The gleaner. A miscellaneous production. In three volumes. / By Constantia. ; [Four lines of verse] ; Vol. I[-III]. ; Published according to act of Congress.

THE GLEANER.

N^o. XXXV.

Wisdom with careful hand her flow'rets strews, Knowledge in its persuasive charms s••e shews; She tempts the voyager o'er the destin'd way, And wins him by indulgence to obey.

Plows, in her system, seldom find a place, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 worth is not the offspring of disgrace; The flexile plant bends to the vernal gale, While in the blast, its leaves and blossoms fail.

"TAKE away this child," said the late benevo|lent Dr. Cooper, while seated with the cele|brated Dr. Franklin, in a little retired breakfasting parlour—

Take away this child—her questions inter|rupt our conversation, and are an impertinent intru|sion upon the enjoyments of an hour, devoted to an entertainment of the highest kind.

"Nay, nay," cried the philosopher—

let her stay, let her stay; she is a stranger in our world, and she has a right to make her inquiries relative to the manners and cus|toms of the people, among whom, the probability is, she has many years to sojourn.

Men and women are too haughty, and form too ele|vated conceptions of the distance between them and the little race of mortals who are, for a season, their dependants. There is a freedom of access, and a chas|tized familiarity, which is very compatible with a due spirit of government; but mild dignity is an association too little known, and too rarely exemplified in the pres|ent order of things.

The trust reposed in parents and preceptors, is in|deed important; the character of the rising generation

is in their gift, and the peace or anarchy of society must result from them. When we consider how few parents are endowed by nature, or qualified by im|provement, for the judicious as discharge of duties so es|sential, we are almost ready to give our voice in favour of that plan, which, in a certain celebrated communi|ty, placed their youth under the tutelage of the State, commiting their education to persons deliberately cho|sen, and properly qualified for their high office. Yet, against this arrangement, the authority derived from the Father of the universe, forcibly pleads! The feel|ings of the parent indignantly revolt; and my right to direct my own child, is, in my own estimation, unques|tionable. Well then, there remains but one remedy—Let the cultivation of the minds of the man and woman, in miniature, be of that description which will, in future, enable them to assume with advantage, the guardianship of their descendants.

Much, in this momentous department, depends on female administration; and the mother, or the woman to whom she may delegate her office, will imprint on the opening mind, characters, ideas and conclusions, which time, in all its variety of vicissitudes, will never be able to erase.

Surely then, it is politic to bestow upon the educa|tion of girls the most exact attention: Let them be able to converse correctly and elegantly, (in their native strains) with the children they may usher into being; and, since the pronunciation is best fixed in the early part of life, let them be qualified to give the little pro|ficients a pleasing impression of the French language; nor, it is conceived, ought it to be considered as unsexual, if they were capacitated to render the rudiments of the Latin tongue familiar. An acquaintance with history would capacitate mothers to select their nursery tales from those transactions which have actually taken place upon our globe, and thus useful knowledge would su|persede fairy legendary witches, and hob-goblins. Geography also might be introduced, and the little prattlers, by information that the great globe whereon

they move, has received the form of that orange which so pleasingly regales their palate, would, ere they were aware, be ushered to the avenues of instruction. As|tronomy too may lend its aid; the blazing fire may represent the sun, and the little bird revolving to its flame, on which they so impatiently wait to feast, un|der the direction of the well informed and judicious tutoress, may gradually account for light and heat, the grateful vicissitudes of night and day, with the alternate succession of the seasons; and thus would the task of the future preceptor be rendered easy, a thirst for knowledge created, and the threshold of wisdom strewed with flowers.

But children commonly pass from the hands of their parents to that of their tutors at a very early period; and was I invested with the powers of legisla|tion, or was the gift of conferring honours mine, there is no order of citizens which I would so liberally en|dow, and raise to such distinction, as those individuals who devote themselves to the education of youth. But then they should be persons unquestionably qual|ified for their office, and entitled beyond all contro|versy to the approbation of their country. Arduous is the undertaking—the first abilities are requisite—and it is impossible to rate too high the worth of those who are thus suitably accomplished. Permit me, reader, to sketch the outlines of the character of a Pre|ceptor whom I should delight to honour. Imagination this moment presents him—he blends exquisite sensi|bility with uniform patience—he is remarkably en|during—never hasty or impetuous—calmly deliberate in all his movements—carefully investigating, nor ever inflicting punishments, but such as both in quantity and quality are righteously due. He possesseth extensive knowledge of the science or sciences which he teaches—he is free from every external blemish, and remarkable for no unfortunate singularity—his manners are elegant, and in the best sense of the word descriptive of the gentleman. He is celebrated for benevolence—he is an indisputable philanthropist—he possesseth the hap|py

secret of assimilating dignity and condescension—his inborn integrity is undoubted, and he is master of sufficient address to obtain an entire ascendency over the minds of his pupils—a stranger to prejudice, he is, strictly speaking, impartial—and, to say all in one word, he embodies every virtue of which humanity is susceptible: Nor is the sketch too highly wrought, for it is assuredly true, that to accommodate the mind to the various dispositions to be found in a large school, and so to understand the intellectual arrangement of each individual as to be capable of rendering him the important services, which are necessary, must indispu|tably require every excellence, and the utmost perfec|tion of our nature.

