, and

the strong motives he had for remaining at home; but then he apprehended that such candor and sin|cerity might only incur greater displeasure, and the consequences bring also some trouble upon the fair object of his adoration, whose father was proud, im|petuous, and (strange to tell) averse to his daugh|ter's being united to a young man; it being his wish, and indeed hope, to provide a sober, wealthy, middle|aged person, who might be more a companion for himself than for the unfortunate maid.

William, now like the prodigal son, a voluntary exile, repaired to the house of Mr. Friendly, a young man who had been just married; he had been both school-fellow and companion of William, and not only made several protestations of his regard, but proved it also by many tokens—Assured therefore of his assistance and good-nature, William disclosed to him the unkindness of his father; he wished to be married privately to Delia, imagining that when his love was then revealed, and it was out of the power of either father to prevent his happiness, that his own would seriously consider the business, and compassionate his situation. Friendly agreed with his design, and resolved, by way of expediting the business, to leave his just married Lucinda, and assist him in whatever scheme he might think fit to adopt.

This further proof of Friendly's urbanity received the grateful thanks of William. During their con|versation, Mrs. Friendly went, according to invita|tion, to drink tea with a neighbour, who was a maid|en lady, her name Dor••as; she w••s noted for vent|ing ungenerous slander and base calumny—was very fond of making acquaintance with young stran|gers, particularly such as were courting or lately married; and, under the mask of friendship, crea|ted unnecessary apprehensions and jealous fears— she had been the means of sowing discord in many families, and separating many a couple, who, other|wise, would have enjoyed the greatest happiness to|gether

—Such was the character of this worthless female, too many of whom are daily permitted to murder reputations by their table-talk, and wound the peace of individuals by continual slander.

Unfortunately, Lucinda encouraged the visits of this dangerous woman, and not only returned them, but credulously made her both a friend & counsellor. She now imparted to her the unexpected visit of William, for whom her husband, she said, had pro|fessed the greatest esteem, and on whose account Friendly had intimated to her, that he should be obliged to leave her for two or three days.

Dorcas shook her head at this information— "Friendship (said she) never induced a man yet to leave his wife, for even an hour, if he loved her— particularly during the honey-moon—I am sorry to hear this—I thought Mr. Friendly quite a different sort of a man—but there is no dependence upon any of them, that's the truth of it."

These mistrustful hints awakened the curiosity of Lucinda, who conjured her, by the esteem she had professed for her, to acquaint her candidly with her real opinion of the matter.

"Excuse me, my dear, I should be exceedingly unwilling to alarm you—Heaven forbid that I should make you uneasy—No, no."

These words only rendered the unsuspecting Lu|cinda the more eager and impatient — At last the old lady frankly declared (as she termed it) that her hus|band was false, and this visit was contrived between him and his friend, that he might have an opportu|nity of seeing and dallying with another fair, more charming in his eyes.

Lucinda at first smiled at these suggestions; but the infamous Dorcas, to prove her great penetration and wisdom, now added so many lies to her suspi|cions, that jealousy soon began to prey upon the mind of Mrs. Friendly.

During this, William had projected a scheme of

eloping with his beloved Delia, which was highly approved by his friend. Being unknown, he said, to Mr. Violent, he thought he might easily disguise himself as a reaper, this being the season for cutting down hay, and there being a scarcity of workman, indeed so much, that the old gentleman had very fortunately the preceding day applied to Mr. Friend|ly (whom he knew) to look out for a few hands for him. A disguise was soon had, and two real reapers, who were let into the secret, and well bribed, were to accompany him. Friendly was now to go and recommend them personally to Mr. Violent. As his wife had not yet returned from her neighbour's, and delay he feared would be dangerous, he left a letter for her with the servants, informing her that he should be soon home, but was obliged to go im|mediately to fulfil the duties of friendship. This being written, and William properly attired, away they went to the old gentleman's country seat.

Mrs. Friendly, on her return, missing her husband, was now convinced of what before she falsely sus|pected; the letter (for it was written in a hurry) being brief and unsatisfactory, helped to add to her uneasiness. She was told by the servants, that young Mr. Sturdy and their master were for a long time closetted with two reapers—There was a scheme evidently in agitation, and this scheme not being divulged to Lucinda, confirmed now all her suspicions, and corroborated, seemingly, all the assertions of her neighbour.

Mrs. Friendly searched the closet where they had been together, and, seeing the clothes of William, which he had lest, in consequence of putting on those of a reaper—a thought struck her—William being rather a slender made man, and somewhat short, she immediately tried his coat ••n her; in fact, his clothes sitted her so well, that she now ap|peared a young man, and away she set off to Mr. Violent's, to discover the real intentions of her husband.

Mr. Violent had just hired William and the other two men, on the recommendation of Mr. Friendly, with whom he shook hands, and seemed very happy at seeing them.

"You are come, (cried he) at a very right time, boy, to celebrate my daughter's nuptials."

"Your daughter's," echoed the astonished Friendly—"Pray, Sir, may I inquire who is to be the happy man?"

"Aye, I know you would be surprised—Faith, the matter is somewhat sudden, I confess; but that's my way—I do things at once—You must know, Sir, I happened to be in company yesterday with an elderly gentleman (for such has been always my fixed determination to make a son-in-law) and very luck|ily, Sir, this gentleman wanted a wife; for he had a wild unthinking youth of a son, who has thwarted his inclinations, and upon being rebuked, the per|verse boy has left him. Mr. Sturdy is consequently provoked to marry, and this day is appointed for the wedding"

"But, Sir, is not this business too sudden? Do you think, Mr. Sturdy can love the young lady suf|ficiently to render him worthy of her hand? Besides, are you sure the match is perfectly agreeable to your daughter?"

The old man ridiculed all these idle notions, as he called them—he confessed, indeed, that his daugh|ter, upon b••ing apprised of his determination, faint|ed; but he did not care for that—he had now lock|ed her up, and till she was the wife of Mr. Sturdy, not a moment's liberty would he allow her.

Friendly was exceedingly hurt at this informa|tion, and under pretence of giving orders to the workmen he had brought, hastened immediately to his friend, and communicated the dreadful resolu|tions which were now in agitation.

William was equally surprised to hear that his fa|ther was his rival, and it being dangerous to lose

time, resolved, by some means or other, to convey a letter to his dear Delia, and acquaint her what mea|sures he was about taking for her speedy delivery. As his situation gave him many opportunities of conversing with the servants, he discovered that Ralph had frequent access to his young mistress, in order to bring her necessary refreshments. William therefore seized a convenient time of speaking to Ralph, and seeing him passing the meadows in a great hurry, inquired the cause.

"I have got," says he, "a letter for my master, from Mr. Sturdy—he is coming anon—and the wed|ding cloaths for my young mistress—I am to bring them to her."

This was sufficient; he then requested he would deliver her a letter, which had been left with him, for her. Ralph stared—wondering how he came by it, and from whom it was. William cunningly observ|ed, that a young flashy fellow had assured him, that whoever gave it to Miss, unknown to her father, should have fifty pounds in the evening.

"Fifty pounds!" cried Ralph, "O dear, I'll give it to her with her cloaths."

"Very well then," cried William, "I shall tell the gentleman who it was did him the favour; for my part, I don't like running hazards—I don't mind fifty pounds."

"Indeed! O, then I do—I will live no longer with Mr. Violent; he knocked me down yesterday in his passion—fifty pounds will render me very comfortable—yes, yes."

Ralph took the letter with great pleasure, expect|ing soon to take the purse; but as he could not read, and fearful of making a fatal mistake, on account of Mr. Sturdy's letter, which he was to give imme|diately to his master, he put one into the right poc|ket, and another into the left; for being thus separ|ated, he could tell which is which.

It happened now that a neighbour's child, for

whom he had promised to buy a halfpenny worth of apples, met him, and demanded the boon. Ralph, mindful of the promise, gave him two; but the little boy would not be persuaded that he had no more, and cunningly insisted on searching his pockets. Ralph, who was almost as great a child as the other, granted permission; so dragging his handkerchief and letter out of his right hand pocket, and taking the other and his gloves from the left hand, he gave the little rogue the full satisfaction he required, and soon convinced him of their emptiness.

Ralph put up his things again, but unfortunately, restored the letters to their wrong stations; the con|sequence was, that, upon his master's appearing, and demanding what answer Mr. Sturdy had sent, he gave him the letter directed for his daughter.

The impatient father made no scruple of opening it, and, to his great astonishment, made the follow|ing discovery:

"My dearest love,

"I have just heard of the barbarity of your inhu|man father; but be not dejected. I have thought upon a project for your delivery, and a generous friend has kindly promised me his assistance—Expect to see me soon in disguise. I shall have a coach in readiness, and hope to steal the key from Ralph, by making him drunk, when I shall immediately lib|erate my dear Delia, and, by delivering her from cruelty and tyranny, prove myself her sincere and faithful lover,

WM. STURDY."

Mr. Violent did not tarry to ask any questions now, but knocking down Ralph, snatched the key and other letter from him, and away flew to the old gentleman whom he intended for his daughter, to acquaint him with the designs of his son.

The loud lamentations of Ralph, who fancied that his brains were beaten out, occasioned the ap|pearance

of William, for being on the watch, he was alarmed by every noise he heard; Ralph ac|quainted him in the most doleful manner of the mistake he had committed, and the ill treatment he had received. William, though inwardly grieved, pretended the greatest indifference about the matter, declaring that it was his intention to throw the letter away, for he would have nothing to say to it; he would not for an hundred pounds give offence to his good master. This disaster was soon revealed to Friendly, who seemed to apprehend some dreadful consequences; he was happy, however, that the person of William was still unknown, but feared much that the father and son would meet, and a fatal discovery take place; they resolved, however, to keep their ground, and leave no stratagem untried, which might afford success.

The two old gentlemen, in the mean time, were consulting together. Old Sturdy was very much chagrined at his son's presumption, imagining that William had professed this attachment to Delia, merely for the sake of frustrating his intentions; the old man was therefore stimulated the more to effect his purpose; his resentment against William became greater, and his inclination to marry this young lady, stronger; for fear, however, that his son might baffle his design, he resolved to watch for him at a distance, and by means of two trusty men that should be disguised as constables, have him secured—as it were, falsely arrested, till the wedding was over, and all his art in vain.

Two men were accordingly provided, while Mr. Violent hastened home, in order to interrogate Ralph, and further secure his daughter, till he went for the chaplain.

It happened now that Mrs. Friendly was straying about the meadow in William's clothes; she had just met Ralph, and was inquiring of him what was go|ing on; she offered him some money, if he would

introduce her to his young mistress, and was very curious, in respect to her husband.

Ralph, apprehensive of his master's approach, and being knocked down again, evaded all explanation, and refused the money. Old Sturdy perceiving them together at a distance, and fancying it to be his son, on account of the dress, for he did not see her face, gave the signal, and the men whom he ap|pointed seized Mrs. Friendly, and, in spite of all her resistance, forced her away.

Old Sturdy having inquired of Ralph the purport of their discourse together, was perfectly satisfied that his conjectures were just, being told that this sup|posed rival wanted an interview with Delia.

Ralph was immediately dispatched, to inform his master of the success of this arrest, and requesting him to provide the chaplain as soon as possible.

The poor timid servant stood at a respectful dis|tance, while informing his impetuous master of all this, and being assured by him, not only of forgive|ness, but likewise, a handsome gratuity, which had greater weight, he made a very candid confession, that, for the sake of fifty pounds from a fine flashy gentleman, which the reaper would not accept of, he meant to deliver that letter to his young mistress.

"How," exclaimed Mr. Violent, "and would not the reaper accept it?"

"No, Sir, not double the sum; he said, he would not offend so good a master."

The old gentleman delighted at so much seeming honesty, desired Ralph to go for him. William was accordingly conducted to his presence, apprehensive of some new discovery.

Mr. Violent expatiated much upon his integrity and honor, and told him, he intended now to make a trial of his merit, which he would accordingly reward—"I am obliged, says he, to go as far as our vicar's residence, but fearful that my daughter, dur|ing my absence may escape, for Ralph, I find, is

treacherous and frail, I entrust the key of her cham|ber to you (my honest fellow) and commission you to deliver this bundle (which contains her wedding clothes) that she may be drest for the occasion."

William readily accepted of this valuable key, which contained so great a treasure, promising all due obedience to his master's commands, while, in return, the old gentleman assured him of an ample compensation; and finding William not so mean in education, as he seemed to be in situation, he ac|quainted him with old Sturdy's resolution of making his son a temporary prisoner, till the wedding was over—Wi••liam was thunder-struck to think his fath|er was capable of such mean devices.

"And pray, Sir," cried he, "is he looking for him now?"

"Poh! he has found him out."

"Indeed!"

"Aye, and he is now secure—the plot is executed —he is in the custody of two knowing fellows, who, when they hear from us again, are to pretend great sorrow for their mistake, and offer him a purse (which my friend has given to them on purpose, and which, he thinks, will be very acceptable to his son) by the way of making it up.

William was now more surprised than before, wondering within himself who could be his represen|tative, but this being no time for consideration, he gave vent to other thoughts that were now of greater consequence.

Mr. Violent rejoiced that he had so cunningly deprived his daughter of all possible means of seeing William, or making her escape, went for the chap|lain. William sought his friend, and briefly inform|ed him of the jest—they flew to the place of Delia's captivity: William entered first, while the weeping fair, expecting the approach of some hard-hearted messenger, or, what was still more disagreeable, the sight of her odious intended, turned away her face▪

but the well known voice of her beloved William, soon dispelled all her fears, and enlivened those charms which despair had before deadened; joyfully she accepted the hand of William, who now, by the generous assistance of Friendly, conveyed her far away, and was made happy by the possession of his fair.

Lucinda, however, experienced much uneasiness, being still retained in confinement for William; she had written a letter to Dorcas her good-natured friend, who observed, in writing, that she was surprised Mrs. Friendly could send to her, having acted such an indecent part. Lucinda applied to another, who begg••d leave, in a polite letter, to decline the visit, as Miss Dorcas had assured her she ran away with some unknown man, and injured the best of husbands —her eyes were now opened, and she dispatched a letter, being a full confession of all, to Mr. Friendly.

The old men, by this time, had met, and, to their great sorrow, discovered the bird had flown. Friendly endeavoured to reconcile them, and making the confinement of his wife, whose situation he felt for like a husband, the happy means, in order to bury all injuries in obscurity, a reconcili••tion was an|nounced. Lucinda, who was immediately released (upon the deception being known) used likewise her influence to render the happiness of all parties complete.

William and his bride spent the first week of their honey-moon at Mr. Friendly's, and they had all, the pleasure, the first Sunday they went to church of seeing Dorcas standing in a white sheet.

The Hypochondriac, or Force of Imagination. A PLEASANT STORY.

MR Whimsical had one only child, Clarinda, whose affection for her father had made her solemnly vow that she would never marry till he was cured of those strange and unaccountable hips, to which, since the death of her mother, he had been constantly addicted. Desmond had paid his addresses to her, but in vain; he therefore solicited permission to be admitted among the number of her acquaint|ance, when he would exert all in his power to recover her unfortunate father from his capricious humours. This request was not only readily complied with, but gratefully acknowledged as a kindness; indeed, Desmond's assiduity almost secured him the affection of Clarinda; she felt a strong partiality for him, on account of his tenderness to Mr. Whimsical.

The manners of Mr. Whimsical, were extremely fantastical: he has frequently fancied himself in a state of lunacy, and requested every attendant to stand at a respectful distance, for fear he might bite them. Desmond, who for the sake of Clarinda, had undertaken his cure, resolved to feed his humours, in hopes of giving him a surfeit; he, therefore, put on a straight waistcoat, and, by using severity, soon recovered his patient from his frenzy fit▪

Mr. Whimsical now imagined himself in danger of a putrid fever, and would not be persuaded but that his hands had a most offensive smell. Desmond encouraged the idea, for he was always admitted as the physician, and ordered him such disagreeable potions, that Mr. Whimsical was afterwards very willing to think himself safe man.

Once, indeed, having discovered an insect in a bason of water which he was drinking, he imagined himself full of worms; so great was the force of im|agination, that he felt them, he declared, working

within; this led him, at last, to suppose himself possest, and nothing would persuade him, but that he had now an evil spirit tormenting him.

Mr. Desmond forced him to drink large draughts of chamomile tea, till he became so weary and weak with continual exercise, as to believe himself delivered —but the young gentleman, thinking proper to punish him for those ill-timed fancies, in order to prevent their return, insisted that he was as bad as ever, and compelled him to drink more. In short, he so disgusted him of this supposition, that Mr. Whimsical was never troubled with an evil spirit again.

Another time, he fancied that he had lost his nose, and made great lamentations for his supposed mis|fortune; but Desmond very speedily restored this feature, by giving it such a terrible pull as made him feel that it was really there.

This, however, was the occasion of another ex|traordinary fancy; for he now thought his nose so exceedingly long, that, though his friends were sev|eral yards distance, he apprehended they would hurt it. "Take care of my nose," he would con|tinually cry to every person that was at arms length —"You'll hurt my nose," &c.

Tho' this seemed to be no easy misfortune to re|move, yet Desmond, by his usual dexterity, convin|ced him of its real length, by tying an handkerchief round his face, which reduced his nose to a proper size.

Mr. Whimsical, at last, became so very ridiculous, as to imagine himself inanimate—He was sometimes a tea-pot, and putting one arm a-kimbo, and stretch|ing another out, he said that was the handle, and this was the spout, desiring the spectator to fill him out.

Desmond, being apprized of this strange notion upon entering the room, taxed the servant for leav|ing in his presence that abominable old-fashioned tea-pot, which he had ordered to be thrown away;

then throwing Mr. Whimsical down, the tea-pot was supposed to be broken in pieces.

This fall, however, was productive of another vex|atious consequence, for Mr. Whimsical now conceit|ed himself dead. Desmond was resolved, however, to indulge the idea, and, by this great attempt, cure him, if possible, of his strange ideas.

He was accordingly stretched out, and made wit|ness of all those friends who came to mourn his untimely departure. According to their instructions, they abused his memory, slandered his name, and provoked poor Whimsical so much, that he wished he was alive again to retaliate these insults.

He was now left alone, as he thought, but Des|mond remained listening; he began fervently to pray, when an hollow voice, which proceeded from Desmond behind the curtain, thus answered him—

"If you will promise to submit to the counsel and directions of your daughter, thou shalt again be re|stored to her, for thou art not dead, but in a trance; if, however, thou refusest obstinately to be guided by her, and your friends, the consequence is, that thou shalt be buried alive."

Whimsical listened, but made no reply; he was therefore put into a coffin, but while they were screwing him down, he roared out most vociferously that he was alive, and prayed them not to bury him so. It was some time before they would take notice —at last, Desmond took him out, declaring that he was a new man, quite young and handsome, which Mr. Whimsical conceiting, became so exceedingly brisk and merry, that every ailment was at an end.

Clarinda now rewarded the kind attention of Des|mond with her hand. Whimsical danced at their wedding, and fancied himself so very hale and young, that he lived, until he really died.

CHARLES and MARIA. A INTERESTING TALE.

CHARLES and Maria were the son and daughter of respectable tradesmen in London, who, early in life testified the strongest marks of affection for each other, which was both discovered and approved by each fond parent; it being long their mutual wish that their children should be united. When Charles attained his eighth year, he was sent to a boarding school near the city; and Maria, likewise, was promised by her father a good education, in order to render her worthy of her husband, partic|ularly the son of his old friend, whose fortune was far superior to his; for Good will had been much more fortunate in respect to trade than his neigh|bour. The two friends, however, were so strongly attached to each other, that no mean views of inter|est could possibly divide their friendship; in fact, Goodwill and Frankly were, what indeed is very seldom seen now-a-days, true and sincere compan|ions.

Goodwill, the father of Maria, had all his prop|erty secure in England, therefore no change was likely to take place; but Mr. Frankly had most of his in merchandize abroad, and daily heard of an increase which gave him infinite pleasure; for, like a prudent father, he wished much to raise his son above the frowns of humble dependence. Charles improved so rapidly under the care of his preceptor, that it was now time to think for what profession he was most suitable. Mrs. Frankly was for the church, Mr. Frankly for the law, but Charles himself for the army. A red coat has charms in it so irresistible, that many young men put on their royal master's livery without possessing the qualifications which it requires; however, to do our young hero justice, he was more induced to wear it through the noble

impulses of honor and courage, than vanity or arro|gance.