The austere man can never be successful; he will banish smiles from the face of that season which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 made for joy; and if the student is not uncommonly endowed by nature, he will create in him an aversion to his book. Severity will always operate upon the opening mind, like the chilling blasts of winter upon the tender plant; it droops its blighted head, its pow|ers are rendered torpid, its strength is prostrated, and it is well, if the progressing principle (if I may so ex|press myself) which is at present latent, doth not be|come wholly extinct. Blows are the most easy expe|dient, and are, perhaps for that reason, too often resorted too—the castigation of the boy, frequently gratifies the passions of the master, and he is sometimes vindictive and inhuman in his punishments. If the giving a wrong sound to a letter, or forgetting a sentence, is to be marked by blows—what resource, permit me to ask, has the Preceptor in the event of capital crimes? A man who is himself free from error, or, which will have the same effect upon his pupils, who is studious to conceal his foibles from their knowledge, who is solicitous to attach them to his person, and who carefully impresses an idea of his own affection toward them, who labours to obtain their confidence, and makes free use of that noble incentive, Praise—such a man will seldom, I im|agine, find it necessary to have recourse to severity;

and it is incontestibly true, that punishments, especial|ly blows, should be repeated as seldom as possible; for assuredly, nothing can be obtained by rendering the little offender callous, familiarizing him to disgrace, or banishing from his bosom the hope of unblemished reputation. The first offences of children, whatever may be their na|ture, should invariably be considered as venial; and it would be always right, if practicable, to convict them without a witness—we cannot be too solicitous to spare them he first ••lush of guilt; the second will not be so deep, and they will too soon leap the boundaries of inno|cence. I would affect to suppose them incapable of the turpitude of a criminal action; and I would constantly repeat, while there remained the least shadow of prob|ability for such an avowal, that I was confident they would never debase themselves by the infamy of delib|erate vice; thus, it is possible, that the fear of forfeiting our supposed good opinion would engage them silently to tread back the path they have reprehensibly entered.

I remember, some time since, being greatly shocked at receiving an account of an arrangement (which I would fain hope is singular) in a certain school of some celebrity, situated in one of our sea-ports not far distant from the metropolis. Rewards are offered, and every method taken to prove a crime—say, for example, a falsehood. While the child, in all the sim|plicity of infantile confidence, remains unconscious of the conspiracy formed against him! Irrefragable con|viction is at length obtained, and the culprit is imme|diately proclaimed throughout the school—he is en|tered upon the lying list, and takes his seat upon a range which produces him a proper subject for the ill-natured ridicule of the whole flock. Nor is this enough—his name is written in capitals with the igno|minious term, Liar, at the end of it. The defama|tory sentence is posted up in some conspicuous place, for the inspection, not only of the children, but of every in|dividual who may happen to visit the school; and this mark of infamy once affixed, is not taken down as long as the aggressor continues a student in this seminary!!! My face

glows with indignation, while penning this relation. What has the little wretch to hope for under such tuition; after such a procedure, (labouring under the weight of a most opprobrious verdict, and the victim of unwarrantable severity) where will he find spirits to pursue, with the requisite alacrity, his appointed stud|ies? Or how can he advantageously receive lessons from the mouth of him, who has thus unmercifully blistered his reputation? Are not the ill effects of this arrangement both upon the school in general, and the offender in particular, sufficiently obvious? Is not undue degradation, envy, rancour, implacability, everlasting, disgrace, and consequent despair, thus systematized, and embattled against that order, harmony, and im|provement, which would inevitably result from the adoption of a mild spirit of government? Gracious God!—but let me exercise the patience that I would recommend as the uniform companion and bosom friend of the preceptor, and of which a view of the situation to which the foregoing discipline, or, more properly speaking, infamous tyranny, must reduce the offending student, had well near deprived me—and let me, with all due deference to the general merit, and superior abilities of the gentleman, who will feel himself interested in this representation, calmly ask, would it not be more judicious to aim at acting the part of an invisible spy, continuing a silent observer of every action until the transgression is evident or strongly suspected, and even then would it not be well to follow the offender by private admonitions—to address his reason; to enlist his affections; to delineate in forcible language his error, and energetically to describe the tremendous consequences of an obstinate adherence to guilty pur|suits? Public shame, in the recess of a private interview, might be flashed in his face; probably he would shrink from its horrors, and the hope of escaping so indelible an evil, might engage him to return to the haunts of vir|tue—might ensure his dereliction of vice.

Many of my readers will recollect the method pur|sued by Gang••nell, when an inferior Ecclesiastic, for

the recovery of a beloved and notorious offender; and all who do, will not fail to applaud. It is, however, a melancholy truth, that these mild efforts will not always procure a reformation. But surely, previous to a publication of disgrace, a consultation of parents or guardians should be obtained; and as those deeply interested characters ought invariably to coalesce with the preceptors in whom they confide, no important step should be taken, without their knowledge and appro|bation. I am aware that this precludes the idea of secrecy in regard to school discipline; and I must confess, that I seriously wish the telling tales out of school, was no longer held up as a bug-bear to children, and that the terror it has so long excited, was entirely abolished. Rectitude submitteth its administration to the strictest scrutiny; the more it is known, the more it is admir|ed; and the arrangements of equity soliciteth inquiry.

The magnitude of my subject, bars the supposition that it can be too warmly expatiated upon. Children, I insist, should be brought forward with gentleness. The wise king of Israel was not always wise; and when he is found so petulantly exclaiming, "Spare the rod and spoil the child," the probability is, that, crowded upon by the ill-regulated offspring of his illicit and multifarious amours, he had lost that balance of equanimity, which is so proper to the philosopher. The tutor should nev|er be permitted to act the part of a despot; he should ever be free of access, and while he uniformly pre|serves a mild spirit of government, the pupil, under proper regulations, should be permitted a sufficient lat|itude of inquiry.

Every anxious parent experiences the difficulty of obtaining a preceptor, to whom he can confide the care of his children. But if the emoluments of the office were proportioned to the solicitude and impor|tance of the undertaking, if it was more honorary, and if there were greater distinctions annexed thereto, an adequate number of candidates, of meritorious candi|dates, would present. Countless advantages would

accrue to families, and consequences the most benefi|cial, would result to the community at large.

The ancients, we are told, formed such just ideas of the nature and momentous consequences of education, as to esteem the cultivation of the minds of their young people among their most dignified offices; and per|sons of the first consideration, possessing affluence, and obtaining general confidence, engaged in the arduous task, delighting to employ themselves in shaping the principles, and pointing the views, of those who were to succeed them in the great drama of life. And was not this perfectly right? The good preceptor is of course ennobled; and no just reason can be given why he should not take rank in the highest grade of the community. For my own part, I again repeat, that deliberate reflection upon the nature of his duties, and the magnitude of those effects which frequently de|pend upon his regency, has constrained me to regard him as more consequential, and of higher importance, than even the authority which is constituted supreme in any country; nay, further, that school dame, redu|ced by adverse circumstances to confer the rudiments of instruction, and to call into action the latent seeds of worth, is of more value (supposing she judiciously and faithfully performs the trust reposed in her) in the great scale of excellence, than she, who, from consider|ations of wealth or beauty, receives the adulation of gathering crowds. This is an obvious truth, inas|much as it is the exertions of the tutoress, succeeded by the more extensive operations of the preceptor, that will render easy the seat of the magistrate, and super|cede the necessity of coercive interposition, giving uni|versal order to take place, as naturally as the hours succeed each other, or as the blessings of light proceed from the ••rb of day. From whence is derived the fe|licity of families? Undoubtedly from a due regulation of the individuals of which they are composed, and particularly from a proper arrangement of the young people who constitute such important parts thereof. From what source results the well-being of the great

body of the people? Indisputably from the informa|tion, correct movements, and order of its members. And is not the due qualification of teachers, and the faithful discharge of the duties of their office, the broad and solid basis, on which is erected the superstructure of whatsoever is necessary in the economy of private life, public usefulness, or general celebrity? I say then, if these things are true, let us encourage by every means the worthy preceptor; let us cherish him as the origin of virtue; and while we discountenance every vestige of tyranny, let us firmly resolve to strengthen the hands of those, to whom we have deliberately confided the care of our children.

N^o. XXXVI.

My son must study—Learning is a prize— Her ample stores the mental ••••nd supplies— And first a parent language he must trace, Its subtleties, its value, and its grace: The various parts of speech di••••ect, combine, And in their ranks the govern'd words confine: Thus the foundation takes its proper place, Embosom'd science rising on its base.

"GOOD Mr. Gleaner," said a rural friend of mine,

I think you lose ground by the prolixity of your numbers; and, to say truth, you often remind me of Farmer Straggleford, who whimsically erect|ed a number of huge enormous granaries, which, when completed, remained monuments of his osten|tation, for having rendered himself, by his prodig|ious exertions, and the extensiveness of his plans, an insolvent debtor; his buildings, of course, contain nothing of value, indeed they are nearly unoccupied, and he is regarded as a poor bankrupt, who has been the fabricator of his own conspicuous insignificancy. Now, had neighbour Straggleford contented him|self with a snug little barn, he might have kept his grounds, and, storing it every year with the ripened produce of the season, he might—

Say no more, Brother Thrifty, cried I—say no more; I perfectly understand you, although it must be con|fessed your illustration is rather far fetched; yet, trust me, it shall be my endeavour in future to circumscribe, as much as possible, my excursive rambles; and agree|able to this determination I abridge a number of sheets, that I had entitled an essay on education, confining myself to a few observations, which I most unfeigned|ly wish may be duly considered.

The question whether private or public education is of the most general utility, has agitated the minds, and employed the pens, of many ingenious writers; but the subject, as far as I am informed, still remains prob|lematical; nor shall I arrogantly pretend to decide where those Doctors of literature so widely disagree. Yet the Gleaner, without incurring the charge of temer|ity, may perhaps be permitted to ask whether it would not be wisdom to defer the choice of public or private tuition, until the disposition of the child is ascertained? The modest, diffident mind, may stand in need of all those stimulatives that are in the gift of a large school. Retiring efforts are often roused to action by emula|tion; and that fame which a conspicuous situation fre|quently confers, may at once allure, and give a mo|tive to ambition. There are minds, peculiarly attu|ned to all the sensibilities, which are at once the ce|ment, the ornament, and the source of those gentler virtues that connect, that meliorate, and that actuate beings who combine, and who are formed to cultivate the endearing charities, the elegancies, and the bles|sings of social life. To accommodate an intellect of this description to the multifarious and frequently dis|cordant scenes that are to be encountered in a world, where ill-judged asperities too often wound the exqui|sitely delicate feelings of susceptibility, a various and extensive intercourse with mankind may be necessary. But the boy, whose bold aspiring temper precipitates him upon an undue assumption of importance, who suddenly rushes forward to those distinctions, which are only proper to maturity; such a boy, methinks, should

receive the checks of retirement; should be formed to knowledge and to virtue, amid the shades of seques|tered life; care being taken to furnish him with those views, which may gradually accustom him to a proper estimation of himself.

My wishes, relative to the instruction of young peo|ple, comprise every thing which can be considered as useful or ornamental; but I am especially solicitous, that they should be made critically acquainted with that language, in which they are destined to converse, transact business, and adjust their pleasurable pursuits. Some of my acquaintance have made greater profi|ciency in many branches of study, than in their mother tongue; and I know persons who can pass rapidly through a Latin author, who cannot easily trace the lineage or description of the several parts of speech in their native English; who cannot readily decline a noun; who hesitate with respect to the cases nomina|tive, possessive, and objective; and who are at a loss to follow the verb through number, person, mood, and tense.