His father, always ready to comply with his wishes, purchased a commission in the army. Few young men looked better, or did more honor to regimen|tals than our bold hero. His first visit he paid to Maria, who thought she never saw him look more to advantage. This young lady was now become the admiration of all, and the idol of her parents: she was generous, amiable, and unreserved. The parents began to think it full time that they were married; nor were the parties themselves at all unwilling—each having exchanged their pictures to prove the originals were entirely theirs. The preparations for the wedding were now made, which were elegant without being extravagant—The hap|py day arrives—They are married. For some time they lived in a state of envied bliss and uninterrupt|ed happiness. But Fortune, seemingly jealous of long pleasures to young couples, generally mixes a little bitters with their sweets. A young lady it hap|pened had seen Charles several times, and being in love with him, took every opportunity of throwing herself in his way, not knowing he was married. Charles saw her—he danced with her at a public assembly, and, without any design on his part, insist|ed on seeing the lady home—She readily complied, and fancied she had got him in her chains. She in|vited him to sup with her, and, being bountiful in her wine, not only rendered him forgetful of his Maria, but absolutely provoked him, in fits of rhap|sody, to make love to her; this to a lady who hap|pened to be the cast-off mistress of Lord M—, was by no means disagreeable—she encouraged his professions, which now became extravagant. Charles was, indeed, the first man who had ever raised a true flame in her breast, and she was resolved the bird should not readily fly away from her cage; she suffered him to take many liberties, and being a fine woman, Charles was by no means shy.

Maria, unaccustomed to her husband's absence, became very uneasy; but how great was her sur|prise and agitation, to find his future visits at home very seldom, and then rather disagreeable. This strange alteration caused much uneasiness—however, she never upbraided him, but, apprehensive that something in her behaviour to him was the occasion, became doubly attentive—Assiduity she hoped would regain his affection; but ah! she was mistaken: one morning he came home after a week's absence, and told her he was going to the country for a month; he appeared more dull than usual. Maria, for the first time, inquired the cause, but he answered her both cruelly and peevishly; she heaved a sigh, and was silent—he rang the bell, ordered his horses, and left the once dear partner of his life to her own bit|ter reflections. Some short time after his absence she was taken ill, and delivered of a fine boy—she hourly prayed for her Charles's return, and now endeavoured to live for the sake of her dear cherub; she never once made a complaint to her parents, but they soon became acquainted with the cause of her malady. Charles was all this time with his new mistress, bestowing on her that love and attention which were the sole right of his worthy wife. Maria was now, through fatigue of body and mind, in a high fever, while her mother, who had never left her since her illness, sent for the most experi|enced physicians; they all pronounced her death inevitable—she became delirious, and continually called upon Charles to help her. It happened now that the vile cause of all this uneasiness finding Maria's picture with Charles, became apprehensive of a rival; she sought with care the original, and, by these means was discovered by Mr. Frankly, who, understanding where his son-in-law was, conveyed him an account of Maria's situation: the awakened husband returned home with eagerness, and seeing the sad situation of his Maria, his affection returned

with double force—he fell on his knees, implored her forgiveness, frankly communicated all the wrongs he had done her, but assured her that he loved her better now than ever. Maria's happiness returned, and what unavailing medicine could not accomplish, all powerful love began to effect—Maria was resto|red to her husband—Charles was restored to his wife; and now, for mutual love and happiness, they became the admiration of all their neighbours.

Charles wrote to his mistress the next day, inclo|sing her a bank-bill, which he begged her to accept instead of himself, and which, as her wishes were already gratified, and the remainder of her love ex|tinguished by the account of his marriage, was, at present, far more acceptable.

MEMOIRS Of CHRISTIAN JACOBSEN DRAKENBERG.

CHRISTIAN Jacobsen Drakenberg was a boat-swain in the Danish army; he was born in the year 1626 (the month unknown) and died the 24th of June, 1770. Historians have not been very par|ticular in respect to his manners or life; it appears, therefore, that this veteran was more remarkable for longevity than for any peculiarity or heroism; it is, however, acknowledged that he was exceeding|ly facetious and entertaining—his company was courted by many country gentlemen, for the sake of hearing him relate some pleasant stories When he arrived to the age of 139, he was constantly seen at Denmark, where he used to walk about, with all the vigour and spirit of youth, and, by means of his pleasantry and good-nature, afforded great enter|tainment to the inhabitants.

As the early part of his youth had been spent in

the British service, on board the navy, in Queen Anne's wars, he was, of course, deemed such an ex|perienced man, and so capable of deciding matters of ambiguity, that, whenever any doubts arose con|cerning past times, he was always referred to, in order to make them clear; he was generally arbi|trator in all points of difficulty, and whenever wagers were laid about the dates of any former transactions, Drakenberg was the man who was always appointed judge.

Even in the latter part of his life, this man was renowned for the amazing strength of his faculties: he retained his memory so wonderfully towards the most advanced period of his life, that he never was known to forget his jokes, or relate a story twice to the same person. His narratives chiefly consisted of the whimsical and marvell••us, it being his delight to raise a laugh, by exposing the extravagant follies of mankind, and in creating astonishment and sur|prise, by expatiating on all the strange accidents of life; yet, to do our hero justice, he most honorably avoided all base invective and personality, in every relation; nor was he ever known to wound the peace of an individual, or calumniate an honest, nay, nor a dubious character, by wanton slander and vile defa|mation; his stories were perfectly harmless, and, in respect to decency, so inoffensive, that even ladies wished to be his auditors.

Drakenberg lived exceedingly temperate—he ab|stained from an excess of liquor, but now and then would take a wholesome glass. Dainties he never desired, and a plain dish was the utmost of his ambi|tion; this moderation was doubtless the cause of his longevity; he used continual exercise, and pre|ferred walking to riding.

Towards the latter part of his life, when his ac|quaintance would seem to envy the length of his days, and wish that they might see as many, he would often shake his head, and make this reply—

"Were you to live as long as I, friend, you may see more sorrow than is the general lot of mankind. I have buried my most dear relations; and all those endearing connections which I had formed in my youth, are now no more—they are dissolved by death! The remembrance is somewhat painful—I am astonished then to hear how any one can desire to witness the dissolution of their friends, the end of all their dearest relations."

Drakenberg, like the generality of men, who are renowned for long-dated lives, died suddenly, with|out much pain; the candle of his days shone bright, while it lasted; it avoided those many puffs which generally extinguish others, before they are advanc|ed to the socket—it perished of itself! And though of one hundred and forty four years extent, yet so soon passeth it away, that still it may be said, "Out, out, brief candle." Those men who have seen most days, are seldom reported to have done the most— Methuselah, who lived the longest of all, only begat sons and daughters, and then died—it is not said whether our hero did even so much. As there is no account that he was ever married, it is natural to suppose the contrary; and, perhaps, if he had been a husband, he never would have enjoyed so many uninterrupted years, nor have been the wonder of our reader's present curiosity.

The Absent Man. A TRUE AND COMIC CHARACTER.

MR. Thoughtful, having devoted his early days to study, became literally so wrapt up with his ideas as to be frequently insensible of what was said or doing. His answers have been often incohe|rent and strange; his actions equally wonderful and

unaccountable. His father soon repented of having left him so long at college; or suffered him, when young, to apply his mind incessantly to learning: for, that

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,"

is the assertion of a much-admired poet, who con|sequently exhorts all votaries to learning,

To drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring."

But here is a sad proof that a man may drink too deep, or indeed so deep as to intoxicate his brain, and become as stupid and disagreeable as one who is totally ignorant.

The father was now determined to provide a wife for his son—in hopes that a woman might rouze him from his lethargy—might awaken him from this profound stupor; and by amusing his perplex|ing thoughts, give him some life and animation.

The father, according to his design, having fixed his eye upon a young lady in the neighbourhood, watched an opportunity of hinting the matter to his son.

Young Thoughtful, who had been now sent by the housekeeper to desire to know how his father wished the goose to be drest—appeared in a very musing posture:

"I am come," says the son, "to ask you—" here he paused, and began to think on what he had come about.

"I find," cried his father, "that I must provide somebody to sharpen your memory—what think you of a wife, Charles? Perhaps she may quicken your recollection."

"A wife! A woman!"—

"Aye, a fine young girl."

"Otway, I think, was divided in his opinion;— in one of his plays he says 'We would be brutes without her;'—in another, he calls her 'the fountain

of all human frailty;'—for my part I must agree with Solon"—

"Plague on Solon, he is not my son; I want to know if a wife is agreeable—now tell me immediately —what do you say? A wife is a good dish, boy, for your nice appetites—you are not afraid of matrimo|ny, hey!—sure it would be impossible for any woman to make a goose of such a sober, wise, young man."

"A goose—" the son recollected the dinner, and begged to know how he wished it to be drest.

This being foreign to the subject, provoked the father, and he answered him both peevishly and harshly—"with sage and onions." He then resumed his subject, and with some difficulty procured his acquiescence. The old man was highly delighted with having so far succeeded, and gave him a twenty pound bill to buy clothes for the occasion—recom|mending a suit of white and silver, it being, in his opinion, the fittest to celebrate a wedding, and the most becoming for a bridegroom.

"But," exclaimed the father, "how would you wish to be dressed?"

The son started—looked foolish—coughed—and cried "eh!"

"How would you wish to dressed?"

A long pause now. At last, the son echoing "dressed," and the father answering "yes," he replied, "Oh, father, as you do—as you do, father —with sage and onions."

The old gentleman was exasperated at this reply, and was obliged to repeat all he had said before, for the better comprehension of his son. At last, hav|ing, as he thought, recovered his recollection, he now left him in a greater labyrinth than ever.

When alone, the wife entered into his head, and seemed to afford him some temporary pleasure. He intended to go and see her. The house-keeper met him, and begged to know how the goose was to be dressed.

"Dressed, Oh, in white and, silver; that's my father's wish."

He now went out, but forgetting his hat, was obliged to return; then anxious to see a friend of his, who was a student at Cambridge; he wrote a few lines—folded up the letter to put in the Post Office, but forgot to seal it.—Then thinking of his mistress, he directed the letter to her, instead of his friend. Away he goes—first directing his steps to the Post Office, and when half way—turning back to see his mistress—then backwards and forwards;— once indeed he went a mile beyond his mistress's house;—then returning in a great hurry, forgot to stop where she lived. At last he reached the Post Office, merely by chance—the letter box reminded him of his intention; but instead of throwing in the letter, he threw in the twenty pound bill, which was to purchase him clothes; then bending his course again to his mistress's house, he was stopped by a beggar woman, who craved charity; the young man stopped too, and informed her it was past two o'clock: thus he ran about, without answering any purpose, or doing the least good.

By means of the father, indeed, the marriage took place; yet, the bridegroom was so absent, that he made a very mal-à-propos reply to the chaplain, du|ring the ceremony They all came home to Mr. Thoughtful's house: the old gentleman gave up his chamber to the bride and bridegroom, but the young gentleman forgetting this, happened unfortu|nately to go to his own bed, and the poor bride was entirely forsaken. The father brought his absent son to a recollection of his duty; he arose and dressed himself; but forgetting the most material part of his covering, made such an awkward appearance before his fair one, as shocked her not a little.

We are not at liberty to proceed in the mistakes of this absent man. Suffice it to say, that his wife in due time recalled his recollection, and young Thoughtful became more consistent.

Singular Memoirs of PAT. O'CONNOR, An Irish Footman, during his service with an English Gentleman.

PAT. O'Connor, who never boasted of his family, as they had been all buried in obscurity, hav|ing experienced the many heart-achs of being out of employ, and sometimes the many belly-fulls of being in a good service, after this round of ups and downs, at last engaged himself with an English gen|tleman at Cork, who was now about leaving Ireland. The thoughts of quitting the dear land of saints, operated very much upon the heart of our hero, and sorrow becoming dry, he applied himself frequently to a good glass of whiskey, which shortly removed his grief.

The day for departure came—Pat. took leave of his friends and country; while his conjectares on his new master engaged his present thoughts.

He soon became acquainted with London, as well as the intrigues and roguery of his employer, who having been the son of a late respectable citizen, thought he could never spend a small sum that had been left him too soon or too extravagantly.

A young lady near Windsor having attracted his notice, he was resolved, in his general phrase, to have her, notwithstanding she had already testified her disapprobation of his addresses, as well as her dislike to his person: this, however, instead of discouraging, provoked our volatile youth, to meditate a design of ruining her; for, though his partiality for ladies was great, yet marriage seldom entered his head.

Her uncle, with whom she lived, being a strange character, that received the company of every one who boasted of his parentage and lineage, he deemed it an easy task to ingratiate himself in his favor; to accomplish this, however, he dared not acknowledge himself the son of a citizen, as that would totally

mar his designs, and defeat his purpose with the old gentleman—He was therefore resolved to dress up Pat. O'Connor in great style, and introduce him as an Irish baronet, being his supposed uncle, whom he intended to instruct, and enable to puff off his unknown family. The project delighted poor Pat. who was highly pleased with the thoughts of be|coming a gentleman. He promised to expatiate upon the excellence of his birth, and inform this uncle of the large estate which he would give him. The day was accordingly fixed—an appointment made with Mr. Primstiff, and Pat. was introduced as a man of consequence and fortune.

The mock hero now strutted about with assumed state and airs—the old gentleman, on account of his supposed rank, received him with the greatest cordiality, and begged to know who the young gen|tleman's father was.

"Why, my brother," cries Pat. "my brother, do you see—was a very good sort of a gentleman, but not altogether so handsome as I." "And, pray, Sir, what fortune do you intend to give your nep|hew?"

"What fortune—why faith and troth, honey, its hard for me to say, when I don't know the extent of it myself."

"Is it in lands, Sir?"

"Lands—O, aye—its in the Coomb—the Pottlehole —I'll give him a bit of the Liberty—a scrap or two of Meath-street—a few yards of Donnybrook, and—"

"Why, Sir, I never heard of such estates."

"No—then you were never in sweet Dublin."

"I have heard many expatiate upon its beauties; indeed, from the traveller's account, one may be apt to think it was the promised land, that overflowed with milk and honey."

"Milk and honey!" exclaims Pat. "O, honey, O! that's a singular union indeed—why you mean milk and potatoes, you fool!"

The familiarity of names did not agree with the family pride of the old gentleman; of course a quar|rel ensued; Pat. swearing by St. Patrick he was as good as he; and, in order to prove it, called out for his master.

The sound of master alarmed the old gentleman, but it did not in the least confound Pat. who recol|lecting himself, put it off with—"Why, aye, did not I tell you I would make him master of the Coomb and Pottlehole?"

The master appeared, and as his servant was gen|erally going beyond bounds, he applied a sly pinch in order to remind him of his duty—Pat. gave a sudden roar, and swore in a terrible manner, if he did that again he would divulge all.

"All what?" cries the uncle.

"Why, what's that to you?" rejoins Pat. "Must you know every thing, you old rogue?"

"Rogue!—Sir, consider my family—"

It was with the greatest difficulty the young gen|tleman could restore peace and harmony, which at last he did, by assuring him that in his country, Rogue was an appellation of honor.

"O yes," exclaims Pat. "we gentlemen are all rogues—but search the world through, there are not more honest rogues than the sons of Tipperary."

The last scheme was to deceive the young lady— Pat. was informed that he must personate a chaplain, in order to give a mock ceremony, that Miss might be deluded by a supposed private marriage. Our Irish hero was left alone to consider, and seeing the young lady at a distance, flew to meet her, and dis|covered the whole design.

"He wants to make a gentleman in black of me, honey, but may the black gentleman seize me, if I wrong so much innocence.—"

By this honest confession, the young lady's honor was preserved—in token of her gratitude she per|suaded her guardian uncle to take Pat. (who was

accordingly dismissed by his master) into his service, which place our son of Tipperary still retains, being honored by all his fellow-servants, both for his birth and lineage.

Distresses of a Modest Man.

I Labor under a species of distress, which I fear will at length drive me utterly from that society, in which I am most ambitious to appear; but I will give you a short sketch of my origin and present situation, by which you will be enabled to judge of my difficulties.

My father was a farmer of no great property, and with no other learning than what he had acquired at a charity-school; but my mother being dead, and I an only child, he determined to give me that ad|vantage which he fancied would have made him happy, viz. a learned education. I was sent to a country grammar school, and from thence to the University, with a view of qualifying for holy orders. Here, having but a small allowance from my father, and being naturally of a timid and bashful disposition, I had no opportunity of rubbing off that native awkwardness, which is the fatal cause of all my unhappiness, and which I begin now to fear can never be amended. You must know, that in my person I am tall and thin, with a fair complexion, and light flaxen hair; but of such extreme suscep|tibility of shame, that on the smallest subject of con|fusion, my blood all rushes into my cheeks, and I appear a perfect full blown rose. The consciousness of this unhappy failing, made me avoid society, and I became enamored of a college life: particularly when I reflected, that the uncouth manners of my father's family, were little calculated to improve my outward conduct: I therefore had resolved on living at the university and taking pupils, when two unex|pected

events greatly altered the posture of my affairs, viz. my father's death and the arrival of my uncle from the Indies.

This uncle I had very rarely heard my father mention, and it was generally believed that he was long since dead, when he arrived in England only a week too late to close his brother's eyes. I am ashamed to confess, what I believe has been often experienced by those, whose education has been bet|ter than their parents, that my poor father's ignorance, and vulgar language, had often made me blush to think I was his son: and at his death I was not inconsolable for the loss of that, which I was not unfrequently ashamed to own. My uncle was but little affected, for he had been separated from his brother more than thirty years, and in that time he had acquired a fortune which he used to brag would make a nabob happy; in short, he had brought over with him the enormous sum of thirty thousand pounds, and upon this he built his hopes of never-ending happiness. While he was planning schemes of greatness and delight, whether the change of cli|mate might affect him, or what other cause I know not, but he was snatched from his dreams of joy, by a short illness, of which he died, leaving me heir of all his property. And now, behold me at the age of twenty-five, well stocked with Latin, Greek, and Mathematics, possessed of an ample fortune, but so awkward and unversed in every gentleman-like ac|complishment, that I am pointed at by all who see me, as the wealthy learned clown.

I have lately purchased an estate in the country, which abounds in (what is called) a fashionable neighbourhood; and when you reflect on my pa|rentage and uncouth manners, you will hardly think how much my company is courted by the surround|ing families, (especially by those who have marriage|able daughters;) from these gentlem••n I have re|ceived familiar calls, and the most pressing invita|tions,

and though I wished to accept of their offered friendship, I have repeatedly excused myself under the pretence of not being quite settled; for the truth is, that when I rode or walked with full intent to return their several visits, my heart has failed me as I approached their gates, and I have frequently returned homeward, resolving to try again to-morrow.

However, I at length determined to conquer my timidity, and three days ago accepted an invitation to dine this day with one whose open, easy manner left me no room to doubt of a cordial welcome. Sir Thomas Friendly who lives about two miles dis|tant, is a baronet, with about two thousand pounds a year estate, joining that I purchased; he has two sons and five daughters all grown up, and living with their mother and a maiden sister of Sir Thomas's, at Friendly-hall, dependent on their father. Con|scious of my unpolished gait, I have for some time past taken private lessons of a professor, who teaches grown gentlemen to dance; and though I at first found wonderous difficulty in the art he taught, my knowl|edge of the mathematics was of prodigious use, in teaching me the equilibrium of my body, and the due adjustment of the centre of gravity to the five positions. Having now acquired the art of walking without tottering, and learned to make a bow, I boldly ventured to obey the baronet's invitation to a family dinner, not doubting but my new acquire|ments would enable me to see the ladies with tolera|ble intrepidity: but alas! how vain are all the hopes of theory, when unsupported by habitual practice: As I approached the house, a dinner-bell alarmed my fears, lest I had spoiled the dinner by want of punctuality. Impressed with this idea, I blushed the deepest crimson, as my name was repeat••dly announced by the several livery servants who ushered me into the library, hardly knowing what or whom I saw; at my first entrance, I summoned all my for|titude, and made my new-learned bow to Lady

Friendly: but unfortunately in bringing back my left foot to the third position, I trod upon the gouty toe of Sir Thomas, who had followed close at my heels, to be the nomenclator of the family. The confusion this occasioned in me is hardly to be con|ceived, since none but bashful men can judge of my distress, and of that description, the number I be|lieve is very small. The baronet's politeness by de|grees dissipated my concern; and I was astonished to see how far good breeding could enable him to suppress his feelings, and to appear with perfect case after so painful an accident.