Latidius should be a good Latin scholar; he has received the honours of a university; and yet it is a fact, that Latidius cannot write a billet, in which an English grammarian will not be able to point out, I had almost said, as many errors as there are lines! Is Latidius censurable for this deficiency? Perhaps he is much less so than those who had the direction of his education. Great care was taken to usher him into the world, perfectly accomplished in every requisite except his vernacular tongue; but, while engaged in the study of the dead languages, he was never taught a due deference for, or proper estimation of, his own:

I should not be satisfied, if my sons and daughters did not speak, read, and write English, grammatically, critically, and even elegantly. Perhaps the accurate ob|server may, at this moment, shrewdly remark—

Sure|ly, be who takes upon himself the character of Dictator, or arrogantly assumes the seat of the Censor, ought to be per|fectly free from the errors which he condemns.

This is

assuredly true; and, to the well-meaning and candid objector, I calmly answer—I have no where proposed my|self as a model: It may be, that I am experimentally qual|ified to descant upon the disadvantages attendant upon early inattention. For aught thou knowest, the Gleaner may have been doomed to the toilsome drudgery of gleaning his information, when years, diminishing the flexibility of the mental faculties, have rendered it difficult for them to re|ceive impressions; and, if I am thus circumstanced, I may be allowed to delineate the inconveniences of, and energetically to lament a deficiency from which I so essentially suffer. Admitting, I say, this to be the case, I may, with the strictest propriety and the utmost consistency, proceed to point out the shoals which too often impede, and frequently wholly arrest my progress.

One thing is certain; for the rising generation, the devout orisons of my spirit are daily breathed. I have written primarily for my amusement—Truth is my pole star—I would contribute my mite to benefit my fellow-mortals—I have not designed ill—and, if I err, I hum|bly entreat those who confer on my pages the honour of a perusal, to impute my errors rather to my head than to my heart.

The modern literati are generally sufficiently liberal in the eulogies which they bestow on the ancients; and, as imitation is commonly the offspring of admiration, is it not wonderful, they do not more frequently tread in their steps? Neither the Greeks nor the Romans in|cumbered themselves with a variety of tongues; their own language always obtained a just pre-eminence, and never failed of engaging their earliest and most unre|mitted application. The result was, natural children were qualified to converse, and to express themselves on paper, with elegance and accuracy; they were in|itiated, in the morning of their days, into an acquaint|ance with all the varieties of grammar; they could de|lineate the several parts of speech; the intricacies of their language were rendered familiar to their under|standings; they were capable of determining its com|pass,

and of analyzing every sentence; they could, with the greatest precision, resolve each component word, placing it under its original head or description; And hence, it is said, (and the conjecture is founded in reason) proceeded those works of educated genius, which have stood the test of time, extorting a tribute of applause from every succeeding generation.

If I mistake not, (and upon this occasion I do what I seldom do—trust to the tenacity of my memory) there were periods, when the Romans, measuring the importance of their language by the dignity of their rational character, disdained the study even of the Greek tongue. Victors are fond of imposing their laws, their customs, and their language; and the universal preva|lence of any particular mode of speech, would be one step toward the introduction of universal dominion. National attachment should, therefore, dictate the stu|dious cultivation of a national language; and it may be worthy the exertions of an enlightened legislature, to erect a standard, to raise, to dignify, to perfect, and to polish a common tongue.

Is the student designed for the profession of any par|ticular art or science, a vernacular language must be the vehicle of his ideas. Gentlemen at the bar de|liver their harangues in their mother tongue; in na|tive strains they address the impannelled jury, and jus|tice frequently hangs upon their forcible, intelligent, and well constructed periods. The sacred Orator ad|dresses his listening audience in familiar accents. The Representatives of our free, sovereign and independ|ent States—Senators enrobed with power—Chief Jus|tices delivering their solemn charges—and our august President, the Patriot WASHINGTON, invested with all that authority which virtuous liberty can confer, with every intervening grade—are all found delivering their sentiments, and arresting attention, in the well known sounds which designate the English tongue.

Letters are indisputably the elements of language; and the due arrangement, and fit construction of those words which they compose, is the broad basis on which

towers the arts and sciences, forming, in their several orders, a superstructure replete with elegance, beauty and usefulness. It is from this source that the orator must draw his materials; poets too submit to its ad|measurement; and the grave historian must be tried by its rules. Indeed, an early acquaintance with the nature, construction and latitude of a vernacular lan|guage, is of such importance to every class of people, that it is wonderful there should be found parents and preceptors who can preserve their equanimity, while conscious that those committed to their charge are, in this truly essential part of education, almost totally neglected.

The train of reflections introduced by my subject, at this moment presents to my mind a person, who is now suffering much from this unnatural omission; and, as examples often enforce conviction more effectually than general remarks, I present him by way of illus|tration.