The cheerfulness of her ladyship, and the familiar chat of the young ladies, insensibly led me to throw off my reserve and sheepish••ess, till at length I ven|tured to join in conversation, and even to start fresh subjects. The library being richly furnished with books in elegant bindings, I conceived Sir Thomas to be a man of literature, and ventured to give my opinion concerning the several editions of the Greek classics, in which the baronet's opinion coincided with my own. To this subject I was led by observ|ing an edition of Xenophon in sixteen volumes, which (as I had never before heard of such a thing) greatly excited my curiosity, and I rose up to exam|ine what it could be: Sir Thomas saw what I was about, and, (as I suppose) willing to save me the trouble, rose to take down the book, which made me more eager to prevent him, and hastily laying my hand on the first volume, I pulled it forcibly; but lo! instead of books, a board which by leather and gilding had been made to look like sixteen vol|umes, came tumbling down, and unluckily pitched upon a wedgwood inkstand on the table under it. In vain did Sir Thomas assure me there was no harm; I saw the ink streaming from an inlaid table on the Turkey carpet, and scarce knowing what I did, at|tempted to stop its progress with my cambrick hand|kerchief. In the height of this confusion, we were

informed that dinner was served up, and I with joy perceived that the bell, which at the first so alarmed my fears, was only the half hour dinner bell.

In walking through the hall, and suit of apart|ments to the dining room, I had time to collect my scattered senses, and was desired to take my seat be|twixt Lady Friendly and her eldest daughter at the table. Since the fall of Xenophon, my face had been continually burning like a firebrand, and I was just beginning to recover myself, and feel com|fortably cool, when an unlooked for accident, rekin|dled all my heat and blushes. Having set my plate of soup too near the edge of the table, in bowing to Miss Dinah, who politely complimented the pattern of my waistcoat, I tumbled the whole scalding con|tents into my lap In spite of an immediate supply of napkins to wipe the surface of my clothes, my black breeches were not stout enough to save me from the painful effects of this sudden fomentation, and for some minutes my legs and thighs seemed stewing in a boiling cauldron; but recollecting how Sir Thomas had disguised his torture, when I trod upon his toe, I firmly bore my pain in silence, and sat with my lower extremities parboiled, amid the stifling giggling of the ladies and the servants.

I will not relate the several blunders which I made during the first course, or the distress occasioned by my being desired to carve a fowl, or help to various dishes that stood near me, spilling a sauce-boat, and knocking down a salt-seller; rather let me hasten to the second course, "where fresh disasters over|whelmed me quite."

I had a piece of rich sweet pudding on my fork, when Miss Louisa Friendly begged to trouble me for a pigeon that stood near me; in my haste, scarce knowing what I did, I whipped the pudding into my mouth, hot as a burning coal; it was impossi|ble to conceal my agony, my eyes were starting from their sockets. At last, in spite of shame and resolu|tion,

I was obliged to drop the cause of torment on my plate. Sir Thomas and the ladies all compas|sionated my misfortune, and each advised a different application; one recommended oil, another water, but all agreed that wine was best for drawing out the fire; and a glass of Sherry was brought me from the side board, which I snatched up with eager|ness; but O! how shall I tell the sequel? Whether the butler by accident mistook, or purposely design|ed to drive me mad, he gave me the strongest brandy, with which I filled my mouth almost stayed and blis|tered; totally unused to every kind of ardent spirits, with my tongue, throat, and palate as raw as beef, what could I do? I could not swallow, and clap|ping my hands upon my mouth, the cursed liquor squirted through my nose and fingers like a foun|tain, over all the dishes; and I was crushed by bursts of laughter from all quarters. In vain did Sir Thomas reprimand the servants, and Lady Friendly chide her daughters; for the measure of my shame and their diversion was not yet complete. To re|lieve me from the intolerable state of perspiration which this accident had caused, without considering what I did, I wiped my face with that ill-fated hand|kerchief which was still wet from the consequence of the fall of Xenophon, and covered all my features with streaks of ink in every direction. The baronet himself could not support this shock, but joined his lady in the general laugh, while I sprung from the table in despair, rushed out of the house and ran home in an agony of confusion and disgrace, which the most poignant sense of guilt could not have excited.

Thus without having deviated from the path of moral rectitude, I am suffering torments like a "gob|lin damned." The half of me has been almost boiled, my tongue and mouth grill'd, and I bear the mark of Cain upon my forehead; yet these are but trifling considerations, to the everlasting shame

which I must feel, whenever this adventure shall be mentioned; perhaps by your assistance, when my neighbours know how much I feel on the occasion, they will spare a bashful man, and (as I am just informed my poultice is ready) I trust you will ex|cuse the haste in which I subscribe myself, yours, &c.

Amanda—Or, Virtue Rewarded.

For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds; And though a late—a sure reward succeeds.

AN eminent citizen, who had lived in good fashion and credit, was, by a train of accidents, and by an unavoidable perplexity in his affairs, re|duced to a low condition. There is a modesty usu|ally attending faultless poverty, which made him rather chuse to reduce his manner of living to his present circumstances, than solicit his friends, in order to support the shew of an estate when the sub|stance was gone. His wife, who was a woman of sense and virtue, behaved herself on this occasion with uncommon decency, and never appeared so amiable in his eyes as now. Instead of upbraiding him with the ample fortune she had brought, or the many great offers she had refused for his sake, she redoubled all the instances of her affection, while her husband was continually pouring out his heart to her in complaints that he had ruined the best woman in the world. He sometimes came home at a time she did not expect him, and surprised her in tears, which she endeavoured to conceal, and always put on an air of cheerfulness to receive him. To lessen their expences, their eldest daughter, (whom I shall call Amanda) was sent into the country, to the house of an honest farmer, who had married a servant of the family. This young woman was ap|prehensive

of the ruin which was approaching, and had privately engaged a friend in the neighbour|hood, to give her an account of what passed from time to time of her father's affairs. Amanda was in the bloom of youth and beauty, when the lord of the manor, who often called in at the farmer's house as he followed his country sports, fell passionately in love with her. He was a man of great generosity; but from a loose education, had contracted an hearty aversion to marriage. He therefore entertained a design upon Amanda's virtue, which at present he thought fit to keep private. The innocent creature, who never suspected his intentions, was pleased with his person; and having observed his growing passion for her, hoped, by so advantageous a match, she might quickly be in a capacity of supporting her impoverished relations. One day as he called to see her, he found her in tears over a letter she had just received from her friend, which gave an account that her father had lately been stripped of every thing by an execution. The lover, who with some difficulty found out the cause of her grief, took this occasion to make her a proposal. It is impossible to express Amanda's confusion, when she found his pretensions were not honorable. She was now de|serted of all her hopes, and had no power to speak: but rushing from him in the utmost disturbance, locked herself up in a chamber. He immediately dispatched a messenger to her father with the fol|lowing letter:

"SIR,

I have heard of your misfortunes, and have offer|ed your daughter, if she will live with me, to settle on her four hundred pounds a year, and to lay down the sum for which you are now distressed. I will be so ingenuous as to tell you, that I do not intend marriage: but if you are wise, you will use your authority with her not to be too nice, when she has

an opportunity of saving you and your family, and of making herself happy.

I am, &c."

This letter came into the hands of Amanda's mother; she opened and read it with great surprise and concern. She did not think proper to explain herself to the messenger; but desiring him to call again the next morning, she wrote to her daughter as follows:

"Dearest Child,

Your father and I have just now received a letter from a gentleman who pretends love to you, with a proposal that insults our misfortunes, and would throw us to a lower degree of misery than any thing which is come upon us. How could this barbarous man think, that the tenderest of parents would be tempted to supply their wants, by giving up the best of children to infamy and ruin? It is a mean▪ and cruel artifice, to make this proposal at a time when he thinks our necessities must compel us to any thing; but we will not eat the bread of shame; and therefore we charge thee not to think of us, but to avoid the snare which is laid for thy virtue. Beware of pitying us; it is not so bad as you have perhaps been told. All things will yet be well, and I shall write my child better news.

"I have been interrupted: I know not how I was moved to say things would mend. As I was going on, I was startled by a noise of one who knocked at the door, and has brought us an unexpected supply of a debt which had long been owing. Oh! I will now tell thee all. It is some days I have lived almost without support, having conveyed what little money I could raise to your poor father. Thou wilt weep to think where he is; yet be assured he will be soon at liberty. That cruel letter would have broken his heart; but I have concealed it from him. I have

no companion at present beside little Fanny, who stands watching my looks as I write, and is crying for her sister: she says she is sure you are not well, having discovered that my present trouble is about you. But do not think that I would thus repeat my sorrows to grieve thee: No, it is to intreat thee not to make them insupportable, by adding what would be worse than all. Let us bear cheerfully an afflic|tion, which we have not brought upon ourselves; and remember there is a Power who can better de|liver us out of it, than by the loss of thy innocence.

Heaven preserve my child! Thy affectionate mother—."

The messenger, notwithstanding he promised to deliver this letter to Amanda, carried it first to his master, who, he imagined, would be glad to have an opportunity of giving it into her hands himself. His master was impatient to know the success of his proposal; and therefore broke open the letter pri|vately to see the contents. He was not a little mov|ed at so true a picture of virtue in distress; but, at the same time, was infinitely surprised to find his offers rejected. However, he resolved not to sup|press the letter, but carefully sealed it up again, and carried it to Amanda. All his endeavours to see her were in vain, till she was assured he brought a letter from her mother. He would not part with it, but upon condition that she would read it without leav|ing the room. While she was perusing it, he fixed his eyes on her face with the deepest attention: her concern gave a new softness to her beauty; and when she burst into tears, he could no longer refrain from bearing a part in her sorrow, and telling her, that he too had read the letter, and was resolved to make reparation for having been the occasion of it. My readers will not be displeased to see the second epistle, which he now wrote to Amanda's mother.

"MADAM,

I am full of shame, and will never forgive myself if I have not your pardon for what I lately wrote. It was far from my intention to add trouble to the afflicted; nor could any thing but my being a stran|ger to you, have betrayed me into a fault, for which, if I live, I shall endeavour to make you amends as a son. You cannot be unhappy while Amanda is your daughter; nor shall be, if any thing can prevent it which is in the power of,

MADAM,

Your most obedient, humble servant,—"

This letter he sent by his steward, and soon after went up to town himself, to complete the generous act he had now resolved on. By his friendship and assistance Amanda's father was quickly in a condition for retrieving his perplexed affairs. To conclude, he married Amanda, and enjoyed the double satisfac|tion of having restored a worthy family to their for|mer prosperity, and of making himself happy by an alliance to their virtues.

Calista and Agathocles.

CALISTA was young and beautiful, blest with an uncommon share of solid sense, enlivened by the most sprightly wit. Agathocles exceeded her a very little in point of age; he was well made, brave, and prudent. He had the good fortune to be intro|duced at Calista's, where his looks, wandering indif|ferently over a brilliant circle, soon distinguished and fixed upon her: but endeavouring to recover himself from the short ecstasy which his first glance produced, he immediately reproached himself as being guilty of rudeness and disregard to the rest of the company; and this fault he endeavoured to re|pair, by looking round upon other objects. Vain

attempt! they are attracted by an irresistible charm, and again turned towards Calista. He blushed as well as she, while a sweet emotion hitherto unfelt, played upon his heart, and disconcerted all his looks. They both became at the same time more timid and more curious. With pleasure he gazed at Calista, and yet could not do it without trembling: while she, secretly pleased with this flattering pref|erence, looked at him by stealth. They were both afraid, but especially Calista, of being caught by the other in the fact, and both were so almost every moment. The hour of separation came, and they thought came too soon. They made painful reflec|tions on the rapidity of time. Imagination, how|ever, did not suffer a total separation to take place: for the image of Calista was deeply engraven on the mind of Agathocles, and the lineaments of his per|son were as strongly impressed on that of Calista. They both appeared less cheerful the rest of the day; a lively and interesting sentiment, whatever it was employed their minds, which no amusement could banish. It was two days before they saw each other again; and though during this interval their whole time had been filled up, either by business or recrea|tions, they both felt a languid anxiety which ren|dered every thing insipid, a void in their minds which we want words to define, and of which they knew not the cause; but discovered it the very instant at their meeting; for the perfect contentment, the soothing delight, which they tasted in the presence of each other, would not suffer them to be longer ignorant of the cause of their melancholy. Agath|ocles now collected himself, and assumed the courage to address Calista; he accosted her with the most polite and obliging expressions, and for the first time enjoyed the happiness of a particular conversa|tion with her. He had hitherto seen only her exte|rior charms: he now discovered the beauties of her mind, the integrity of her heart, the dignity of her

sentiments, and the delicacy of her wit; but what still more delighted him, was the pleasing hope that she did not think him unworthy of her esteem. From this time his visits became very frequent; in every one of which he discovered some new perfec|tion. This is the characteristic of real merit; it is a gainer by being laid open to the inspection of a judicious eye. A man of understanding will soon be disgusted with the wanton, the foolish, and the giddy: but if he has conceived a passion for a wo|man worthy of himself, time, so far from weakening his attachment, can only serve to increase and strengthen it.

The fixed inclination of Agathocles made him now sensible, that what he felt for Calista was love; and that of the most tender and passionate kind. This he knew; but Calista was still unacquainted with it, or at least had never learnt it from his lips. Love is timorous and diffident: a bold and daring suitor is not the lover of the lady he addresses: the only object of his love is pleasure.

Agathocles at length took the resolution to lay ••pen his heart to Calista, but not in the studied language of a romantic passion. "Lovely Calista, (said he, ingenuously) it is not merely esteem which engages me to you; but the most ardent and tender affection. I feel that I cannot live without you. Can you without reluctance resolve to make me hap|py? I have hitherto loved without offending you, this is a tribute which your merit demands; but may I flatter myself with the hope, that you will make me some small return?" A coquette would have affected to be displeased; but Calista not only heard her lover without interruption, but answered him without severily, and permitted him to hope. Nor did she put his constancy to a needless trial. The happiness for which he sighed was deferred no longer than was proper to make the necessary prep|arations. The marriage-settlements were easily ad|justed;

for in these sordid interest had no share; this solemn contract chiefly consisted in a mutual ex|change of hearts, and this was already performed. What will be the lot of this newly wedded pair? I will venture to foretel that it will be the happiest mortals can enjoy on earth. No pleasure is com|parable to that which affects the heart; nor does any other affect it with such exquisite delight as the pleasure of loving and being beloved. To this tender union of souls we can never apply the words of Democritus, that "the pleasure of love is only a short epilepsy." He without doubt had that sen|sual pleasure in his thought, which is so different from love, that the enjoyment may be without the passion, and the passion without the enjoyment. Their love will be constant; this I dare prophesy, and I know the cause: their passion is not founded on the dazzling charms of beauty, they are both the friends of virtue: they love each other on this account; their love, therefore, will last as long as their virtue, and the continuance of that is secured by their union: for nothing can secure our perse|verance in the paths of wisdom so effectually as hav|ing incessantly a loving and beloved example walk|ing before us. Their felicity can never be disturbed unless by those disasters and misfortunes from which their mutual tenderness cannot shelter them: but supposing these should fall to their share, they would then only partake of the common lot of mankind. Those who have never tasted the tender delights of love are equally exposed to disappointment; and the lover is at least a gainer, with respect to those plea|sures which are of great account in the estimation of the value of life. Add to this, that love will greatly diminish the sense of their misfortunes. It has the peculiar virtue of rendering the sufferings of two well-paired hearts less acute, and their de|lights more exquisite. It would seem as if by com|municating their distresses, each one felt but half

their weight: while on the contrary, their satisfac|tions are doubled by the participation. As a squad|ron of soldiers is with more difficulty defeated in proportion to its closeness, so the happy pair resist the attacks of trouble and adversity with so much the more strength and success as they are firmly united.

Sapphira—An affecting History.

WHEN Charles, Duke of Burgundy, sirnamed the Bold, reigned over spacious dominions, now swallowed up by the power of France, he heaped many favours and honours upon Claudius Rhyn|sault, a German, who had served him in his wars against the insults of his neighbours. The prince himself was a person of singular humanity and jus|tice; and being prepossessed in favour of Rynsault, upon the decease of the governor of the chief town of Zealand, gave him that command. He was not ••••ng s••ated on that government before he cast his eyes upon Sapphira, a woman of exquisite beauty, the wife of Paul Danvelt, a wealthy merchant of the city, under his protection and government. Rynsault was a man of a warm constitution, and vio|lent inclination to women. He knew what it was to enjoy the satisfaction which is reaped from beauty; but was an utter stranger to the d••cencies, honours, and delicacies which attend the passion toward them in elegant minds. He could with his tongue utter a passion with which his heart was wholly untouched. In short, he was one of those brutal minds which can be gratified with the violation of innocence and beauty, without the least pity, passion or love to that with which they are so much delighted.

Rynsault, being resolved to accomplish his will on the wife of Danvelt, left no arts untried to get into a familiarity at her house; but she knew his charac|ter

and disposition too well not to shun all occasions that might ensnare her into his conversation. The governor despairing of success by ordinary means, apprehended and imprisoned her husband, under a pretence of an information that he was guilty of a correspondence with the enemies of the duke, to betray the town into their possession. This design had its desired effect; and the wife of the unfortu|nate Danvelt, the day before that which was ap|pointed for his execution, presented herself in the hall of the governor's house, and, as he passed thro' the apartment, threw herself at his feet, and hold|ing his knees beseeched his mercy. Rynsault be|held her with a dissembled satisfaction; and assum|ing an air of thought and authority, he bid her rise, and told her she must follow him to his closet; and asking her if she knew the hand of the letter he pulled out of his pocket, went from her, leaving this admo|nition aloud: "If you will save your husband, you must give me an account of all you know, without prev••rication; for every body is satisfied, that he is too fond of you to be able to hide from you the names of the rest of the conspirators, or any other particulars whatever." He went to his closet, and soon after the lady was sent for to an audience. The servant knew his distance when matters of state were to be debated; and the governor, laying aside the air with which he had appeared in public, began to be the suppliant, and to rally an affliction which it was in her power easily to remove. She easily per|ceived his intention; and, bathed in tears, began to deprecate so wicked a design. Lust, like ambition, takes all the faculties of the mind and body into its service and subjection. Her becoming tears, her honest anguish, the wringing of her hands, and the many changes of her posture and figure in the vehe|mence of speaking, were but so many attitudes in which he beheld her beauty, and farther incentives of his desire. All humanity was lost in that one

appetite, and he signified to her in in so many plain terms, that he was unhappy till he possessed her, and nothing less should be the price of her husband's life; and he must, before the following noon, pro|nounce the death or enlargement of Danvelt. After this notification, when he saw Sapphira enough dis|tracted to make the subject of their discourse, to common eyes appear different from what it was, he called servants to conduct her to the gate. Load|ed with insupportable affliction, she immediately re|pairs to her husband, and having signified to the goalers that she had a proposal to make to her hus|band from the governor, she was left alone with him, revealed to him all that had passed, and repre|sented the endless conflict she was in between love to his person and fidelity to his bed. It is not easy to imagine the sharp affliction this honest pair were in, upon such an incident, in lives not used to any but ordinary occurrences. The man was bridled by shame from speaking what his fear prompted upon so near an approach of death; but let fall words that signified to her, he should not think her polluted, though she had not confessed to him that the governor had violated her person, since he knew her will had no part in the action. She parted from him with this oblique permission, to save a life he had not resolution enough to resign for the safety of his honour.

The next morning the unhappy Sapphira attend|ed the governor, and being led into a remote apart|ment, submitted to his desires. Rhynsault com|mended her charms; claimed a familiarity after what had passed between them; and with an air of gaiety, in the language of a gallant, bid her return and take her husband out of prison: but, continued he, my fair one must not be offended that I have taken care he should not be an interruption to our future assignations. These last words foreboded what she found when she came to the goal, her hus|band executed by the order of Rhynsault!!

It was remarkable, that the woman, who was full of tears and lamentations during the whole course of her affliction, uttered neither sigh nor complaint, but stood fixed with grief at this consummation of her misfortunes. She betook herself to her abode; and, after having in solitude paid her devotions to Him who is the avenger of innocence, she repaired privately to court. Her person, and a certain gran|deur of sorrow, negligent of forms, gained her pas|sage into the presence of the duke her sovereign. As soon as she came into his presence, she broke forth into the following words: "Behold, O mighty Charles, a wretch weary of life, though it has always been spent in innocence and virtue. It is not in your power to redress my injuries, but it is to avenge them; and if the protection of the distressed—the punishment of oppressors, is a task worthy of a prince, I bring the duke of Burgundy ample matter for do|ing honor to his own great name, and of wiping infamy from mine." When she had spoke this, she delivered the duke a paper reciting her story. He read it with all the emotion that indignation and pity could raise in a prince jealous of his honour in the behaviour of his officers, and the prosperity of his subjects.

Upon an appointed day Rhynsault was sent for at court, and in the presence of a few of the council confronted by Sapphir••▪ The prince asking, "Do you know that lady?" Rhynsault, as soon as he could recover his surprize, told the duke he would marry her, if his highness would please to think that a reparation. The duke seemed contented with this answer, and stood by during the immediate sol|emnization of the ceremony. At the conclusion of it he told Rhynsault, "Thus far you have done as constrained by my authority: I shall not be satisfied of your kind us••ge of her, without you sign a gift of your whole estate to her after your decease." To the performance of this also the duke was a witness.

When these two acts were executed, the duke turned to the lady, and told her, "It now remains for me to put you in quiet possession of what your husband has so bountifully bestowed on you;" and ordered the immediate execution of Rhynsault.

An Account of a Wedding.

Marriage is a sacred tie— It ought not to be sported with.

"REVEREND AND HONORABLE MATRIMONY!"

I Contemplate, with the mixed emotions of plea|sure and awe, the period of a wedding. The moment approaches, in which two rational beings are to have their union cemented by ties, indissoluble except by the stroke of death.

A pure friendship, a sincere affection are necessary preparatives for the endearing relation. The re|ciprocal gift of the hand is indicative of a mutual exchange of kindred souls, impelled to each other by virtuous love. If the love be not virtuous; if mere personal beauty, worldly emolument, or the grosser passions, excite to enter upon the connubial state, its bliss will be transient, and vanity will be inscribed on the future prospects of life.

I have long cherished an exalted idea of the purity of the female mind, where it has been polished and refined by a suitable education. I believe, that the disposition of the softer sex towards their lovers is generally pure and chaste. I am persuaded, that a virtuous woman offers a degree of violence to the delicacy of her own feelings, by consenting to be the property, even of the most meritorious husband. It must, then, be ungenerous to wound her modesty by any indecencies of speech upon the occasion of

her marriage. An innocent hiliarity may justly pre|vail among the company assembled at its celebration. Every friendly bosom must beat with joy, at the idea of the enlargement of human happiness. But double intendres and every species of loose language should be invariably excluded, as offering an affront and a stain to one of the most sacred institutions of society.

The subsequent history of the nuptials of a young gentleman of sentiment and an amiable lady, as contained in that ingenious periodical work, THE BABLER, offers itself as a very instructive commen|tary on our subject; and I hope, that it will have a salutary effect on the mind of every reader.

"MY favorite nephew Harry had for some time conceived a passion for Miss Cornelia Marchmont, whom I esteem as the abstract of every mental per|fection, and every personal accomplishment. He came to me, not long since, with an air of the greatest transport, and informed me, that Miss Marchmont had blessed him with the acknowledgment of a re|ciprocal esteem, and that I was the person, whom she had pitched upon, to open a negociation between the two families.

"As I do not know any young lady existing who possesses a greater share of my esteem than Miss Marchmont, nor ever saw a person so immediately calculated to make my nephew happy, I shook him cordially by the hand, wished him joy from the bot|tom of my heart, and instantly set out to my sister, his mother. Luckily, on my entrance, I found Mr. Marchmont, Cornelia's father, chatting with her at the parlour fire; and, as he and I have been inti|mately acquainted for many years, I opened the busi|ness of my errand without any ceremony, and this the more especially, because I knew neither could have any reasonable objection to the match. Every thing turned out as I expected; both were rejoiced at the affection between the young couple; and there being no mighty matters to retard the celebration of

the nuptials, I thought it best to make short work of the affair, and accordingly fixed the wedding at an early day. The proposition being approved by the parent of each, I retired to make Harry happy with the intelligence; and in pursuance of the agreement, I saw him blessed with one of the worthi|est as well as sweetest girls in the universe.

As I looked upon a wedding to be one of the most important calls which either of the sexes have in their whole lives for the exertion of an extraordinary delicacy, I was not a little attentive to the behaviour of my two favorites; and it gave me great pleasure to observe, upon the whole, that Harry's behaviour was manly, tender, and respectful, without deviating into that fulsome disagreeable fondness, of which even men of the best sense are often guilty, when they have just obtained the woman of their heart. As to Cornelia, I never saw a young creature in her situation conduct herself with more propriety: to all the dignity of conscious virtue, she joined all the ineffable sweetness of an engaging timidity; and, though she seemed proud of the man, whom she had just preferred to all the world, yet she had too much sensibility not to feel some amiable terrors, at so awful an alteration in her circumstances.

"After the performance of the ceremony, at which a large company were present, Harry judiciously pro|posed an unremitting round of amusements, which entirely employed the attention of the most volatile, and prevented the circulation of those indelicate ambiguities, with which occasions of this kind are frequently disgraced. So that our mirth was, as it ought to be, mingled with good sense and manners; and of course the harmony could be little liable to interruption, while that harmony was regulated by reason and civility.

"I have been often shocked, at the solemnization of a marriage, to see the ridiculous, I had almost said the profligate, levity, with which people have

approached the altar of the Divine Being, and jested with one another at the instant of supplicating a blessing from his hand.

"One would imagine, that if the friends of the married couple had even no veneration for the Deity, they would at least have some little share of polite|ness; and be actuated by a tender concern for the feelings of the lady, if they felt no awe whatsoever in the presence of their GOD. A woman of any sensi|bility, on her wedding, must naturally be in circum|stances sufficiently embarrassed, without hearing any illiberal pleasantries from the company to en|hance the difficulties of her situation. When she considers, that the happiness or misery of her life materially depends upon the choice which she has then made, she has cause enough for terror; and when she considers the privilege which is shortly to be claimed by the object of that choice; when she considers, that the delicate reserve, in which she has all her life been brought up, is in an instant to be sacrificed to his inclination; I say, when all these things are considered, nothing can be more insolent, or indeed more cruel, than to aggravate her distress by the practice of any improper ••ocularities.

"People, I am sensible, are strangely attached to old customs; but every custom should be abolished, which is in the least repugnant to reason and civil|ity; on which account I flatter myself the reader will give a proper attention to this subject, and cor|rect the error of which I have here bee•• speaking, as far as he is able, in the circuit of his acquaintance."

The Italian Pair: Or, Force of Affection.

A Gentleman who is very happy in a beautiful friend, and is a kind of enthusiast for the mar|ried state, told me the following story of an Italian

pair, who were famous for their unalterable constan|cy and affection. There lived at Genoa a young nobleman named MARINI, who had a large estate in the island of Corsica, whither he went every five for six years to regulate his affairs. At the age of five and twenty he was married to a beautiful lady, the daughter of a Venetian senator, named MONI|MIA, who had refused the greatest matches in Italy, to prefer the fortunate MARINI. As their marriage was founded upon a mutual esteem, their passion increased instead of diminishing by enjoyment, till they became an example of conjugal duty to all who knew them. They had lived many years in this uninterrupted state of felicity, when MARINI was obliged to make a voyage to Corsica, which was then disturbed by a rebellious insurrection, in order to secure his patrimony, by encouraging his depend|ants to stand firm in the defence of their country. But the greatest affliction, and which absorbed all the rest, was his being necessitated to part for a while from MONIMIA, who, being then far advanced in a state of pregnancy, was unable to go with him as usual. When the fatal time of separation was come, they embraced with the utmost grief, and the warmest prayers to Heaven for one another's safety. As soon as this afflicting scene was over, MARINI embarked, and having a fair wind, arrived safe at Bastia in a few hours. The success of the rebels being stopped, and the affairs of the island a little settled again, our lover began to prepare for his return to Genoa; but as he was walking one day by the harbour where the ships of burthen lay, he heard two sailors, who were just arrived, talking of the death of a Genoese nobleman's wife then absent from the republic. This casual circumstance greatly alarmed him, and excited his curiosity to listen far|ther to their conversation, when, after a little pause, he heard one of them mention the name of his dear MONIMIA. At these words, his surprize and afflic|tion

were so great, that he had not power to follow the mariners to satisfy his doubt, but instantly swooned away, and when he recovered, found him|self surrounded by his own servants lamenting over him. At the same time that this happened to MA|RINI, something of the same nature equally distress|ed MONIMIA; for an imperfect account came to Genoa by the captain of a Venetian vessel, that a gentleman named MARINI had been surprised near Bastia by a remaining party of rebels, and that he and all his attendants were killed by them. These two accounts involved our unfortunate pair in the greatest distress; they immediately took shipping in order to be convinced of what they so much dreaded to know; the one for Corsica, the other for Genoa. They were both sailed, when a violent storm arose, which drove their vessels upon a little island in the Mediterranean. MARINI's ship landed first, where, while the rest of the crew were refreshing themselves, the inconsolable widower, as he thought himself, wandered with one servant only, into a little wood, that was near the sea shore, to give vent to his im|moderate grief. Soon after, the Genoese ship land|ed too, and the same motive led MONIMIA with one of her maids to the wood where her husband was, lamenting his unfortunate condition. They had not been long there, before they heard each other's complaint, and drew nearer mutually to see if there were any wretch living equally miserable with them|selves. But how great was the astonishment of both, when they met in a little path and saw each other! the immoderate joy was such, and the tran|sition from one extreme to the other so instantaneous, that all the power they had was to fall into each other's arms, where they expired in a few minutes after. Their bodies were conveyed to Italy, and were interred with all the solemnity and magnifi|cence due to their quality and eminent virtues.

The Unhappy Separation.

IN this capital (Rome) we have just now witnessed an event, which has drawn tears from every body here. It is five years since a young gentleman of the family of Amedei, married an amiable and virtuous young woman he loved, but whose birth was not equal to his. At the end of one year, they had a daughter as the fruit of their love; but this tender union was in a short time cruelly disturbed by the parents and relations of the gentleman, who exclaimed against his marriage as clandestine, and obtained against the unhappy young man an order of the Pope, by virtue of which they ••ore him from the arms of his spouse, and conducted him a priso|ner to the castle of St. Angelo. A process was im|mediately instituted for annulling the marriage. The gentleman tried every means possible, to prove that his marriage was valid, and to have it ratified; his wife went also with her daughter in her arms, and threw herself at the feet of her judges; but in vain. A sentence was at last pronounced, annulling the marriage, obliging the mother, that inconsolable wife, to write to her husband with her own hand, the fatal news of their eternal separation. Oppressed with the most cruel despair, she thus wrote to him: "I find myself under the cruel necessity of renoun|cing those sweet and sacred bands which till now have h••ld our hearts firmly united; but I resign myself with less repugnance, from the consideration that it will be the means of terminating that long and severe captivity, which you have suffered for my sake. Live free, dear Husband (this, alas! is the last time that my lips will pronounce so sweet a name) O live! take comfort; and, if it be possible, live happy, far from me. Since you love the mother, remember the daughter which she has given you, and take care of her when you know that I no long|er exist; for the grief, which this separation causes

to me, is so bitter, so penetrating, and absorbs in such a manner the faculties of my soul, that I want strength to resist it. Very soon shall I cease to live; may my death satiate the inhumanity of our cruel persecutors! GOD bless you. Farewell! Farewell! forever!"

Four days afterwards, that unhappy and tender wife died in horrible convulsions; and her death set the gentleman at liberty, whose despair has not yet been calmed.

MATCH-MAKING. Dr••ll Accident occasioned by the Mistake of a Match-Maker.

Officious couplers Wantonly engage Virtue with Vice, brisk Youth with frozen Age: Behold them groan beneath the iron yoke, Hail the dear mischief, and enjoy the joke.

THOUGH I shall not as yet vouchsafe to let the reader so far into my secrets, as to inform him, whether I am married or single, it may not be amiss to acquaint him, that, supposing I still remain a bachelor, it has not been the fault of my friends or relations. On the contrary, as soon as I was what they call settled in the world, they were so affiduous in looking out a wife for me, that nothing was re|quired on my part but immediately to fall in love with the lady they had pitched upon: and could I have complied with their several choices, I should have been married at the same time to a tall, and a short, a plump, and a slender, a young and an old woman; one with a great deal of money, and ano|ther with none at all: each of whom were severally recommended by them as the properest person in the world for me.

I know not how it happens, but it is notorious, that most people take a pleasure in making matches; either thinking matrimony to be a state of bliss, into which they would charitably call all their friends and acquaintance; or perhaps struggling in the toils, they are desirous of drawing others into the net which ensnared them. Many matches have been brought about between two persons, absolute strangers to each other, through this kind media|tion of friends, who are always ready to take upon them the office of an honorable go-between.

As we cannot insure happiness to our friends, at the same time that we help them to husbands and wives, one would imagine, that few would care to run the hazard of bestowing misery, where they meant a kindness. I know a good-natured lady, who has officiously brought upon herself the ill-will and the curses of many of her dearest and most inti|mate friends on that very account. She has a sister, for whom she has provided a most excellent husband, who has shewn his affection for her by spending her whole fortune upon his mistresses: another near relation, having by her means snatched up a rich widow, the bridegroom was arrested for her debts within a week after marriage: and it cost her an whole twelvemonth to bring two doting lovers of her acquaintance together, who parted beds before the honey moon was expired.

But if our friends will thus condescend to be match|makers from a spirit of benevolence, and for our own advantage only; there are others who have taken up the profession from less disinterested mo|tives; who bring beauty and fortune to market, and traffic in all the accomplishments that can make the married state happy. I have known many droll accidents happen from the mistakes of these merce|nary persons; and remember one in particular, which I shall here set down for the entertainment of my readers.

A careful old gentleman came to town in order to marry his son, and was recommended by one of thes•• couplers to a twenty thousand pounder. He accord|ingly put on his best wig, best beaver, and gold-buttoned coat, and went to pay his respects to the lady's mother. He told her, that he had not the pleasure of being known to her; but as his son's quiet depended on it, he had taken the liberty of waiting on her: In short, he immediately broke the matter to her, and informed her that his boy had seen her daughter at church, and was violently in love with her; concluding that he would do very handsomely for the lad, and would make it worth her while to have him. The old lady thanked him for the honor he in|tended her family; but she supposed, to be sure, as he appeared to be a prudent and sensible gentleman, he would expect a fortune answerable. 'Say noth|ing of that, say nothing of that,' interrupted the Don: 'I have heard—but if it was less, it should not break any squares between us.'—'Pray, Sir, how much does the world say?' replied the lady. 'Why, madam, I suppose she has not less than twenty thou|sand pounds.'—'Not so much, Sir,' said the old lady very gravely. —'Well, Madam, I suppose then it may be nineteen, or—or—only eighteen thousand pounds.'—'Not so much, Sir.'—'Well, well, perhaps not: but—if it were only seventeen thousand.'— 'No, Sir,'—'Or sixteen.'—'No.'—'Or (we must make allowances) perhaps but fifteen thousand.'— 'Not so much, Sir.' Here ensued a profound silence for near a minute; when the old gentleman, rubb|ing his forehead—'Well, Madam, we must come to some conclusion. 'Pray, is it less than fourteen thousand?'—'Less, Sir.'—'More than ten thou|sand?'—'Not so much, Sir.'—'Not so much, Mad|am?'—'Not so much.'—'Why, if it is lodged in the funds, consider, Madam, interest is low, very low: but as the boy loves her, trifles shall not part us. Has she got eight thousand pounds?'—'Not so much, Sir.'—'Why, then, Madam, perhaps the

young lady's fortune may not be above six—or five thousand pounds.'—'NOTHING LIKE IT, SIR.' At these words the old gentleman started from his chair, and running out of the room—'Your servant, your servant: my son is a fool; and the fellow who recommended me to you is a blockhead, and knows nothing of business.'

Lucretia—An Interesting Story. Founded on Fact.

LUCRETIA was a woman of great beauty and noble extraction; she married Collatinus, a relation of Tarquinius Superbus, king of Rome. During the siege of Ardea, which lasted much long|er than was expected, the young princes passed their time in entertainments and diversions. One day as they were at supper, at Sextus Tarquin's, the king's eldest son, with Collatinus, Lucretia's husband, the conversation turned on the merit of their wives: every one gave his own the preference. "What signify so many words?" says Collatinus; "you may in a few hours, if you please, be convinced by your own eyes, how much my Lucretia excels the the rest. We are young: let us mount our horses, and go and surprise them. Nothing can better de|cide our dispute than the state we shall find them in at a time, when most certainly they will not expect us." They were a little warmed with wine: "Come on, let us go," they all cried together. They quickly galloped to Rome, which was about twenty miles from Ardea, where they find the princesses, wives of the young Tarquins, surrounded with company, and every circumstance of the highest mirth and pleasure. From thence they rode to Collatia, where they saw Lucretia in a very different situation. With her maids about her, she was at work in the inner

part of her house, talking on the dangers to which her husband was exposed. The victory was adjudg|ed to her unanimously. She received her guests with all possible politeness and civility. Lucretia's virtue, which should have commanded respect, was the very thing which kindled in the breast of Sextus Tarquin a strong and detestable passion. Within a few days he returned to Collatia, and upon the plau|sible excuse he made for his visit, he was received with all the politeness due to a near relation, and the eldest son of a king. Watching the fittest oppor|tunity, he declares the passion she had excited at his last visit, and employed the most tender intreaties, and all the artifices possible to touch a woman's heart; but all to no purpose. He then endeavoured to extort her compliance by the most terrible threat|enings. It was in vain. She still persisted in her resolution; nor could she be moved, even by the fear of death. But, when the monster told her that he would first dispatch her, and then having mur|dered a slave, would lay him by her side, after which he would spread a report, that having caught them in the act of adultery, he had punished them as they deserved; this seemed to shake her resolution. She hesitated, not knowing which of these dreadful alter|natives to take, whether, by consenting, to dishonor the bed of her husband, whom she tenderly loved; or, by refusing, to die under the odious character of having prostituted her person to the lust of a slave. He saw the struggle of her soul; and seizing the un|lucky moment, obtained an inglorious conquest. Thus Lucretia's virtue, which had been proof against the fear of death, could not hold out against the fear of infamy. The young prince, having gratified his passion, returned home as in triumph.

On the morrow, Lucretia, overwhelmed with grief and despair, sent early in the morning to desire her father and her husband to come to her, and bring with them each a trusty friend, assuring them there

was no time to lose. They came with all speed, the one accompanied with Valerius, (so famous after under the name of Publicola) and the other with Brutus. The moment she saw them come, she could not command her tears; and when her husband asked her if all was well: "By no means," said she, "it cannot be well with a woman after she has lost her honor. Yes, Collatinus, thy bed has been de|filed by a stranger: but my body only is polluted; my mind is innocent, as my death shall witness. Promise me only, not to suffer the adulterer to go unpunished: it is Sextus Tarquinius, who last night, treacherous guest, or rather cruel foe, offered me violence, and reaped a joy fatal to me; but, if you are men, it will be still more fatal to him." All promised to revenge her: and, at the same time, tried to comfort her with representing, "That the mind only sins, not the body; and where the consent is wanting, there can be no guilt." "What Sextus deserves," replies Lucretia, "I leave you to judge; but for me, though I declare myself innocent of the crime, I exempt not myself from punishment. No immodest woman shall plead Lucretia's example to outlive her dishonor." Thus saying, she plunged into her breast a dagger she had concealed under her robe, and expired at their feet.

Lucretia's tragical death has been praised and ex|tolled by Pagan writers, as the highest and most noble act of heroism. The gospel thinks not so: it is murder, even according to Lucretia's own princi|ples, since she punished with death an innocent per|son, at least acknowledged as such by herself. She was ignorant that our life is not in our own power, but in his disposal from whom we receive it.

St. Austin, who carefully examines, in his book, what we are to think of Lucretia's death, considers it not as a courageous action, flowing from a true love of chastity, but as an infirmity of a woman too sensible of worldly same and glory; and who, from

a dread of appearing in the eyes of men an accom|plice of the violence she abhorred, and of a crime to which ••he was entirely a stranger, commits a real crime upon herself voluntarily and designedly. But what can not be sufficiently admired in this Roman lady is her abhorrence of adultery, which she seems to hold so detestable as not to bear the thoughts of it. In this sense, she is a noble example for all her sex.

The Trial, Sufferings, and Death of Mrs. Askew.