Leontius, born in the midst of affluence, was nursed in the lap of plenty; and being the only son of deserv|ing parents, who were generally judicious in their ar|rangements, his education was regarded as a matter of the greatest moment. No expense was spared; and his preceptors were rewarded for their exertions not only with a liberal, but with a lavish hand. He had hardly completed his sixth year, when it was judged necessary he should commence his studies of the Latin tongue; and from that moment, hurried on from one stage of erudition to another, no portion of time was found to attend to his progress in that language, from which he was in a great measure to derive his future respectability. It was absurdly supposed, (if indeed it ever obtained a place in the reflections of either pa|rents or tutor) that English would be a matter of course; and thus the boy was left to form unto himself a style, just as whim or caprice might direct. For a place at a celebrated seminary he was early presented a candidate; his acceptation was full and honorary—••e passed through the university, attending the accus|tomed

routine of instruction, and, enriched with aca|demical applause, he received his first degree. Thus endowed, he made his entrée upon society, better quali|fied to figure in any walk than as an English scholar. Without arrogating the gift of prophecy, it was easy to predict an event, which was precisely that which reason would have calculated. Awkward and untaught, his education had in effect produced him a stranger to those scenes in which he was hourly called upon to take a part. If he assayed the, to him, arduous task of entertaining his friends with an English book, false pronunciation, emphasis, and accent, were visible in every paragraph; comma's assumed the distinction of full stops, while the finely turned period lost all its beauty: Colons, semicolons, notes of interrogation and admiration, these were all promiscuously huddled together; and while by one continued monotony of sound, ideas were jumbled, and the auditory nerve dis|gusted, it was in vain that his hearers fatigued themselves by an expectation of the sentiment of an author. Har|monious accents, delicate inflexions of voice, and that animation, or energetic propriety, which is the vehi|cle of intelligence—of these he had no idea; he seem|ed in effect the determined foe of good reading, and he ought to have been arraigned as the murderer of sense. Candour would, however, have appeared as his advocate; and she might truly have specified, that such erroneous conclusions had obtained in his bosom, as taught him to regard every thing merely English with a sensation bordering upon contempt; and, she would have added, that he had been unavoidably pre|cipitated upon these conclusions, by the total silence of his preceptors. As a writer, too, Leontius is highly deficient; and a girl who is dependent upon her nee|dle for her support, supposing she has been properly educated, ought to blush if she could not surpass him in the correctness of her epistolary productions.

Yet it was expected that our young gentleman would attain eminence, deserve well of his country, and make his way to popularity among a race of beings who

spoke, wrote, declaimed, and transacted their commer|cial concerns, altogether in English. Leontius was bred to no business; he was, as has been intimated, born to high pecuniary expectations, and it was presumed that his natural and acquired abilities would raise him to distinction. His exterior is dignified and preposses|sing; and, notwithstanding his deficiencies as an En|glish scholar, high ideas of his literature are entertain|ed. He early wedded the discreet and beautiful Hen|rietta, and soon became the father of a family; his parents and the friends of his youth have sunk into the grave, and misfortunes have robbed him of that patrimony, which, in the warmth of a youthful imag|ination, he had calculated as exhaustless.

For Leontius what now remains? Education hath unfitted him for the preceptor of his own children—he is unqualified for every thing that is simply English; and while nature has endowed him with abilities which might capacitate him to become the bard, the essayist, or even the historian of his country, education inter|poses its effectual barriers.

The want of an early and critical knowledge of a vernacular tongue, is deeply felt by a writer; an em|ployment, which might otherwise be advantageous and pleasing, becomes real drudgery, and the experience of persons thus circumstanced, will oblige them to confess that it is something late to begin the study of a lan|guage, after the age of adolescence hath passed away.

Necessity, however, hath called into action the facul|ties of Leontius; some beautiful essays, with infinite labour, he hath completed; but he blushes at every line, lest the critic should detect him in doing violence to the subtleties of grammar; and each revolving day witnesses his lamentations that he was not early taught his mother tongue.

I condemn not the extensive studies in which our youth are engaged—far from it—French, Latin, Italian, and whatever else the understanding can attain, these are all little enough; but while my mind continues under the dominion of reason, I shall ever contend for a de|cided

preference as indisputably due to the mother tongue; and under this persuasion the necessity of en|treating parents, guardians and preceptors of every description, continually to bear in mind what country is destined the theatre of action to those committed to their care, becomes apparent.

The English language is by inheritance ours. It is that in which we first breathe forth our filial grati|tude; in those sentences which it comprises, we mani|fest our family attachments—express our amities—shape our devotional orisons—transact business—form the most tender of all ties—address an infant family—fash|ion the lives and manners of that family—and, final|ly, embody that last solemn adieu, which is to precede our exit from the present to a higher order of existence.

The advantage of acquitting ourselves, on these occa|sions, with propriety, must be obvious to every thinking mind; and the Gleaner imagines he can hardly be too importunate on a subject of such magnitude.

N^o. XXXVII.

At length to corresponding friends we turn—

IT is with superior pleasure, I appropriate this Gleaner to the performance of my promise, of long standing, made to my several correspondents. Having arranged in order such of their letters as are admissible, I proceed to publish them, exactly accord|ing to their dates; presuming that the reason hereto|fore urged, will apologize for a delay which has in truth been occasioned by a multiplicity of avocations. They follow verbatim, as they came to hand.

To the GLEANER.

From my Estate in the Coun|try, October 18th, 1794.

KIND SIR,

AS Miss Melworth, now Mistress Hamilton, was unfortunately engaged previous to my application to

you; as my plans are all under the direction of pru|dence, and as I suppose you have some influence over her sister, Miss Clifford, if you can insure me, that she will not be so foolishly conscientious as to hold her|self bound by a sort of a promise made to the boy William, who, it appears, is now in comfortable cir|cumstances; and you must recollect, Mr. Vigillius, that you became a sort of a surety for the girl; these are your words, which I shall transcribe just as they stand in your twenty-eighth number. "Fear not, gen|tle reader—by virtue of the patriarchal dignity which I have assumed, I will, upon a proper occasion, grant unto the said Serafina Clifford, a full and free absolution from this her inconsiderate vow, which I shall take care to impute to the irresistable influence of an impassioned moment."