SIR William Askew, of Kelsay, in Lincolnshire, was blessed with several daughters. His second, named Anne, had received a genteel education; which, with an agreeable person, and good under|standing, rendered her a very proper person to be at the head of a family. Her father, regardless of his daughter's inclination and happiness, obliged her to marry a gentleman who had nothing to recom|mend him but his fortune, and who was a most big|oted papist. No sooner was he convinced of his wife's regard for the doctrines of the reformation from popery, than, by the instigation of the priests, he violently drove her from his house, though she had borne him two children, and her conduct was unexceptionable. Abandoned by her husband, she came up to London, in order to procure a divorce, and to make herself known to that part of the court who either professed, or were favourers of protestant|ism: but, as Henry VIII. with consent of parliament, had just enacted the law of the six articles, commonly called, the bloody statute, she was cruelly betrayed by her own husband; and, upon his information, taken into custody, and examined concerning her faith. The act above mentioned denounced death against all those who should deny the doctrine of Transubstantiation; or, that the bread and wine

made use of in the sacrament was not converted after consecration into the REAL body and blood of Christ; or, maintain the necessity of receiving the sacrament in both kinds; or affirm, that it was lawful for priests to marry; that the vows of celibacy might be brok|en; that private masses were of no avail; and that auricular confession to a priest was not necessary to salvation. Upon these articles, she was examined by the inquisitor, a priest, the lord-mayor of London, and the bishop's chancellor; and to all their queries gave proper and pertinent answers; but not being such as they approved; she was sent back to prison; where she remained eleven days to ruminate alone on her alarming situation, and was denied the small consolation of a friendly visit. The king's council being at Greenwich, she was once more examined by chancellor Wriothesley, Gardiner bishop of Winchester, Dr. Cox, and Dr. Robinson; but not be|ing able to convince her of her supposed errors, she was sent to the tower. It was strongly suspected, that Mrs. Askew was favored by some ladies of high rank; and that she carried on a religious corres|pondence with the queen. So that the chancellor Wriothesley, hoping that he might discover some|thing that would afford matter of impeachment against that princess, the earl of Hertford, or his countess, who all favoured the reformation, ordered her to be put to the rack: but her fortitude in suf|fering, and her resolution not to betray her friends, was proof against that diabolical invention. Not a groan, not a word could be extorted from her. The chancellor, provoked with what he called her obsti|nacy, augmented her tortures with his own hands, and with unheard of violence: but her courage and constancy were invincible; and these barbarians gained nothing by their cruelties, but everlasting disgrace and infamy. As soon as she was taken from the rack she fainted away; but, being recovered, she was condemned to the flames. Her bones were

dislocated in such a manner, that they were forced to carry her in a chair to the place of execution. While she was at the stake, letters were brought her from the lord-chancellor, offering the king's pardon if she would recant. But she refused to look at them; telling the messenger, that "she came not ••hither to deny her Lord and Master." The same letters were also tendered to three other persons, condemned to the same fate; and who, animated by her example, refused to accept them. Whereupon the lord mayor commanded the fire to be kindled; and, with savage ignorance cried out, FIAT JUSTITIA, Let justice take its course. The faggots being light|ed, she commended her soul, with the utmost com|posure, into the hands of her Maker; and, like the great Founder of the religion she professed, expired, praying for her murderers, July 16, 1546, about the 25th year of her age.

I do not know if all circumstances are considered, whether the history of this, or any other nation, can furnish a more illustrious example than this now related. To her father's will she sacrificed her own inclinations. To a husband unworthy of her affec|tions, she behaved with prudence, respect, and obe|dience. The secrets of her friends she preserved inviolable, even amidst the tortures of the rack. Her constancy in suffering, considering her age and sex, was equal, at least, if not superior, to any thing on record: and her piety was genuine and unaffected; of which she gave the most exalted proof in dying a martyr for the cause of her religion, and liberty of conscience. But who can read this example, and not lament and detest that spirit of cruelty and inhu|manity which is imbibed and cherished in the church of Rome! a spirit repugnant to the feelings of na|ture, and directly opposite to the conduct and dispo|sition of the great Author of our religion, who came not to destroy men's lives, but to save them: and, instead of delighting in the death of a sinner, gave

his own life a ransom for theirs. On the contrary, who that is not sunk into brutality can see, without horror, a man, a priest, pretending to be influenced by the love and honor of God, torturing a woman whose youth and beauty might have disarmed the most savage resentment, and after often wearying himself in this diabolical service, committing her to the flames, for not believing the grossest absurdities and impossibilities? Who can see animosities, hatred and variance, encouraged and fomented between man and wife, and the one prompted and persuaded to contrive and effect the death of the other, and not abandon a religion that justifies such a practice?

Noble Example of Virtue in Scipio.

SCIPIO the younger, when only twenty four years of age, was appointed by the Roman republic to the command of the army against the Spaniards. His wisdom and valour would have done honour to the most experienced General. Determined to strike an important blow, he formed a design of besieging Carthagena, then the capital of the Carthagenian empire in Spain. His measures were so judiciously concerted, and with so much courage and intrepidity pursued, both by sea and lend, that notwithstanding a bold and vigorous defence, the capital was taken by storm. The plunder was immense. Ten thou|sand freemen were made prisoners: and above three hundred more of both sexes, were received as hosta|ges. One of the l••tter, a very ancient lady, the wife of Mandonius, brother of Indibilis, king of the Iler|getes, watching her opportunity, came out of the crowd, and, throwing herself at the conqueror's feet, conjured him, with tears in her eyes, to recommend to those who had the ladies in their keeping, to have regard to their sex and birth. Scipio, who did

not understand her meaning at first, assured her that he had given orders that they should not want for any thing. But the lady replied, "Those conveni|ences are not what affect us. In the condition to which fortune hath reduced us, with what ought we not to be contented? I have many other appre|hensions, when I consider, on one side, the licen|tiousness of war; and, on the other, the youth and beauty of the princesses, which you see here before us; for as to me, my age protects me from all fear in this respect." She had with her the daughters of Indibilis, and several other ladies of high rank, all in the flower of youth, who considered her as their mother. Scipio, then comprehending what the subject of her fear was, "My own glory, (says he) "and that of the Roman people, are concerned in not suffering that virtue, which ought always to be respected, wherever we find it, should be exposed in my camp to a treatment unworthy of it. But you give me a new motive for being more strict in my care of it, in the virtuous solicitude you shew in thinking only of the preservation of your honor in the midst of so many other objects of fear." After this conversation, he committed the care of the la|dies to some officers of experienced prudence, strictly commanding, that they should treat them with all the respect they could pay to the mothers, wives, and daughters of their allies and particular friends. It was not long before Scipio's integrity and virtue were put to the trial. Being retired into his camp, some of his officers brought him a virgin of such exquisite beauty, that she drew upon her the eyes and admiration of every body. The young con|queror started from his seat with confusion and sur|prize; and, like one thunder-struck, seemed to be robbed of that presence of mind and self-possession so necessary in a General, and for which Scipio was remarkably famous. In a few moments, having ral|lied his straggling spirits, he inquired of the beauti|ful

captive, in the most civil and polite manner, con|cerning her country, birth, and connections; and finding that she was betrothed to a Celtiberian prince, named Allucius, he ordered both him and the cap|tive's parent's to be sent for. The Spanish prince no sooner appeared in his presence than, even be|fore he spoke to the father and mother, he took him aside; and, to remove the anxiety he might be in on account of the young lady, he addressed him thus: "You and I are young, which admits of my speak|ing to you with more-liberty. Those who brought me your future spouse, assured me, at the same time, that you loved her with extreme tenderness; and her beauty left me no room to doubt it. Upon which reflecting, that if, like you, I had thought of making an engagement, and were not wholly engrossed with the affairs of my country, I should desire that so honorable and legitimate a passion should find fa|vour. I think myself happy in the present conjunc|ture to do you this service. Though the fortune of war has made me your master, I desire to be your friend. Here is your wife: take her, and may the gods bless you with her. One thing, however, I would have you to be fully assured of, that she has been among us as she would have been in the house of her father and mother. Far be it from Scipio to purchase a loose and momentary pleasure at the expence of virtue, honour, and the happiness of an honest man. No—I have kept her for you, in order to make you a present worthy of you and of me. The only gratitude I require of you for this inestimable gift, is, that you would be a friend to the Roman people." Allucius's heart was too full to make him any answer; but throwing himself at the General's feet he wept aloud. The captive lady fell into the same posture; and remained so, till the father burst out into the following words: "O divine Scipio! the gods have given you more than human virtue! O glorious leader! O wond|rous

youth! does not that obliged virgin give you, while she prays to the gods for your prosperity, rap|tures above all the transports yon could have reaped from the possession of her injured person?"

The relations of the young lady had brought with them a very considerable sum for her ransom: but when they saw that she was restored to them in a manner so generous and godlike, they intreated the conqueror with great earnestness, to accept that sum as a present; and declared, by his complying, that new favour would complete their joy and grat|itude. Scipio, not being able to resist such warm and earnest solicitations, told them, that he accepted the gift; and ordered it to be laid at his feet: then addressing himself to Lucius, "I add," says he, "to the portion which you are to receive from your father-in-law this sum; which I desire you to ac|cept as a marriage present."

If we consider that Scipio was at this time in the prime of life, unmarried, and under no restraint, we cannot but acknowledge, that the conquest he made of himself was far more glorious than that of the Carthagenian empire: and though his treat|ment of this captive prince was not more delicate and generous than what might justly be expected from a person endowed with reason and reflection; yet considering how few there are in his circum|stances who would have acted as he did, we cannot but applaud his conduct, and propose him as a suit|able example to future ages. Nor was his virtue unrewarded. The young prince, charmed with the liberality and politeness of Scipio, went into his country to publish the praises of a victor so generous. He cried out, in the transports of his gratitude, "that there was come into Spain a young hero like the gods; who conquered all things less by the force of his arms, than the charms of his virtue, and the greatness of his beneficence." Upon this report, all Celtiberia submitted to the Romans; and Allucius

returned in a shout to Scipio, at the head of four|teen hundred chosen horse, to facilitate his future conquests. To render the marks of his gratitude still more durable, Allucius caused the action we have just related to be engraven on a silver shield, which he presented to Scipio; a present infinitely more estimable and glorious than all his treasures and triumphs. This buckler, which Scipio carried with him when he returned to Rome, was lost, in passing the Rhine with part of the baggage. It continued in that river, till the year 1665, when some fishermen found it. It is now in the cabinet of the king of France.

Omens, Ghosts, and Apparitions.

Alas! you know the cause too well; The salt is spilt, to me it fell; Then to contribute to my loss, The knife and fork were laid across. Last night, I vow to heav'n 'tis true, Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.

GOING yesterday to dine with an old acquain|tance, I had the misfortune to find his whole family very much dejected. Upon asking him the occasion of it, he told me that his wife had dreamt a very strange dream the night before, which they were afraid portended some misfortune to them|selves or their children. At her coming into the room I observed a settled melancholy in her coun|tenance, which I should have been troubled for, had I not heard from whence it proceeded. We were no sooner set down, but after having looked upon me a little while, "My dear, (says she) turning to her husband, you may now see the stranger that was in the candle last night." Soon after this, as they

began to talk of family affairs, a little boy at the other end of the table told her, that he was to go into joining-hand on Thursday: "Thursday! (says she) no child, if it please God, you shall not begin upon Childermas-day; tell your writing-master that Friday will be soon enough." I was reflecting with|in myself on the oddness of her fancy, and wonder|ing that any body would establish it as a rule to lose a day in every week. In the midst of these my mu|sings, she desired me to reach her a little salt upon the point of my knife, which I did, in such a trepi|dation and hurry of obedience, that I let it drop by the way; at which she immediately started, and said it fell towards her.

Upon this I looked very black; and observing the concern of the whole table, began to consider myself, with some confusion, as a person who had brought a disaster upon the family. The lady, however, recovering herself after a little space, said to her husband with a sigh, "My dear, misfortunes never come single." My friend, I found, acted but an under part at his table, and being a man of more good nature than understanding, thinks himself obliged to fall in with all the passions and humours of his yoke-fellow: "do you remember, child, (said she) that the pigeon-house fell the very afternoon that our careless wench spilt the salt upon the table!" "yes, my dear (says he) and the next post brought us an account of the battle of Almanza." The read|er may guess at the figure I made, after having done all this mischief. I dispatched my dinner as fast as I could, with my usual taciturnity; when, to my utter confusion, the lady seeing me quitting my knife and fork, and laying them across one another upon my plate, desired me that I would humour her so far as to take them out of that figure, and place them side by side. What the absurdity was which I had committed, I did not know, but I suppose there was some traditionary superstition in it; and there|fore,

in obedience to the lady of the house, I dispo|sed of my knife and fork in two parallel lines, which is a figure I shall always lay them in for the future, though I do not know any reason for it.

It is not difficult for a man to see that a person has conceived ••n aversion to him. For my own part, I quickly found, by the lady's looks, that she regarded me as a very odd kind of a fellow, with an unfortunate aspect: for which reason I took my leave immediately after dinner, and withdrew to my own lodgings. Upon my return home, I fell into a profound contemplation on the evils which attend those superstitious follies of mankind; how they sub|ject us to imaginary afflictions, and additional sor|rows, which do not properly come within our lot. As if the natural calamities of life were not sufficient for it, we turn the most indifferent circumstances into misfortunes, and suffer as much from trifling accidents as from real evils. I have known the shooting of a star spoil a night's rest; and have seen a man in love grow pale and lose his appetite, upon the plucking of a merry thought. A screech owl at midnight has alarmed a family more than a band of robbers; nay, the voice of a cricket has struck more terror than the roaring of a lion. There is nothing so inconsiderable, which may not appear dreadful to an imagination filled with omens and prognostics. A rusty nail, or crooked pin, shoots up into prodigies.

I remember I was once in a mixed assembly, that was full of noise and mirth, when on a sudden an old woman unluckily observed there were thirteen of us in company. The remark struck a panic of terror into several who were present, insomuch that one or two of the ladies were going to leave the room; but a friend of mine taking notice that one of our female companions was big with child, affirm|ed there were fourteen in the room, and that instead of portending that one of the company should die,

it plainly foretold that one of them should be born. Had not my friend found this experiment to break the omen, I question not but half the women in the company would have fallen sick that very night.

An old maid, who is troubled with the vapours, produces infinite disturbances of this kind among her friends and neighbours. I knew a maiden aunt of a great family, who is one of those antiquated sibyls, who forebode and prophecy from one end of the year to the other. She is always seeing appari|tions, and hearing dead watches; and was the other day almost frightned out of her wits by the great house-dog, that howled in the stable at the time when she lay ill of the tooth-ach.

Such an extravagant cast of mind engages multi|tudes of people, not only in impertinent terror, but in supernumerary duties of life; and arises from that fear and ignorance which is natural to the soul of man. The horror with which we entertain the thoughts of death, (or indeed of any future evil) and the uncertainty of its approach, fill a melancho|ly mind with innumerable apprehensions and suspi|cions, and consequently dispose it to the observation of such groundless prodigies and predictions. For, as it is the chief concern of wise men to retrench the evils of life by the reasonings of philosophy, it is the employment of fools to multiply them by the sentiments of superstition.

For my own part, I should be very much troubled were I endowed with this divining quality, though it should inform me truly of every thing that can befal me: I would not anticipate the relish of any happiness, nor feel the weight of any misery, before it actually arrives.

I know but one way of fortifying my soul against these gloomy presages and terrors of mind; and that is, by securing to myself the friendship and protec|tion of that Being, who disposes of events, and gov|erns futurity. He sees, at one view, the whole

thread of my existence; not only that part of it which I have already passed through, but that which runs forward into all the depths of eternity. When I lay me down to sleep, I recommend myself to his care; when I awake, I give myself to his direction. Amidst all the evils that threaten me, I will look up to him for help, and question not but he will either avert, or turn them to my advantage. Though I know neither the time nor the manner of the death I am to die, I am not at all solicitous about it; because I am sure that he knows them both, and that he will not fail to comfort and support me under them.

When apparitions fill the mind, The soul's unner••'d, and reason's blind.

I remember last winter there were several young girls of the neighbourhood sitting about the fire with my landlady's daughters, and telling stories of spirits and apparitions. Upon my opening the door, the young women broke off their discourse; but my landlady's daughter telling them that it was no body but the gentleman, (for that is the name I go by in the neighbourhood, as well as in the family) they went on without minding me. I seated myself by the candle that stood on a table at one end of the room; and pretending to read a book which I took out of my pocket, heard several dreadful stories of ghosts as pale as ashes that had stood at the foot of a bed, or walked over a church-yard by moon-light; and of others that had been conjured into the Red-Sea, for disturbing people's rest, and drawing their curtains at mid-night; with many other old women's fables of the like nature. As one spirit raised ano|ther, I observed that at the end of every story the whole company closed their ranks, and crowded about the fire. I took notice, in particular, of a

little boy, who was so attentive to every story, that I mistake if he ventures to go to bed by himself these twelve months. Indeed they talked so long, that the imaginations of the whole assembly were mani|festly crazed, and I am sure will be the worse for it as long as they live. I heard one of the girls who had looked upon me over her shoulder, asking the company how long I had been in the room, and whether I did not look paler than I used to do. This put me under some apprehensions that I should be forced to explain myself, if I did nor retire; for which reason I took the candle in my hand, and went up into my chamber, not without wondering at this unaccountable weakness in human creatures, that they should love to astonish and terrify one ano|ther. Were I a father, I should take particular care to preserve my children from these little horrors of imagination which they are apt to contract when they are young, and are not able to shake off when they are in years. I have known a soldier who has entered a breach, affrighted at his own shadow, and look pale at a little scratching at his door, who the day before had marched up against a battery of can|non. There are instances of persons who have been terrified even to distraction at the figure of a tree, or shaking of a bull-rush. The truth of it is, I look upon a sound imagination as the greatest blessing of life, next to a clear judgment and a good con|science. In the mean time, since there are very few whose minds are not more or less subject to these dreadful thoughts and apprehensions, we ought to arm ourselves against them by the dictates of reason and religion, to pull the old woman out of our hearts, and annihilate those impertinent notions which we imbibed at a time when we were not able to judge of their absurdity.

On Incitement to Enterprize and Emulation. Story of the Admirable CRICHTON.

He who despairing in dull languor lies, ••o glorious deeds will never, never rise; Like a dull weed, he vegetates and dies.

I Have sometimes heard it disputed in conversation, whether it be more laudable or desirable, that a man should think too highly or too meanly of him|self: it is on all hands agreed to be best, that he should think rightly; but since a falliable being will always make some deviations from exact rectitude, it is not wholly useless to inquire towards which side it is safer to incline.

The prejudices of mankind seem to favour him who errs by under-rating his own powers; he is con|sidered as a modest and harmless member of society, not likely to break the peace by competition, to en|deavour after such splendor of reputation as may dim the lustre of others, or to interrupt any in the enjoyment of themselves; he is no man's rival, and therefore may be every man's friend.

The opinion which a man entertains of himself, ought to be distinguished, in order to an accurate discussion of this question, as it relates to persons or to things. To think highly of ourselves in compari|son with others, to assume by our own authority that precedence which none are willing to grant, must be always invidious and offensive; but to rate our powers high in proportion to things, and imagine ourselves equal to great undertakings, while we leave others in possession of the same abilities, cannot with equal justice provoke censure.

It must be confessed, that self-love may dispose us to decide too hastily in our own favour; but who is hurt by the mistake? If we are incited by this vain opinion to attempt more than we can perform, ours is the labour, and ours the disgrace.

But he who dares to think well of himself, will not always prove to be mistaken; and the good effects of his confidence will then appear in great attempts, and great performances: if he should not fully com|plete his design, he will at least advance it so far, as to leave an easy task for him who succeeds him; and even though he should wholly fall, he will fall with honor.

But from the opposite error, from torpid despond|ency can come no advantage; it is the frost of the soul which binds up all its powers, and congeals life in perpetual sterility. He who has no hopes of suc|cess, will make no attempts; and where nothing is attempted, nothing will be done.

Every man should, therefore, endeavour to main|tain in himself a favorable opinion of the powers of the human mind; which are, perhaps, in every man greater than they appear, and might, by diligent cultivation, be exalted to a degree beyond what their possessor presumes to believe. There is scarce any man but has found himself able, at the instigation of necessity, to do what in a state of leisure and deliber|ation he would have concluded impossible; and some of our species have signalized themselves by such atchievements, as prove there are few things above human hope.

It has been the policy of all nations to preserve, by some public monuments, the memory of those who have served their country by great exploits: there is the same reason for continuing or reviving the names of those whose extensive abilities have dignified humanity. An honest emulation may be alike excited, and the philosopher's curiosity may be inflamed by a catalogue of the works of Boyle or Bacon, as Themistocles was kept awake by the trophies of Miltiades.

Among the favorites of nature who have from time to time appeared in the world, enriched with vari|ous endowments and the contrarieties of excellence,

none seem to have been more exalted above the common rate of humanity, than the man known about two centuries ago by the appellation of the Admirable CRICHTON; of whose history, whatever we may suppress as surpassing credibility, yet we shall, upon incontestible authority, relate enough to rank him among prodigies.

Virtue, says Virgil, is better accepted when it comes in a pleasing form. The person of Crichton was eminently beautiful; but his beauty was con|sistent with such activity and strength, that in fenc|ing he would spring at one bound the length of twenty feet upon his antagonist; and he used the sword in either hand with such force and dexterity, that scarce any one had courage to engage him.