Now I say, Mr. Vigillius, if you do in reality pos|sess such a power, and if you will absolutely and bona fide clear Miss Clifford, and the heirs lawfully born of her body, from all claims whatsoever, which the Ham|iltons may, on any future emergency, find it convenient to lay to her estate, I will pass over the queer manner of her birth, and the odd way in which her true father con|trived to smuggle her into his family, and she shall forthwith become my true and lawful wife until death. You know, friend Vigillius, there are some men of not half my property, who would be more squeamish; but so that I do but secure the main chance, I will not lose a bargain, although its instrument may not chance to be stampt with other people's ideas of legitimacy, and all that. To say truth, I think I cannot do better than to enter into your family; and, as you seem to have so much authority over Miss Clifford, (and she is now, by all account, the sister-in-law of Mrs. Hamilton) I consider her all one as a girl of yours; and being more and more determined to marry, I am in down|right earnest in this business.

I have lately lost a sister, who, though she was what is commonly called an old maid, was nevertheless a very good house-wife, and managed my matters to a fraction; nothing was lost, and every penny was disposed

of to the best advantage; and yet, Mr. Gleaner, she stood me in no more, take one year with another, ex|clusive of her board, (and, by the way, she would live upon next to nothing) than fifteen pounds per year. Was I to take a house-keeper, who would not consider my interest as her own, she might waste a great deal, and in the long run spend much more than a good, sober, discreet wife, while I should have not one of the comforts of mat|rimony. I know, Mr. Gleaner, that you are fond of saving, and that you calculate these things; and I therefore take it for certain, that you will think with me. It is true, I have a number of other sisters—ay, and brothers too, for there are a pretty many of us; the Plodders are a numerous family; but what of all that? they are every mother's son of them married and settled; and, having all of them children, some of whom are grown up, they reckon upon me as free plunder. I can see by the twist of their features, that they have already divided my acres among them: They visit me, it is true, very often—are very com|plaisant, and all that; but I can see, plain enough, it is for the loaves and fishes, and that were it not for the legacies for which they are hunting. I should see but very little of them. I have a thousand reasons, all clear as day light, by which I am assured they do not care three brass farthings for me. I have lately recov|ered from a dangerous illness, and although they im|agine they have topped their parts very well, and that they are as secure as a thief in a mill, yet I could see, plain enough, under all their pretended grief, that they were ready to sing for joy, when the physicians pronounc|ed my disorder incurable; and, moreover, I overheard their conversation when they supposed me in a delirium; and their ••••ng fa••es, now that I have, contrary to the expectations of every one, got about again, is as plain as that two and two make four; however, if I do not contrive effectually to disappoint them, my name is not Timothy Plodder.

I think, therefore, Mr. Gleaner, considering (as I observed to you in a former letter) my age, that Miss

Serafina and myself have no time to lose; and so if you will out of hand propose the matter, and let me know when I may see the young woman, or yourself, or her brother Hamilton, we will conclude the bargain with all possible dispatch, before my relations get scent of the business; for they absolutely grow very saucy, and I am determined to show them some little Plodders, whom they little expect to see; and then we shall know who is to be respected, and all that. I will make Miss Clifford a good husband; she shall have every thing she can reasonably desire; and I will continue, kind and respected Sir, your's to serve, until death,

TIMOTHY PLODDER.

To the GLEANER.

DEAR GOOD MR. GLEANER,

MISS Primrose and myself have wagered two five-dollar bills about dear Margaretta's new father; Miss Primrose thinks that you knows so supereminently well how to write about loveyers and novels, and all them there sort of things, and that you have such a little mil|lion of pretty phantasticks about you, that you will, af|ter a while, bring old Mrs. Melworth out of the tomb; and that, having got some curous English doctor to bring her to life again, she will, some how or some how, come over here to this here country of America, where they will be all happified together. Now, though I thinks this would be delightful, yet, having heard my papa and Miss Sabina say, that such a denomong, I thinks they calls it, would be a catastrofe that would have too many inadmissibles to be admitted—thinks it cannot be—and so I have wagered two five-dollar bills with Miss Primrose, that you will, out of hand, marry Mr. Melworth to Miss Serafina Clifford; for, says I, who would matter his being a few years older, when the man is such a heroism man, as a body may say, and is besides so superexcellent; and, as I says, who will Miss Serafina have, if she does not have this here Mr. Melworth; for now, says I, that Mr. Hamilton is

proved to be her true and deeden brother, born of her own father, it is certain she can never have him, even suppose dear Margaretta, which I pray may never be the case, should do otherways than well.

Now I mentions Miss Clifford's brother, I will tell you, Mr. Gleaner, about my own brother, our Valen|tine—Why you must know, that my papa says, how that he has almost broken his heart; and I am sure for it, that he has made me cry as bad, every bit and grain, as if I had been reading a tragedy, or a novel. I will tell you how it was—why he would be gone from our house whole evenings together, and some|times e'en a most all night, and my papa could never get out of him where he was, or what he was about; and so, at last, he abdicated himself from his own home, and his natural-born father altogether, and my papa could not tell where to look for him, and we never knowed till tother day we adventitiously found out, that he was privately married to Molly Brazen; to whom he used to write love-letters and epitaphs, and those sort of poetricks, directing them every one to Miss Clarinda Paragon, and signing himself her everlasting adorer, Valentine Lovelong—for my part, I thinks it is a burning shame, that he should bring such an indeliating disgrace upon names which is so monstrously fine. My papa says as how that it is all owing to your historettas and your commedies, and your plays; but I wont believe it; I knows its no such thing, and it makes me cry, out of pure vexation, to hear learning and demeanours, and all these gentilities and handsomenesses, which are taken out of these here kind of books, spoken of in so metreposterous and so absorbed a manner. I knows bet|ter, Mr. Gleaner, I knows that Molly Brazen is a very bad girl; she is not—God forgive her—one morsel better than she should be; and she would have had my brother, if she could have cotch him, though he had never look|ed into a book in the universal world. I knows too that I have read all the books that I could possibly get, and a great, great many they have been, more, two to one, than our Valentine ever heard of in his born days,

and yet no desolate deceiving man, has ever come with his deceptionary tales for to traduce me. It may be, (as I am very sure I should find him out, and soon give him his own) that I should have no objections to hear what such a sad depopulating gallant might have to say for himself; but no matter for that—this is a secret; for my papa would never forgive me if he knew I had such a thought; but as I am resolved that I will not date this, any more than my last letter, and as I shall still sign by my fiction name, my papa, unless he had to do with the black art, will never find me out.

Do then, dear Mr. Gleaner, tell Miss Primrose and I, whether Mr. Melworth is to have Miss Clifford? Whether Margaretta and Serafina dress their waists as short as Mrs. Modish, (who positively assures both me and Miss Primrose, she makes, with her own hands, all their apparel) says they do? What the ladies think of naked elbows, and whether they have thrown aside their modesty pieces? An answer to these questions, will insurmountably oblige your ever loving, and truly obli|gated servant to command,

MONIMIA CASTALIO.

To the GLEANER.

Dissipation Hall, October 21st, 1794.

OLD FELLOW,

I AM willing to believe, as you say, that your girl was absolutely disposed of, before you received my let|ter, making known my designs in regard to her; and I can tell you, old Gentleman, it is well for you that I am—yes, Sir, it is well for you that I am—for I am connected with a set of high-blooded blades, every in|dividual of whom, have all reasonable attachment to my person and my interest; and we are, moreover, bound to each other, by the most solemn engagements, to aid and abet each other, upon all occasions, and to render to every member of our invincible community all possible assistance; and 'fore gad, old Square Toes,

if you had not given unequivocal demonstration, that your Margaretta was absolutely and bona fide shackled, before you was apprized of the honour I intended her, we would have made nothing of tossing your Worship in a blanket, and of leaving you, after your aërial eleva|tion, handsomely soused in the first horse-pond in our way. I give you this information for your future government; and, as I have a new proposal to make, I expect it will be properly influential. Do not deceive yourself, good Mr. Prig, with an idea, that the para|doxical mysteries, in which you have contrived to wrap yourself about, will much longer avail you; for Dick Bluster, Tom Pompous, Ned Mettlesome, and the rest of us, are expert at finding out the secret haunts of you sly ones; and we are, moreover, whatever you may think of it, possessed of a clue to your castle, which will lead us directly upon the ground, and we are both able and willing to turn knight-errants, to storm enchant|ed castles, fight magicians, and deliver all the distressed damsels, who may be sound within the territory of the United States.

Thus you are forewarned, and if you are but fore|armed, that is, if the weapons of your warfare are not carnal, but spiritual; if you enlist only under the banners of reason, we may adjust matters amicably enough. Serafina Clifford is a fine girl, by Jupiter—my intentions are honourable matrimony, and Miss Clifford is my object; for although her birth is not quite the thing, yet she is a good generous girl; and as she appears to be in possession of the ready, I very glad|ly make a transfer of my penchant for her little meek sister to her fair self; and I expect she will not find much difficulty in substituting as her heir apparent, a gay, handsome young fellow, instead of the little chap of whom she has appeared so passionately fond—her husband will very naturally succeed to her affections, and all her other goods and chattels; and if she continues her fondness for the smiling brats, y'clepped the comforts of matrimony, I may possibly furnish her with a plen|ty of them, while she, continuing to supply me with

the ready, we shall thus very handsomely reciprocate obligations.

But, in the mean time, as I have already been fool|ish enough to inform you that my estate was a little embarrassed, and as her sage brother may not be over and above fond of the scrapes into which that miserly and despotic old curmudgeon, Poverty, is so ungen|tlemanly as to lead the subjects of his ragged empire; he may probably think it becomes him to make a few pragmatical inquiries, and as I do not wish to be at odds with the brother of my spouse elect, you may in|form Edward Hamilton, that I have a handsome estate in possession; it is true, it is encumbered with a few mortgages, but the ready, which I take it for granted the young lady has in her gift, will easily clear off all these, and we shall then be as handsome and as fashionable a pair, as any of the gay circles in or about town can produce. But Edward is a sober dog—Well, hang it, so am I—and all this I am able and willing to demonstrate at whatever moment, and in whatever place, you and brother Hamilton may appoint. Please to present my humble duty to Miss Clifford, and assure her, that I am now immoveably fixed—that I am the most enamoured and impassioned of her adorers; and that I will ever continue

her true and faithful Bellamour.

P. S. Although I have never seen Miss Clifford, I can swear to the charms of her person; and her gen|erosity, presuming she may be persuaded to change its object, will fix me eternally her's. Do, old fellow, speak a good word for me, and thus secure to yourself the good will of a set of honest bloods, who will always be upon the scent in your service, and who will furnish you with abundant matter for sermonizing. Farewel—be faithful, and rest assured of the protection of

BELLAMOUR.

To the GLEANER.

State of Massachusetts, County of Hampshire, November 8th, 1794.

GOOD MAN GLEANER,

YOU have at last got the weather-gage of us; for you have contrived for to steer the little tight yawl Mar|garetta, into safe moorings; while we, d'ye see, the worse luck ours, are at the mercy of wind and tide. You have proved yourself, Mr. Gleaner, an able and experienced helmsman: Many a time have I sweat for you, taking it for certain, that you would run a-shore upon the sands, or split upon the rocks, which, during one whole glass, seemed to loom for your destruction; but, howsomever, you have worked your traverse well, and have, in a wonderful manner, understood to a lee, star|board, port, bear up, or right the helm, just as the wind has chopped about. But, mayhap, you would not have been so well off, had not your ship-mate have kept so good a look out alo••t. There is nothing like mounting the top-gallant-mast, when the breakers are a-head.