Having studied at St. Andrews, in Scotland, he went to Paris in his twenty-first year, and affixed on the gate of the college of Navarre, a kind of challenge to the learned of that university, to dispute with them on a certain day; offering to his opponents, whoever they might be, the choice of ten languages, and of all the faculties and sciences. On the day pointed, three thousand auditors assembled, when four doctors of the church, and fifty masters appeared against him; and one of his antagonists confesses that the doctors were defeated; that he gave proofs of knowledge above the reach of man; and that an hundred years passed without food or sleep would not be sufficient for the attainment of his learning. After a disputation of nine hours, he was presented by the president and and professors with a diamond and purse of gold, and dismissed with repeated ac|clamations.

From Paris he went to Rome, where he made the same challenge, and had in the presence of the Pope and Cardinals the same success. Afterwards he con|tracted at Venice an acquaintance with Aldus Manutius, by whom he was introduced to the learned of that city; he then visited Padua, where he engaged in another public disputation, beginning his perform|ance

with an extempore poem in praise of the city and the assembly then present, and concluding with an oration equally unpremeditated in commendation of ignorance.

He afterwords published another challenge, in which he declared himself ready to detect the errors of Aristotle and all his commentators, either in the common forms of logic, or in any which his antago|nists should propose, of an hundred different kinds of verse.

These acquisitions of learning, however stupen|dous, were not gained at the expence of any plea|sure which youth generally indulges, or by the omis|sion of any accomplishment in which it becomes a gentleman to excel: he practised in great perfection the arts of drawing and painting; he was an emi|nent performer in both vocal and instrumental mu|sic; he danced with uncommon gracefulness; and on the day after his disputation at Paris, exhibited his skill in horsemanship before the court of France, where, at a public match of tilting, he bore away the ring upon his lance fifteen times together.

He excelled likewise in domestic games of less dig|nity and reputation; and in the interval between his challenge and disputation at Paris, he spent so much of his time at cards, dice, and tennis, that a lampoon was fixed upon the gate of the Sorbonne, directing those who would fee this monster of erudi|tion, to look for him at the tavern.

So extensive was his acquaintance with life and manners, that in an Italian comedy, composed by himself, and exhibited before the court of Mantua, he is said to have personated fifteen different cha|racters, in all which he might succeed without great difficulty; since he had such power of retention, that once hearing an oration of an hour, he would repeat it exactly, and in the recital follow the speak or through all the variety of tone and gesticulation.

Nor was his skill in arms less than in learning, or

his courage inferior to his skill. There was a prize-fighter at Mantua, who, (travelling about the world, according to the barbarous custom of that age, as a general challenger) had defeated the most celebra|ted masters in many parts of Europe; and in Mantua, where he then resided, had killed three who appear|ed against him. The Duke repented that he had granted him his protection; when Crichton, looking on his sanguinary success with indignation, offered to stake fifteen hundred pistoles, and mount the stage against him. The Duke with some reluctance consented; and on the day fixed, the combatants appeared: their weapons seemed to have been the single rapier, which was then newly introduced into Italy. The prize-fighter advanced with great vio|lence and fierceness, while Crichton contented himself calmly to ward off his passes, and suffered him to exhaust his vigour by his own fury. Crichton then became the assailant; and pressed upon him with such force and agility, that he thrust him thrice through the body, and saw him expire. He then divided the prize he had won, among the widows whose husbands had been killed.

The death of this wonderful man I should be wil|ling to conceal, did I not know that every reader will inquire curiously after that fatal hour, which is common to all human beings, however distinguished from each other by nature or fortune.

The Duke of Mantua having received so many proofs of his various merit, made him tutor to his son Vincentia de Conzaga, a prince of loose manners and turbulent disposition. On this occasion it was that he composed the comedy in which he exhibited so many different characters with exact propriety. But his honor was of short continuance; for as he was one night in time of carnival rambling about the streets with his guitar in his hand, he was attacked by six men masked. Neither his courage nor skill at this exigence deserted him; he opposed them with

such activity and spirit, that he soon dispersed them, and disarmed their leader, who throwing off his mask, discovered himself to be the prince his pupil. Crichton, falling on his knees, took his own sword by the point, and presented it to the prince; who immediately seized it, and instigated, as some say, by jealousy, according to others, only by drunken fury and brutal resentment, basely thrust him through the heart.

Thus was the Admirable Crichton brought into that state in which he could excel the meanest of mankind only by a few empty honours paid to his memory. The court of Mantua testified their esteem by public mourning; the cotemporary wits were profuse of their encomiums; and the palaces of Italy were adorned with pictures, representing him on horseback, with a lance in one hand, and a book in the other.

POETICAL SELECTION. With several ORIGINALS.

HEALTH—An Eclogue.

NOW early shepherds o'er the meadow pass, And print long footsteps in the glittering grass; The cows neglectful of their pasture stand, By turns obsequious to the milker's hand. When Damon softly trod the shaven lawn, Damon, a youth from city cares withdrawn; Long was the pleasant walk he wander'd through; A cover'd arbour clos'd the distant view; There rests the youth, and while the feather'd throng Raise their wild music, thus contrives a song. Here wafted o'er by mild Etesian air, Thou country Goddess, beauteous Health! repair; Here let my breast through quiv'ring trees inhale Thy rosy blessings with the morning gale. What are the fields, or flow'rs, or all I see? Ah! tasteless all, if not enjoy'd with thee. Joy to my soul! I feel the Goddess nigh, The face of nature cheers as well as I; O'er the flat green refreshing breezes run, The smiling daisies blow beneath the sun, The brooks run purling down with silver waves, The planted lanes rejoice with dancing leaves, The chirping birds from all the compass rove, To tempt the tuneful echoes of the grove: High sunny summits, deeply shaded dales, Thick mossy banks, and flowery winding vales,

With various prospect gratify the sight, And scatter fix'd attention in delight. Come, country Goddess, come; nor thou suffice, But bring thy mountain-sister, Exercise. Call'd by thy lively voice, she turns her pace, Her winding horn proclaims the finish'd chace; She mounts the rocks, she skims the level plain, Dogs, hawks, and horses, crowd her early train; Her hardy face repels the tanning wind, And lines and messes loosely float behind. All these as means of toil the feeble see, But these are helps to pleasure join'd with thee. Let Sloth lie soft'ning till high noon in down, Or lolling fan her in the sultry town, Unnerv'd with rest; and turn her own disease, Or foster others in luxurious ease: I mount the courser, call the deep-mouth'd hounds, The fox unkennell'd flies to covert grounds; I lead where stags through tangled thickets tread, And shake the sapplings with their branching head; I make the falcons wing their airy way, And soar to seize, or stooping strike their prey; To snare the fish I fix the luring bait; To wound the fowl I load the gun with fate. 'Tis thus through change of exercise I range, And strength and pleasure rise from every change.

Here, beauteous Health, for all the year remain, When the next comes, I'll charm thee thus again.

O come, thou Goddess of my rural song, And bring thy daughter, calm Content, along, Dame of the ruddy cheek, and laughing eye, From whose bright presence clouds of sorrow fly: For her I mow my walks, I plait my bow'rs, Cli•• my low hedges, and support my flow'rs; To welcome her, this summer seat I drest, And here I court her if she comes to rest; When she from exercise to learned ease Shall change again, and teach the change to please. Now friends conversing, my soft hours refine,

And Tully's T••sculum revives in mine: Now to grave books I bid the mind retreat, And such as make me rather good than great. Or o'er the works of easy fancy rove, Where flutes and innocence amuse the grove; The native bard that on Sicilian plains First sung the lowly manners of the swains; Or Maro's Muse that in the fairest light Paints rural prospects, and the charms of sight: These soft amusements bring content along, And fancy, void of sorrow, turns to song.

Here, beauteous Health, for all the year remain, When the next comes, I'll charm thee thus again.

The Country Clergyman. From Dr. GOLDSMITH.

NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flow'r grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was, to all the country dear, And passing rich for forty pounds a year. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place. Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for pow'r, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain. The long remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won. Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And ev'n his failings lean'd to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies; He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay, Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood. At his controul, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal each honest rustic ran; E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv'n, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

ANACREONTIC: or Verses in Imitation of ANACREON, a famous Poet.

WHEN Spring came on with fresh delight, To cheer the soul, and charm the sight, While easy breezes, softer rain, And warmer suns salute the plain, 'Twas then, in yonder piny grove, That Nature went to meet with Love. Green was her robe, and green her wreath, Where'er she trod, 'twas green beneath; Where'er she turn'd, the pulses beat With new recruits of genial heat; And in her train the birds appear, To match for all the coming year. Rais'd on a bank, where daisies grew, And violets intermix'd a blue, She finds the boy she went to find; A thousand pleasures wait behind, Aside, a thousand arrows lie, But all unfeather'd wait to fly. When they met, the dame and boy, Dancing graces, idle joy, Wanton smiles, and airy play, Conspir'd to make the scene more gay; Love pair'd the birds through all the grove, And nature bid them sing to love, Sitting, hopping, fluttering, sing, And pay their tribute from the wing, To fledge the shafts that idle lie, And yet unfeather'd wait to fly. 'Tis thus, when spring renews the blood, They meet in ev'ry trembling wood, And thrice they make the plumes agree, And ev'ry dart they mount with three, And ev'ry dart can boast a kind, Which suits each proper turn of mind. From the towering Eagle's plume The gen'rous hearts accept their doom▪

Shot by the Peacock's painted eye The vain and airy lovers die: For careful dames and frugal men, The shafts are speckled by the Hen. The Pyes and Parrots deck the darts, When prattling wins the panting hearts: When from the voice the passions spring, The warbling Finch affords a wing: Together, by the Sparrow stung, Down fall the wanton and the young: And fledg'd by Geese the weapons fly, When others love they know not why. All this (as late I chanc'd to rove) I learn'd in yonder waving grove. And see, says Love, (who call'd me near) How much I deal with nature here, How both support a proper part, She gives the feather, I the dart; Then cease for souls averse to sigh, If nature cross you, so do I; My weapon there unfeather'd flies, And shakes and shuffles through the skies. But if the mutual charms I find By which she links you, mind to mind, They wing my shafts, I poize the darts, And strike from both, thro' both your hearts.

An Hymn to Contentment.

LOVELY, lasting peace of mind! Sweet delight of human-kind! Heav'nly born, and bred on high, To crown the fav'rites of the sky With more of happiness below, Than victors in a triumph know! Whither, O whither art thou fled, To lay thy meek contented head!

What happy region dost thou please To make the seat of calm and ease? Ambition searches all its sphere Of pomp and state to meet thee there. Increasing avarice would find Thy presence in its gold enshrin'd. The bold adventurer plows his way, Thro' rocks amid the foaming sea, To gain thy love; and then perceives Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. The silent heart with grief assails, Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales. Sees daisies open, rivers run, And seeks (as I have vainly done) Amusing thought; but learns to know That solitude's the nurse of woe. No real happiness is found In trailing purple o'er the ground; Or in a soul exalted high To range the circuit of the sky, Converse with stars above, and know All nature in its forms below; The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, And doubts at last for knowledge rise. Lovely, lasting peace, appear! This world itself, if thou art here, Is once ag••in with Eden bless'd, And man contains it in his breast. 'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, I sung my wishes to the wood, And lost in thought, no more perceiv'd The branches whisper as they wav'd: It seem'd as all the quiet place Confess'd the presence of the grace. When thus she spoke—Go rule thy will, Bid thy wild passions all be still. Know God—and bring thy heart to know, The joys which from religion flow: Then ev'ry grace shall prove its guest,

And I'll be there to crown the rest. Oh! by yonder mossy seat, In my hours of sweet retreat; Might I thus my soul employ, With sense of gratitude and joy: Rais'd as ancient prophets were, In heav'nly vision, praise, and pray'r; Pleasing all men, hurting none, Pleas'd and bless'd with God alone: Then while the gardens take my sight, With all the colours of delight; While silver waters glide along, To please my ear, and court my song: I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, And thee, great source of nature, sing. The sun that walks his airy way, To light the world, and give the day; The moon that shines with borrow'd light; The stars that gild the gloomy night; The seas that roll unnumber'd waves; The wood that spreads its shady leaves; The field whose ears conceal the grain, The yellow treasure of the plain; All of these, and all I see. Should be sung, and sung by me: They speak their Maker as they can, But want and ask the tongue of man. Go search among your idle dreams, Your busy or your vain extremes; And find a life of equal bliss, Or own the next begun in this.

The HERMIT of the Dale—

By Dr. Goldsmith.

FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a rev'rend Hermit grew; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,

His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well: Remote from man, with God he pass'd his days, Pray'r all his business, all his pleasure, praise. A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seem'd heav'n itself, till one suggestion rose; That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey, This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway: His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, But all the tenor of his soul is lost: So when a smooth expanse receives imprest Calm nature's image 〈◊〉〈◊〉 its wat'ry breast, Down bend the banks, the trees impending grow, And skies beneath with answ'ring colors glow: But if a stone the gentle sea divide, Swift ruffling circles curl on ev'ry side, And glimm'ring fragments of a broken sun, Banks, trees, and skies in thick disorder run. To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, To find if books, or swains, report it right; (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, Whose feet came wand'ring o'er the nightly dew) He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore, And fix'd the scallop in his ha•• before; Then with the sun a rising journey went, Sedate to think, and watching each event. The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, A youth came posting o'er the crossing way; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair. Then near approaching, father, hail! he cry'd; And hail, my son, the rev'rend sire reply'd; Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road; 'Till each with other pleas'd, and loth to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart; Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.

But here the youth enjoin'd the eager sire, Who into hidden truths did much inquire, If he'd in silence each event behold, He would to him s••me wond'rous things unfold. Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey; Nature in silence bids the world-repose: When near the road a stately palace rose: There, by the moon through ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides wtih grass. It chanc'd the noble master of the dome Still made his house the wand'ring stranger's home: Yet still his kindness, from a thirst of praise, Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease. The pair arriv'd: the livery'd servants wait; Their lord receiv'd them at the pompous gate. The table groans with costly piles of food, And all is more than hospitably good. Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day Along the wide canals the zephyrs play: Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighb'ring wood to banish sleep. Up rise the guests, obedient to the call; An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall; Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd, Which the kind master forc'd the guests to taste. Then pleas'd and thankful, from the porch they go; And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe; His cup was vanish'd; for in secret guise The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize. As one who spies a serpent in his way, Glist'ning and basking in the summer ray, Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near, Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear: So seem'd the sire; when far upon the road, The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. He stop'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart,

And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part:* 7.1 Murm'ring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard, That generous actions meet a base reward. While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; A sound in air presag'd approaching rain, And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warn'd by the signs, the wand'ring pair retreat, To seek for shelter at a neighb'ring seat. 'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, And strong, and large, and unimprov'd around; Its owner's temper, tim'rous and severe, Unkind and griping, caus'd a desart there. As near the miser's heavy door they drew, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew; The nimble light'ning mix'd with showers began, And o'er their heads loud-rolling thunder ran. Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, Driv'n by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. At length some pity warm'd the master's breast, ('Twas then his threshold first receiv'd a guest) Slow creeking turns the door with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shiv'ring pair; One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, And nature's fervor through their limbs recalls: Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine, (Each hardly granted) serv'd them both to dine; And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace. With still remark the pond'ring hermit view'd In one so rich, a life so poor and rude; And why should such, (within himself he cry'd) Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside? But what new marks of wonder soon took place, In every settling feature of his face! When from his vest the young companion bore That cup, the generous landlord own'd before,

And paid profusely with the precious bowl The stinted kindness of this churlish soul. Just sunk to earth, the miser in surprize, Receiv'd the glittering gift with startled eyes: But ere he could recover from his fright, The generous guests were gone quite out of sight. Now the brisk clouds in airy tumult fly, The sun emerging opes an azure sky; A fresher green the smelling leaves display, And glittering as they tremble, cheer the day: The weather cou••ts them from the poor retreat, And the glad master boits the wary gate. While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought With all the travel of uncertain thought; His partner's acts without a cause appear, 'Twas there a vice, but seem'd a madness here: Detesting that, and pitying this he goes, Lost and confounded with the various shows. Now night's dim shades again involve the sky, Again the wand'rers want a place to lie, Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. The soil improv'd around, the mansion neat, And neither poorly low, nor vainly great: It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind, Content, and not for praise, but virtue kind. Hither the wand'rers turn with weary feet, Then bless the mansion, and the master greet: Their greeting fare, bestow'd with modest guise, The courteous master hears, and thus replies: Without a vain, without a grudging heart, To him who gives us all, I yield a part; From him you come, for him accept it here, A frank and sober, more than costly cheer. He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed, When the grave houshold round his hall repair, Warn'd by a bell, and close the hour with prayer. At length the world, renew'd by calm repose, Was strong for toil, the dappled morn arose;

Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept Near the clos'd cradle, where an infant slept, And writh'd his neck: the landlord's little pride, O strange return! grew black, and gasp'd, and dy'd. Horror of horrors! what! his only son! How look'd our hermit when the deed was done? Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part, And breath blue fire, could more assail his heart. Confus'd, and struck with silence at the deed, He flies, but trembling fails to fly with speed. His steps the youth pursues; the country lay Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the way: A river cross'd the path; the passage o'er Was nice to find, the servant trod before; Long arms of oak an open bridge supply'd, And deep the waves beneath them bending glide. The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in; Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. Wild, sparkling rage inflames the hermit's eyes, He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, Detested wretch—but scarce his speech began, When the strange partner seem'd no longer man: His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; His robe turn'd white, and flow'd about his feet; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; Celestial odours breath'd through purpled air; And wings, whose colours glitter'd like the day, Wide at his back their dazzling plumes display. The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, And moves in all the majesty of light. Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do; Surprise in secret chains his word suspends, And in a calm his settling temper ends. But silence here the beauteous angel broke, (The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke.) Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown,

In sweet memorial rise before the throne: Those charms, success in our bright region find, And force an angel down to calm thy mind; For this commission'd, I forsook the sky: Nay, cease to kneel—thy fellow-servant I. Then know the truth of government divine, And let these scruples be no longer thine. The Maker justly claims the world he made, In this the right of Providence is laid; Its sacred majesty through all depends On using second means to work his ends: 'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, The pow'r exerts his attributes on high, Your actions uses, nor controuls your will, And bids the doubting sons of men be still. What strange events can strike with more surprise, Than those which lately struck thy wond'ring eyes? Yet taught by these, confess th' Almighty just, And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. The great, vain man, who far'd on costly food, Whose life was too luxurious to be good; Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, And forc'd his guests to morning draughts of wine, Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door Ne'er mov'd in duty to the wand'ring poor; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, And feels compassion touch his harden'd soul. Thus artists melt the sullen oar of lead, With heaping coals of fire upon its head; In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, And loose from dross, the silver runs below. Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But now the child half-wean'd his heart from God; (Child of his age) for him he liv'd in pain, And measur'd back his steps to earth again.

To what excesses had his dotage run! But God, to save the father, took the son. To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go, (And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow.) The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, Now owns in tears the punishment was just. But how had all his fortune felt a wrack, Had that false servant sped in safety back! This very night, (by secret plot contriv'd) Of life and wealth his master he'd deprive; Had he in this conspiracy prevail'd, What funds of charity would then have fail'd! Thus heav'n instructs thy mind: this trial o'er, Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more. On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, The sage stood wond'ring as the seraph flew. Thus look'd Elisha, when to mount on high His master took the chariot of the sky; The fiery pomp ascending, left the view; The prophet gaz'd, and wish'd to follow too. The bending hermit here a prayer begun, "Lord! as in heav'n, on earth thy will be done." Then gladly turning, sought his ancient place, And pass'd a life of piety and peace.

EDWIN and EMMA.

FAR, in the windings of a vale Fast by a sheltering wood, The safe retreat of health and peace, An humble cottage stood.

There beauteous EMMA flourish'd fair Beneath a mother's eye, Whose only wish on earth was now To see her blest, and die.

The softest blush that nature spreads, Gave colour to her cheek; Such orient colour smiles through heav'n When May's sweet mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn The charmer of the plains; That fun which bids their diamond blaze, To deck our lily deigns.

Long had she fir'd each youth with love, Each maiden with despair; And though by all a wonder own'd, Yet knew not she was fair.

'Till EDWIN came, the pride of swains, A soul that knew no art, And from whose eyes serenely mild, Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught, Was quickly too reveal'd; For neither bosom lodg'd a wish Which virtue keeps conceal'd.

What happy hours of heart-felt bliss Did love on both bestow! But bliss too mighty long to last, Where fortune proves a foe.

His sister, who like envy form'd, Like her in mischief joy'd, To work them harm, with wicked skill Each darker art employ'd.

The Father too, a sordid man, Who love nor pity knew, Was all unfeeling as the rock From whence his riches grew.

Long had he seen their mutual flame, And seen it long, unmov'd; Then with a father's frown at last, He sternly disapprov'd.

In EDWIN'S gentle heart a war Of differing passions strove; His heart, which durst not disobey, Yet could not cease to love.

Deny'd her sight, he oft behind The spreading hawthorn crept To snatch a glance, to mark the spot Where EMMA walk'd and wept.

Oft too in Stanemore's wintry waste, Beneath the moonlight shade, In sighs to pour his soften'd soul, The midnight mourner stray'd.

His cheeks, where love with beauty glow'd, A deadly pale o'ercast; So fades the fresh rose in its prime, Before the northern blast.

The parents now with late remorse, Hung o'er his dying bed, And weary'd Heaven with fruitless prayers, And fruitless sorrows shed.

'Tis past, he cry'd, but if your souls Sweet mercy yet can move, Let these dim eyes once more behold What they must ever love.

She came—his cold hand softly touch'd, And bath'd with many a tear; First falling o'er the primrose pale, So morning dews appear.

But O! his sister's jealous care, (A cruel sister she!) Forbad what EMMA came to say, "My EDWIN, live for me."

Now homeward as she hopeless went, The church-yard path along, The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night, Her startling fancy found In every bush his hovering shade, His groan in every found.

Alone, appall'd, thus had she pass'd, The visionary vale, When lo! the death-bell smote her ear, Sad sounding in the gale.

Just then she reach'd with trembling steps, Her aged mother's door! He's gone, she cried, and I must see That angel face no more!

I feel, I feel this breaking heart Beat high against my side: From her white arm down sunk her head, She shiver'd, sigh'd, and died.

LINES, by Mrs. ELIZA. ROWE, on the Death of her Husband.

UNHAPPY day, with what a dismal light Dost thou appear to my afflicted sight! In vain the cheerful Spring returns for thee, There is no future cheerful Spring for me.

While my Alexis withers in the tomb, Un••imely cropt—nor s••••s a second bloom; The fairest seasons of the changing year A wild and wintry aspect seem to wear.

The flowers no more their former beauty boast, Their painted hues and fragrant sense are lost: The joyous birds their harmony prolong, But O! I find no music in their song.

Ye mossy caves, ye groves, and sylvan streams, Can give no interval from grief's extremes;

Tranquillity and pleasure fly your shade, A restless care your solitude invade.

Not the still evening, nor the rosy dawn, Nor moonlight glimmering o'er the dewy lawn, Nor stars nor sun my gloomy fancy cheer, But heaven and earth a dismal prospect wear.

That hour which snatch'd Alexis from my arms, Rent from the face of nature all its charms. Unhappy day—be sacred still to grief, A grief too obstinate for all relief:

On thee my face shall never wear a smile, No joy on thee shall e'er my heart beguile; Why does thy light again mine eyes molest? Why am I not with the dear youth at rest?

When shall I stretch upon my dusty bed, Forget the toils of life, and mingle with the dead?

ELEGY On the Death of an Unfortunate Lady.

WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade, Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis she! — but why that bleeding bosom gor'd, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? O ever beauteous▪ ever friendly! tell, Is it in heav'n a crime to love too well? To bear too tender, or too firm a heart, To act a Lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky. For those who greatly think, or bravely die? What bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods: Thence to their images on earth it flows,

And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows. Most souls 'tis true, but peep but once in age, Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage: Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; Like eastern kings, a lazy state they keep, And, close confin'd to their own palace, sleep. From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die) Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood? See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates. There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) Lo these were they, whose souls the furies steel'd, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the crowd away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne'er learnt to glow For others good, or melt at others woe. What can atone (O ever injur'd shade!) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rights unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier: By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd; By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd. What though no friends in sable weeds appear,

Grieve for an hour perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show; What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face; What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb; Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the moon her earliest years bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground now sacred by thy relicks made. So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, Which once had beauty, titles, wealth and fame. How lov'd, how honor'd once—avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; An heap of dust alone remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. E'en he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more! POPE.

Pieces Original and Selected. LINES On the Separation of Friends.

HOW great the bliss! when mutual friends impart Their thoughts, their cares, and secrets of the heart;

Who each the other's happiness can share— Alike in joys! alike their sorrows bear. Whose hearts are open, undisguis'd, and free, Whose souls are link'd by generous sympathy. This sweetens life! if aught can bliss bestow, Improves our joys, and softens every woe!—

This pleasing scene I frequently review, Which once I sh••r'd with innocence and—you! Pleasing indeed! but blended now with pain, The cruel thought—they'll ne'er return again! Corroding grief! which no kind lenient knows, But what from pious Resignation flows, That best of med'cines for the worst of woes!

Boston, July, 1796.

PITY.

To REASON.

LET fortune where she will, her gifts bestow— On those who ask them, let her favours slow: Titles and wealth th' ambitions may pursue, I center'd all my happiness in you. That Heaven, to which no secret is conceal'd, But every wish and thought must stand reveal'd, Views not a flame more pure, or truer mind, Among the various race of woman kind. All other ills I calmly could endure, But your neglect wounds far beyond all cure! With grief, no force of reason can controul, Distract the mind, and tear my very soul. My young affections, early gain'd by you! Which, as our years increas'd, still stronger grew, No time, or distance, ever can abate, They're fix'd irrevocable, sure as fate; My solitary path I'll mourning tread, Since you are gone, and all my joys are fled! PITY.

Answer to "PITY."

CEASE, dearest PITY! Cease, nor once despair— Dame Fortune's partial to the virtuous fair; Time flies apace, nor does it fly in vain, To bless you with those happy scenes again. Let not these sorrows e'er corrode a heart Too prone to virtue to deserve the smart; But view those scenes as only now suspended, Which, when renew'd, will amply be amended. Yes, cherish this—all other thoughts are vain, Wealth's but a curse, and each enjoyment, pain. And when those happy scenes recur to view, Cheer up thy heart, and sing "Je pense á vous!" ABSENCE.

SEPARATION.

MIGHT I on earth the noblest pleasure find, 'Twere in the friendship of an honest mind; Others may boast the base, inglorious part, T' adore the person, yet debauch the heart; The pleasing powers of softest verse employ, And tip with golden wings the transient joy. Superior joys the generous muse would sing, Joys that from reason and from virtue spring; The verse had glow'd with friendship, purest flame, While love and honor harmoniz'd the theme. But the regret! how soon the pleasure ends, Laments her absence from her much-lov'd friend! And while life's summer sadly steals away, In mournful mood attune the plaintive lay. The soul that's form'd by virtue's early care, The mind that's open, and the heart sincere— Nurs'd in those joys which friendship only knows, The sympathetic sense of others' woes— Must bear a parting! from a pleasing scene, With more regret, and feel superior pain.

Ah! come not, write not, think not once of me, Nor share ••ne pang of all I felt for thee!

Th•• cares I quit, thy memory I resign; For too, too often, has thy name appear'd! Already written!—wash it out my tears!

HONESTY.

To HOPE.

DESPAIR away! sweet Hope remain, O stay! and ease my heart-felt pain; Reliev'd by thee, I cease to grieve, 'Tis thou that mak'st me wish to live. O soothe me with thy cheering smile, And all my c••uel pains beguile; Dry up my tears, my sighs suppress, And bid me wait for Happiness! Peace to my swelling bosom give— But O! I ••ear thou dost deceive. My reason wishes, O beware, And carefully avoid the snare! For HOPE to LOVE is near ally'd, His constant friend, and surest guide. 'Tis true, relief thou dost impart, And pourest balm into my heart; But should thy promises prove vain, They would but aggravate my pain; If disappointment should destroy Those flattering dreams of coming joy, My reason still might vainly plead, But want the power to give me aid! What then could charm my soul to rest, Or calm the tumults of my breast?— Then come Despair! I'll bear thy smart, And take possession—of my heart! PITY.

RESIGNATION.

THOUGH I am young, and might expect to se•• Times future long, to late posterity; 'Tis what with reason I could wish to do, If to be old were to be happy too.

But since substantial grief so soon destroys The gust of all imaginary joys, Who would be too importunate to live, Or mourn for life, than it can merit give?

Therefore the present ill! alone I ought To view in reason, with a serious thought; And if I may the sacred pages trust, They're always happy who are always just.

For my own part, with Resignation still, I can submit to my Creator's will. Let Him withdraw the friends whom once I knew, When He thinks fit, and when He pleases too.

May this instruct me other joys to prize, With other beauties charm my partial eyes! Loose then from earth the garp of fond desire, Weigh anchor,* 7.2 and t' some happier clime aspire.

HONESTY.

SUBMISSION.

O Death, all eloquent! you only prove What dust We doat on, when 'tis man We love. HOMER.

NO more, my soul, with unremitting grief, Thy hapless fate, unceasingly bewail; Those floods of sorrow cannot yield relief, No tears for evils past can aught avail.

From those black clouds, those veils of darkest hue, O let me turn aside my aching sight, Where fairer prospects open to my view, And, beaming brightness drive away the night.

Religion! only balm the wretched find! Thy healing comforts to my soul apply; Let love of God alone possess my mind, Teach me to live, and teach me more, to die.

That idol! which so long usurp'd thy place, And left no room for any other guest, Despoil'd of every soft and pleasing grace, Shall to its God resign this anxious breast.

Long sought for peace, shall to my mind return; Calm resignation hush my cares to rest; No pulses beat, no ardent wishes burn, Nor sighs for luckless love, shall me molest.

To Heaven my sighs and wishes now ascend, Where love immortal my desires shall fill; For ever blest, when time shall have an end, I still shall live, and do my Maker's will.

HONESTY.

FIDELITY.* 7.3

O SAY, thou dear possessor of my breast, Where now's my boasted liberty and rest? Where the gay moments which I once have known? O where that heart I fondly thought my own? Sometimes I please myself, and think you are Too good to make me wretched by despair; That tenderness, which in your soul is plac'd, May move you to compassion sure at last. But when intent upon a second view Of my own merits! I despond of you.

Soon as thy letter,† 7.4 trembling I unclos'd, The well-known name awaken'd all my woes.

O name, for ever sad! for ever dear! Still breath'd in sighs—still usher'd with a tear. No happier task these faded eyes pursue, To read, to weep, is all they now can do. Of all afflictions, taught a lover yet, 'Tis sure the hardest lesson to Forget!

HONESTY.

The FAREWELL!

UNEQUAL task! a passion to resign, A heart so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine! Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state, How often must it love—how often hate! How often hope, despair, resent, regret, Conceal disdain—do all things but forget! But now no more. Methinks I'll wandering go Thro' dreary wastes, and weep my endless woe— Where, round the mould'ring tow'rs, pale ivies creep, And lofty rocks hang nodding o'er the deep; And there, forever! ever will I stray, Sad proof how well a lover can obey! Death, only death, can break the lasting chain, And there, even then shall my cold dust remain; There, all its frailties, all its flames resign, And wait, 'till 'tis no sin to mix with thine! Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,* 7.5 (That cause of all my grief, and all my joy) In trance ecstatic, may thy pangs be drown'd, Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round; From opening skies may streaming glories shine, And saints embrace thee! with a love like mine. HONESTY.

The WISH. Addressed to Miss E— P—

WOULD Heaven for once in pity condescend, And to my wish a patient hearing lend, I would not ask the miser's canker'd ore, Nor the hard fate of those who're overpoor; I would not ask for honor's empty name, Nor would I enter on the list of fame; But for my lot I'd choose some kind retreat, Far from the busy scenes of pomp and state, Where universal peace unmix'd with pain, Where truth and friendship unmolested reign: Where Charity its pleasing form extends, Which to the poor its kind assistance lends; Where every one his God and neighbour loves, And asks for naught but what his God approves. Where heaven-born piety on all around Sheds its mild rays, to soften every wound— Where taught by thee, forgiving hands extend, And adds ELIZA, as a much-lov'd friend—to FIDELIO.

The Story of PALEMON and LAVINIA.

THE lovely, young Lavinia, once had friends, And fortune smil'd deceitful on her birth; For in her helpless years depriv'd of all, Of every stay, save innocence and heav'n, She with her widow'd mother, feeble, old And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd Among the windings of a woody vale; By solitude and deep surrounding shades, But more by bashful modesty conceal'd. Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn Which, virtue, sunk to poverty would meet From giddy fashion and low-minded pride▪

Almost on Nature's common bounty fed, Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare.

Her form was fresher than the morning rose When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd and pure As is the lilly, or the mountain snow, The modest virtues mingled in her eyes; Still on the ground dejected, darting all Their humid beams into the blooming flowers: Or when the mournful tale her mother told, Of what her faithless fortune promis'd once, Thrill'd in her thought, they like the dewy star Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace Sat fair proportion'd on her polish'd limbs, Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire, Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most: Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, Recluse amid the close-embowering woods, As in the hollow breast of Appenine, Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, A myrtle rises far from human eye, And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild; So flourish'd, blooming and unseen by all, The sweet Lavinia; till at length compell'd By strong necessity's supreme command, With smiling patience in her looks, she went To glean Palemon's fields. The pride of swains Palemon was—the generous, and the rich, Who led the rural life in all its joy And elegance; such as Arcadian song Transmits from ancient, uncorrupted times, When tyrant custom had not shackled man, But free to follow Nature was the mode. He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes Amusing, chanc'd beside his reaper train To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye Unconscious of her pow'r, and turning quick

With unaffected blushes from his gaze He saw her charming, but he saw not half The charms her down cast modesty conceal'd. That very moment, love and chaste desire Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown; For still the world prevail'd, and its dread laugh, Which scarce the first philosopher can scorn, Should his heart own a gleaner in the field: And thus in secret to his soul he sigh'd:

"What pity! that so delicate a form, By beauty kindled, where enliv'ning sense, And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell, Should be devoted to the rude embrace Of some indecent clown! she looks, methinks, Of old Acasto's line; and to my mind Recals that patron of my happy life, From whom my liberal fortune took its rise, Now to the dust gone down; his houses, lands, And once fair spreading family d••••solv'd. 'Tis said that in some lone obscure retreat, Urg'd by remembrance sad, and decent pride, Far from those scenes which knew their better days, His aged widow and his daughter live, Whom yet my fruitless search could never find: Romantic wish, would this the daughter were!" When, strict inquiring from herself, he found She was the same, the daughter of his friend, Of bountiful Acasto; who can speak The mingled passions that surpriz'd his heart, And through his nerves in shiv'ring transports ran? Then blaz'd his smother'd flame, avow'd and bold; And as he view'd her ardent o'er and o'er, Love, gratitude, and pity wept at once. Confus'd and frighten'd at his sudden tears, Her rising beauties flush'd a higher bloom, And thus Palemon, passionate and just, Pour'd out the pious raptur'd of his soul:

"And art thou then Acasto's dear remains; She whom my restless gratitude has sought So long in vain? O, yes! the very same, The s••ften'd image of my noble friend; Alive his every feature, every look. More elegantly touch'd. Sweeter than spring! Thou sole surviving blossom from the root That nourish'd up my fortune, say, ah where, In what sequester'd desart hast thou drawn The kindest aspect of delighted heaven, Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair, Tho' poverty's cold winds, and crushing rain, Beat k••en and heavy on thy tender years? O let me now into a richer soil Transplant thee safe! where vernal suns and show'rs Diffuse their warmest, largest influence; And of my garden be the pride and joy! It ill befits thee, O it ill befits Acasto's daughter, his, whose open stores, Tho' vast, were little to his ample heart, The father of a country, thus to pick The very refuse of those harvest fields, Which from his courteous friendship I enjoy. Then throw that shameful pittance from thy hand, But ill applied to such a rugged task; These fields, the master, all, my fair, are thine; If to the various blessings which thy house Has on me lavish'd, thou wilt add that bliss, The dearest bliss, the power of blessing thee!"

Here ceas'd the youth; yet still his speaking eye Express'd the sacred triumph of his soul, With conscious virtue, gratitude, and love, Above the vulgar joy divinely rais'd; Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm Of goodness irresistible, and all In sweet disorder lost, she blush'd consent, The news immediate to her mother brought, While, pierc'd with anxious thought, she pin'd away The lonely moments for Lavinia's fate:

Amaz'd, and scarce believing what she heard, Joy seiz'd her wither'd veins, and one bright gleam Of setting life shone on her ev'ning hours: Not less enraptur'd than the happy pair, Who flourish'd long in tender bliss, and rear'd A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves And good—the grace of all the country round.

Elegant Lines—for the Parent.

SO when the mother, bending o'er his charms, Clasps her fair nurssing in delighted arms, Throws the thin 'kerchief from her neck of snow, And half unve••ls the pearly orbs below. With sparkling eye, the blameless plunderer owns Her soft embraces, and endearing tones, Seeks the salubrious fount with open lips, Spreads his inquiring hands, and smiles, and sips. Connubial fair! whom no fond transport warms, To lull your infant in maternal arms; Who bless'd in vain with tumid bosoms, hear His tender wailings with unfeeling ear; The soothing kiss, and milky rill deny To the sweet pouting lip, and glistening eye! Ah what avails the cradle's damask roof, The softer bolster, and embroider'd woof! Oft hears the gilded couch unpitying plains, And many a tear the tassel'd cushion stains! No voice so sweet attunes his soul to rest; So soft no pillow, as his mother's breast! Thus charm'd to sweet repose, when twilight hours Shed their soft influence on celestial bow'rs, The cherub innocence, with smile divine, Shuts his sweet wings, and sleeps on beauty's shrine.

On President Washington's Address, at the Resignation of his Office.

BID schools recite it —let the priestly train Chant it on festal days, nor deem the task profane. When round your knees your infant offspring throng To join the matin prayer, or evening song— Those rites perform'd—invite them to attend The farewell counsels of their good old friend, And say, he left you, as his last bequest, These golden rules to make a nation blest.

PEACE.

SOON peace on earth shall hold her easy sway, And man forget his brother man to slay; To martial arts, shall milder arts succeed, Who blesses most, shall gain th' immortal meed. The eye of pity shall be pain'd no more With victory's crimson'd banners stain'd with gore. Thou glorious aera, come—hail, blessed time, When full-orb'd freedom shall unclouded shine; When the chaste muses, cherish'd by her rays, In olive groves shall tune their sweetest lays; When bounteous Ceres shall direct her car O'er fields now wasted by the fires of war, And angels view, with joy and wonder join'd, The golden age return'd to bless mankind.

Female Courtship.

TWO or three looks, when your swain wants a kiss; Two or three Noes, when he bids you say Yes;

Two or three smiles, when you utter the No; Two or three frowns, if he offer to go; Two or three speeches, like "ah! go away!" Two or three times you must hold him to stay; Two or three laughs, when astray for small chat; Two or three tears, tho' you can't tell for what; Two or three letters, when vows are begun; Two or three quarrels before you be done; Two or three meetings to walk here and there; Two or three nights to the play-house repair; Two or three dances to make you jocose; Two or three hours in a corner sit close; Two or three starts, when he bids you elope; Two or three glances, to imitate hope; Two or three pauses, before you be won; Two or three swoonings, to let him press on; Two or three sighs, when you've wasted your tears; Two or three hems, when the chaplain appears; Two or three squeezes, when the hand's giv'n away; Two or three coughs, when you come to obey; Two or three court'seys, when marriage is over; Two or three honeys—discoursing your lover; Two or three steps tow'rds the bed chamber run; Two or three kisses, when ask'd but for one.

Two or three lasses may have by these rhymes, Two or three little ones, two or three times.

P. Q.

Translation of the 40th Ode of ANACREON.

AS CUPID loosen'd with his blows The fragrant foldings of a rose, The little urchin did not see Beneath their shade a sleeping bee: The insect with instinctive art Against his finger arm'd his dart; When half he flew, and half he ran,

And to his mother thus began: "I die, mamma, indeed I shall, A serpent that had vings, tho' small, Has shot an arrow into me— The shepherds said it was a bee" "Pray, CUPID, if so sharp a sting Belong to such a little thing, What do you think must be the smart When you shoot others to the heart?"

The Neglected Maid's Lamentation.

POOR-CHLOE lives pensive, cast down and dejected, Because she's so slighted, and so much neglected: "O tell me the reason, O pray tell me why My mates all get sweet-hearts, and I am pass'd by? They leave me at home, and they treat me with scorn, And I am unpity'd, forsaken, forlorn! My mates are all welcom'd, respected, caress'd, They're sweetly saluted — their bosoms are press'd. Each heart is transported, with joy how it jumps, While here I sit moping alone in the dumps. I've made use of all methods, I've try'd every thing, On purpose myself into favour to bring; But all prov'd abortive, for when I have done, Of sweet-hearts I never, O never get one. Myself with fine clothing on sunday I rig, And tri•• up my carcase so neat and so trig: I put my fine ••hoes on, and fine yellow gown, And equally dress from my toe to my crown. With meal dust and tallow, I trim up my hair, And spangle with ribbons so neat and so rare; The green and the yellow, the white and the red, Are fix'd in due order, and pinn'd on my head. With jewels my ears do I likewise adorn, The finest and dearest that ever were worn. I go to my glass, and there fix on my tucker;

And cook up my mouth in its sabbath-day's pucker: And then having fix'd up my person so neat, I walk as genteely to church through the street. My mother she always does give me this charge, To be careful and see that I step not too large; I keep her directions, and constantly mind That my heels do not kick up my gown-tail behind. When at church my fine rings to advantage to place; My fingers I hold by the side of my face; I try to my utmost, I do all I can, To dazzle the eyes of some silly young man. I torture my body with whalebone and wood, To make me look slender, in misery I've stood. So tight I go girded, that ofttimes I swoon, And always am glad when the parson has done. And then I trip home as genteel as before, And am still unsuccessful, and still must deplore! 'Tis the want of a husband that makes me complain: Now can you tell Chloe how one she may gain?"

ANSWER.

Poor Chloe! you own it has been your whole study, To dress, to trim up, to embellish your body: When once you've as richly adorned your mind, I doubt not but quickly an husband you'll find.

A Pastoral Dialogue.

CAELIA.

TOO partial, Damon, are thy lays, In Chloe's and Amelia's praise; See! am not I as young? Am I less soft, less gay, less fair? Have I not lips, and eyes, and hair? Then, Damon, O the truth declare, Why have not I been sung?

DAMON.

The nymphs you hate, the nymphs you scorn, With rival wreaths my brows adorn: 'Tis this awakes my lyre. They tend my lambkins, and rejoice To see me move, to hear my voice: Like their's were lovely Caelia's choice, Her presence would inspire.

CAELIA.

Suppose each morning I should twine A garland, for no brows but thine; Shall I be then supreme? If I sit by thee every day, To hear thee sing, to see thee play; Then say, O Damon, pr'y thee say, Shall Caelia be thy theme?

DAMON.

Amelia then, though heavenly bright, Nor Chloe, fair as rising light, With Caelia shall contend; I'll praise thy wit, thy shape, thy mein; Thy charms shall speak thee beauty's queen: In thee Diana shall be seen, And every nymph shall bend.

On the Death of a Friend.

THE beauteous youth is gone, The much-lov'd object's fled; Enter'd his long eternal home, And number'd with the dead.

But he shall live again, E••rob'd in bright array; Shall take his part in heavenly strains, In everlasting day.

Then stop the dropping tear, And hush the heaving sighs; And sorrow not for him, he's where Eternal joys arise.

EPITAPH, On an amiable young Lady.

THIS humble grave tho' no proud structure grace, Yet truth and goodness sanctify the place: Yet blameless virtue, which adorn'd thy bloom, Lamented maid! now weeps upon thy tomb: Escap'd from death, O safe on that calm shore, Where sin and pain, and passion are no more! What neither wealth could buy, nor power decree, Regard and pity wait sincere on thee! Lo! soft remembrance drops a pious tear, And holy friendship sits a mourner here.

EXTRACT, Respectfully inscribed to Miss M. T-r—y, by her Friend, FIDELIO.

OF manners smooth—with tenderness replete, Her language mild—her disposition sweet; To kindness, meekness, goodness, is she prone, And almost all the virtues are her own.

MESSIAH, A Sacred Eclogue.

YE nymphs of Solyma! begin the song, To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong, The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades,

The dreams of Pindus and th' Aonian maids Delight no more—O Thou my voice inspire, Who touch'd Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire! Rapt into future times, the bard begun: A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son! From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, Whose towering top perfumes the Eastern skies: Th' ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move, And on its top descend the mystic Dove. Ye Heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour, And in soft silence shed the kindly shower! The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade; All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail. Returning justice lift aloft her scale; Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, And white-rob'd innocence from Heaven descend. Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected morn! O spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born! See nature hastes, her earliest wreaths to bring, With all the incense of the breathing spring; See lofty Lebanon his head advance, See nodding forests on the mountains dance, See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies! Hark! a glad voice the lonely desart cheers; Prepare the way! a God, a God appears! A God, a God! the vocal hills reply, The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity. Lo' earth receives him from the bending skies! Sink down, ye mountains, and, ye vallies, rise! With heads declin'd, ye cedars, homage pay; Be smooth, ye rocks: ye rapid floods, give way! The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold; Hear him, ye deaf! and, all ye blind, behold! He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day: He the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear; The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego,

And leap exulting like the bounding roe. No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear; From every face he wipes off every tear. In adamantine chains shall death be bound, And hell's grim tyrant feel'th' eternal wound. As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air, Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, By day o'ersees them, and by night protects; The tender lambs he raises in his arms, Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms; Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, The promis'd father of the future age. No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more: But useless lances into scythes shall bend, And the broad falchion in a plough-share end. Then palaces shall rise; the joyful sun Shall finish what his short-liv'd sire begun; Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, And the same hand which sow'd shall reap the field. The swain in barren desarts with surprize Sees lillies spring, and sudden verdure rise; And starts, amid the thirsty wilds, to hear New falls of water murmuring in his ear. On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abode, The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods; Waste, sandy vallies, once perplex'd with thorn, The spiry fir and shapely box adorn; To leafless shrubs the flowering palm succeed, And od'rous myrtle to the noisome weed. The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, And boys in flowery bands the tyger lead; The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet; The smiling infant in his hand shall take The crested basilisk and speckled snake,

Pleas'd the green lustre of their scales survey, And with their forked tongue shall innocently play. Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise! Exalt thy towering head, and lift thine eyes! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn; See future sons and daughters yet unborn, In crowding ranks on every side arise! Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See barb'rous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend; See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, And heap'd with products of Sabaean springs! For thee Idumea's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountain's glow. See Heaven its sparkling portals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day. No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn; But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine! The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; But fix'd his word, his saving power remains: Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns! POPE.

The FIRE-SIDE.

DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, In Folly's maze advance; Tho' singularity and pride Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside, Nor join the giddy dance. From the gay world we'll oft re••••••e To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs; No noisy neighbour enters here, No intermeddling stranger near, To spoil our heart-felt joys. If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies; And they are fools who roam: The world has nothing to bestow, From our own selves our joys must flow, And that dear ••ut our home. Of rest was Noah's dove bereft, When with impatient wing she left That safe retreat, the ark; Giving her vain excursion o'er, The disappointed bird once more Explor'd the sacred bark. Tho' fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs, We, who improve his golden hours, By sweet experience know, That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good A paradise below. Our babes shall richest comforts bring; If tutor'd right they'll prove a spring, Whence pleasures ever rise: We'll form their minds, with studious care, To all that's manly, good, and fair, And train them for the skies. While they our wisest hours engage, They'll joy our youth, support our age, And crown our hoary hairs: They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day, And thus our fondest loves repay, And recompence our car••s. No borrow'd joys! they're all our own, While to the world we live unknown, Or by the world forgot: Monarchs! we envy not your state; We look with pity on the great,

And bless our humbler lot. Our portion is not large, indeed; But then how little do we need! For Nature's calls are few: In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may suffice, And make that little do. We'll therefore relish with content, Whate'er kind Providence has sent, Nor aim beyond our pow'r; For, if our stock be very small, 'Tis prudence to enjoy it all, Nor lose the present hour. To be resign'd, when ills betide, Patient when favors are deny'd, And pleas'd with favors giv'n; Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part; This is that incense of the heart, Whose fragrance smells to heav'n. We'll ask no long protracted treat, Since winter life is seldom sweet; But, when our feast is o'er, Grateful from table well arise, Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes The relicks of our store. Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we'll go; Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe With cautious steps we'll tread; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear, And mingle with the dead. While conscience, like a faithful friend, Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend, And cheer our dying breath; Shall, when all other comforts cease, Like a kind angel whisper peace, And smooth the bed of death.

A new and Certain Cure for Cancers: Or Infallibility of Advertising Doctors.

An EPITAPH.

HERE lies a fool flat on his back, The victim of a Cancer quack; Who lost his money and his life By plaister, caustic, and by knife. The case was this—a pimple rose, South east a little from his nose, Which daily reden'd and grew bigger, As too much drinking gave it vigour. A score of gossips soon ensure Full threescore certain modes of cure: But yet the full-fed pimple still Defy'd all petticoated skill; When fortune led him to peruse A hand-bill in the weekly news, Sign'd by six fools of different sorts, All cur'd of Cancers made of warts; Who recommend with due submission This cancer-doctor as magician. Fear wing'd his flight to find the quack, And prove his cancer-curing knack: But on his way he found another, A second advertising brother, But as much like him, as an owl Is unlike every handsome fowl; Whose fame had rais'd as broad a fog, And of the two the greater hog; Who us'd a still more magic plaister, That sweat forsooth, and cur'd the faster. This doctor view'd with moony eyes And scowl'd up face the pimple's size; Then christen'd it in solemn answer, And cried "This pimple's name is CANCER! But courage friend — I see you're pale — My sweating plaisters never fail.

I've sweated hundreds out with ease, With roots as long as maple trees, And never fail'd in all my trials— Behold these samples here in vials, Preserv'd, to shew my wond'rous merits, Just as my liver is—in spirits! For Twenty Joes the cure is done"— The bargain's struck—the plaister on; Which knaw'd the cancer at its leisure, And pain'd his face above all measure: But still the pimple spread the faster, And swell'd like toad that meets disaster. Thus foil'd, the doctor gravely swore It was a right rose cancer sore; Then stuck his probe beneath the beard, And shew'd them where the leaves appear'd; And rais'd the patient's drooping spirits, By praising up the plaister's merits. Quoth he, the roots now scarcely stick, I'll fetch her out, like crab or stick, And make it rendezvous, next trial, With six more plagues in my old vial— Then purg'd him pale with jalap drastic, And next applies th' infernal caustic: But yet this 'semblance bright of hell Serv'd but to make the patient yell, And gnawing on with fiery pace Devour'd one broadside of his face. Courage; 'tis done the doctor cried, And quick th' incision knife applied, Which with three cuts made such a hole, Out fled the patient's tortur'd soul. Go, readers, gentle, eke and simple, If you have wart, or corn, or pimple, To quack infallible apply; Here's room enough for you to lie— His skill triumphant still prevails, For Death's a CURE that never fails.

Anecdote of a Clown.

A Clown once in college stood gaping and mute, To hear learned doctors in Latin dispute. Says a doctor, "what means that illiterate fool? "Can he pleasure find in debat•••• of our school? "Of all he has heard not a word can he tell, "Nor guess to which party the victory fell." "No, no," says the rustic, "I a'nt a fool neither; "When I heard you wise men talking Latin together, "I only observ'd which had most moderation, "And which of the parties seem'd most in a passion. "Soon as I saw you, Sir, fall into a heat, "There now, honest friend, said I, you are beat. "Men reason with temper; the party that winces, "Confesses how sorely the argument pinches."

Candid Courtship. "Where love was liberty, and nature, law."

FLORIMEL.

IS Daphne, the pride of the plain, Content to be Florimel's spouse? Can she listen with love to his strain? Is she charm'd with the villager's vows? The kidlings that browze on the rock, And the fleeces which bathe in the rill, N••y, the all of my pastoral flock, Believe me, is her's if she will.

DAPHNE.

Good shepherd, be artless and wise; Can ambition with meekness agree? Contentment's the charter I prize; No wealth has a virtue for me. 'Tis enough to be Florimel's wife, And duties domestic fulfil; I am sure I can love you for life, So I thank you, I think that I will.

FLORIMEL.

The miser his plumb may possess, The statesman his title and star, Our cares and our crimes will be less, And sha'nt we be happier far? From fortune we'll brave each rebuff, Your smiles can adversity kill; Your heart will be treasure enough, And I'll keep it, dear Daphne, I will.

DAPHNE.

My candor coquets may despise, And prudes may my passion condemn: But innocence scorns a disguise, And I hope I'm as modest as them; And, I think, if there's faith in the brook, I'm as fair as the maid of the Mill; So Florimel give me your crook, For in sooth I'm determin'd I will.

QUERE.

MINERVA elected, I pray tell me true, Were not men to woo women, what would women do?

Answer—by a young Lady.

WERE men not to woo us, you ask what we'd do? Gods! I'll tell you—though I blush red as rubies, You should find we would woo, and better than you, For we'd take no denial—ye Boobies.

Female Advice.

IF you'd be truly blest in love, Be constant as the turtle dove, To him whom heav'n has made your choice, Love and Obey— (at Church your voice.)

For better take him, or for worse, For bags of gold, or empty purse; For love or hate, for peace or war, For kiss or kick, box, bruise or scar; For dress or rags, for scorn or chaff, For wine or water, All, or half. Which ever is your lot in life, Be still the good and loving wife; Always kind, sincere and free, The house-wife with aeconomy; Obliging, modest, chaste and gay, Polite and cheerful—never Nay; Content with little, meek with riches, But let the Husband wear the breeches. If always mindful of your duty, He will, with love, reward your beauty.

The CHOICE.

O happy state! when souls each other draw, Where love is liberty, and nature, law; All then is full, possessing and possest, No craving void left aching in the breast: E'en thought meets thought ere from the lips it part, And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart— This sure is bliss—! Eloisa to Abelard.

IF ever I should change my state of life, Grant such a one, O Heaven! may be my wife: Be she by nature form'd the eye to please▪ With graceful negligence, and native ease; Politely bred—be her's each moving art, To charm the soul, and captivate the heart. Gay without lightness—unreserv'd, yet free From all the little arts of coquetry. Learn'd, not pedantic—may she only prize, And read such authors as shall make her wise, But chief religious rules may she obey, And follow still where virtue points the way.

Leave the unthinking part of woman-kind, To adorn the body, and neglect the mind; Be their's the glory, conquest to obtain, Be their's the barbarous joy of giving pain.* 7.6 And their's to feign, to ogle, laugh and play, To sleep or trifle golden hours away; Practice each wanton air—display their charms, To win some gaudy coxcomb to their arms: Her's be a nobler aim—to adorn the mind, With virtue, knowledge, and with love refin'd, To shine in those despised scenes of life, A tender mother, and a virtuous wife. To mark the path departed saints have trod, The path which leads to happiness and God. How vast the pleasure! how sincere the bliss! If earth can boast one joy, it must be this. (O pleasing thought!) with such a Fair to prove The satisfaction of a mutual love. Withou•• a care, then would each minute roll, Bright as her form, and calm as Myra's soul. Then no domestic jars would damp the joy, Nor absence wean, nor long possession cloy; Every uneasy passion lull'd to rest, Our hopes all crown'd, and every wish possest: She blest in me, and I in such a wife, We'd sail unruffled down the stream of life. And when our days shall end, (as end they must) And both our bodies mingle in the dust, Our souls then closer join'd, would wing away, And love, and live for ever in the realms of day. FIDELIO.

Another CHOICE.

IF on this busy theatre of life, My destiny allots me to a wife, Auspicious powers! Oh, may my nuptial prove

The calm result of judgment mix'd with love: O may I ne'er precipitately wed, By a false flame of sudden passion led; But may my love be permanently plac'd On that which ne'er can be by time effac'd. 'Tis merit which alone can point the dart, Which finds a passage to my guarded heart. The gay coquette and artful jilt shall be With the starch'd prude, alike contemn'd by me: The heiress too, who gains into her arms, More lovers by her thousands, than her charms, Has not the least allurements in my eyes: Her dress, wit, wealth and airs I all despise. No interested views can sway my mind, I'm to all charms but those of merit blind. O may the maid to whom I yield my heart, Be free alike from vanity and art; May ev'ry virtue grace her spotless breast, May she each folly of her sex detest. May foul-mouth'd scandal ne'er pollute her tongue, Ne'er may she be by ranc'rous envy stung; May affectation, coquetry and pride, And ev'ry vice which is to them ally'd Be foreign to her bosom; may each grace Inhabit there, as in her lovely face; May wit thro' all her converse be diffus'd, But may it still. good natur'dly be us'd: May gaiety and prudence e'er be join'd With social sweetness in her cheerful mind: May her soul breathe a true benevolence, May virtue ev'ry action influence; My she by ev'ry act herself endear, Gentle, obliging, modest, free, sincere; May she each idle dissipation slight, And ever in domestic care delight. (If's not too little) may becoming dress A plain and easy elegance express, May it with taste be chose, and not by whim, Neither too modish nor too nicely prim;

Accomplish'd thus by nature and by art, Excelling thus in ev'ry varied part, O may she have a tender, faithful heart. To these may constancy and honor join, And then, ye gracious powers, O make her mine; And if she views me with love's partial eye, With her I e'er could live, with her could die; Nay, the whole business of my life should prove But one endeavor to deserve her love, Our years would in continual blessings flow, And we should almost taste of heaven below.

The Maiden's CHOICE.

IF e'er I'm doom'd the marriage chain to wear, Propitious heaven, attend my humble pray'r. May the dear man I'm destin'd to obey, Still kin••ly govern with a gentle sway; May his good sense improve my best of thoughts, And with good nature smile on all my faults, May ev'ry virtue his best friendship know, And all vice shun him as his mortal foe. May I too find possess'd, by the dear youth, The strictest manners, and sincerest truth; Unblemish'd be his character and fame, May his good actions merit a good name. I'd have his fortune easy, but not great, For troubles often on the wealthy wait, Nor life so short that I could never spare A trifling part to throw away on care. Be this my fate if e'er I'm made a wife, Or keep me happy in a single life.

To a Lady, very fearful of Thunder.

WHY should my fairest shudder with surprize, When the red lightning glances thro' the skies? Or why the virtuous soul be fill'd with dread,

When thunder rattles o'er th•• guiltless head? No storms should e'er invade that peaceful breast Which is of conscious innocence possest: Let lightning strike with fear the guilty soul, And let him tremble when the thunders roll; His troubled conscience echoes back the sound, And in the awful noise his joys are drown'd; His fleeting joys at once now disappear, And leave the wretch a slave to servile fear; The darkest prospects must his mind o'erspread, Well may he shrink, and view it then with dread. But thou, my Fair! thy mind from guilt is free, E'en envy's dumb at the approach of thee. View then the stormy and tempestuous scene, With calm composure, and with look serene.

The Power of the Fair—A Familiar Epistle.

YOU will wonder, my friend, and you'll think me too long, For complaining and grumbling's the chief of mysong: But woman, dear woman, man's sweet pretty play thing, That haughty, that humble, that gloomy, that gay thing, O'er me, sorceress-like, waves her magical wand, And compels me to yield to her stubborn command. I who ne'er by a spouse meek obedience was taught, I who ne'er in the rat-trap of wedlock was caught, Ne'er swallow'd that strong dram of comfort, a Wife, Which warms us at first, but soon preys upon life, Am teaz'd and tormented with female caprice, An old maiden sister, and young maiden niece. The headstrong young minx put me quite in a passion, She's just like a mule, or a lady of fashion; She has got such ridiculous whims in her head, I wish from my heart she was married, or—dead. And yet the young toad's not so bad as the old one; When I talk of our home, she does nothing but scold one.

In vain I declare that her niece will be spoil'd here, Her whiteness, she says, will not even be soil'd here. My sister is one of the tribe of Match-Makers; The old maids in general are rather match-breakers. She makes it her business, and strives against fate, In looking about for an husband for Kate. Now she's scheming, contriving to catch a rich man, But I'll lay two to one she's marr'd in her plan. Perhaps you will laugh at my weakness, and wonder, That I to a woman will deign to knock under: But look round the world, and you'll soon find that no man Is freed from the rod of tyrannical woman.

Conjugal Life.

YE wives and ye husbands, who both wish to see Your conjugal scenes from all skirmishes free, In this doth the secret of harmony lie, Ne'er begin a duet ev'n a half note too high. Ye ladies tho' vex'd your mild spirits may be, Yet, kindly beware of keen repartee; For peace's soft bosom those arrows must hit Which doubly are pointed with anger and wit. Ye husbands of argument, chiefly beware, That bane of good humour that frightens the fair, Where reason's soft tones soon in passions are drown'd, While happiness trembles, and flies from the sound. Oh! both have a care of all hasty replies, On hearing whose discord the bachelor cries, (While snugly he smiles on himself and his cat) 'The sharp notes of marriage are worse than the flat.' In unison sweet let your voices agree, While both are maintain'd in the natural key. Thus love shall beat time with a conjugal kiss, And your skirmish be only the skirmish of kiss.

THE END.

Notes

• * 7.1

  On account of his promise at first setting out.
• * 7.2

  O had I weigh'd it ere my fond embrace! What darts of agony had miss'd my heart! YOUNG.
• * 7.3

  A single life shall prove.
• † 7.4

  The last.
• * 7.5

  Not till thou hast enjoyed all that happiness this life can give.
• * 7.6

  Worthy the attention of Miss E— P— Bost.