Lord, Lord!—if I had but been suffered to take the command of my own ship—but not a rope have I veer|ed out, without orders first had and obtained from lub|bers who never yet understood plain sailing, and who are, over and above, forever fishing in troubled waters. A thousand and a thousand times have I told Deborah Seafort what her yaws and her veerings would bring her to; and, sure as St. Peter's at Rome, she hath now run fast a-ground upon a lee shore, and here we must remain, wearing our sides, and beating, mayhap, against the rocks, if you, Sir, who seem to know ev|ery rope in the ship, do not lend a hand to help us off. You must know, that when, by the orders of our self-created captain, Deborah Seafort, we crowded every sail for the land of matrimony, as we had a gallant ship under foot, we foolishly enough hung out ever so ma|ny streamers; and, not having taken on board a suf|ficient quantity of ballast, we shipped, in lieu thereof, such a cargo of self-conceit, affectation, prim-osity, and

other femalities, as rendered us so crank, that we were many a time within an ame's-ace of oversetting.

But, mayhap, Mr. Gleaner, if you have never ploughed the ocean, you may not understand these sea terms; and so, d'ye see, I will endeavour for to let my|self down as much as possible. Why, you must know, that our girl Molly—for may I receive the cat-o' nine-tail upon my beam timbers, in presence of the whole ship's crew, if I ever call her Mary, or Maria, again.—I say, Mr. Gleaner, our girl Molly, being a good tight little hussy, and, withal, handsomely built, rigged, and, though I say it that should not say it, properly sound, was judged a fit match for any sea-boat whatever. I did not, as I have hinted above, like her manner of sailing, or the way which she made. Frequently has she flung out false colours, and after bringing to her lure many a gallant sail, she has up jibb, and borne away, quite in another direction. This I have pro|nounced dastardly, and have thought fit to enter my protest; but I have been charged with fomenting a mutiny, and belayed fast in the cabin, or the ship's hold, as a meddling, dangerous and officious fellow. You will understand, that I speak by way of metaphor, simile, or the like of that. It is in vain that I have, upon these occasions, run over a whole catalogue of sea oaths, that has frightened many a Jack Tar into obedience. The women, as they say, have got harden|ed to them, and they do not value them a rope's end! Deborah was above consulting her compass, and I have looked every moment when we should split to pieces. At length they have sprung a mast, and, entirely igno|rant of their chart, and not knowing which way to wear the ship, and being brought to their wit's end, they have condescended to place me at the helm. But, Mr. Gleaner, this being a kind of navigation at which I am not expert, I am much in the same situation of your land-lubbers, who find themselves at sea in a storm; and I am, as it were, obliged to bend my course to the harbour of your experience: You have erected a beacon, and if you can but warp us out of the present

difficult strait, in which we are becalmed, you shall be our land mark in future.

It goes to the heart of me, Mr. Gleaner, to see our Molly opening the sluices of her eye-pumps, and pour|ing forth such a torrent of salt-water sorrow. You must know, Sir, that after she had kept at bay ever so many pickeroons, she was at last brought to, by a smart, well-built brigantine, who seemed to understand every point of the compass, who was wonderfully trim, and fur|bished out to the best advantage. Molly, knowing how to calculate her own force, would not immediate|ly strike, and, to say truth, our spark rather played fast and loose, as the saying is—not choosing to come to an open parley. Howsomever, he contrived, d'ye see, to be constantly in the girl's wake; if ever she hoisted sail, he was sure to follow, and like the old Roman Mark Anthony, who we read of at school—who, by the bye, was as little of a sailor as a soldier—he seemed to think the world well lost for our Cleopatra. Well, but after Molly had stood out many glasses, Deborah, who is as yare as any old sea-boat need to be, having the watch, and having, as she said, thoroughly overhauled the lifts and the braces, the clew-lines and she buntlines; hav|ing top't her yards, and d'ye see, got every thing in read|iness, thought proper to heave out a white flag, by way of concluding upon terms of capitulation. But no sooner had we begun to veer out our fasts. than, zounds, Mr. Gleaner—for, d'ye see, it is enough to make the best minister in the United States swear—if the cow|ardly, rascally pickeroon, did not slip his cable, and sheer off, when, hoisting every sail, he was nearly out of sight before we knew he had weighed anchor. We immediately called a council, when, according to our reckoning, the ship had sailed too many knots for a pur|suit; and, moreover, our fair weather spark had so managed his tack, as to put it out of our power to libel the ship; and, over and above all this, it is deemed con|trary to all rule, to give chace in this kind of navi|gation.

Well, here then we are—and faith and troth, all in the dumps—Deborah is constantly snivelling—I can scarcely keep above water; and poor Molly, like a dis|abled weather-beaten yacht, is laid up. For forty years did I follow the sea—ay, and many a tough gale have I been in; but, split my timbers, if I ever knew what trouble was until now. Possibly, Mr. Gleaner, as you have already shown yourself wonderfully skil|ful at refitting, you may be able to splice us together once more, and then, with both wind and tide in our favour, mayhap we may yet bear a good sail, and after all these storms and tempests, arrive safe at the desired port. But, Mr. Gleaner, by my soul, you must bear a hand, for our poor wave-broken invalid is almost a wreck, and she will be speedily past repairing. I am, Sir, un|til death, your sorrowful friend,

GEORGE SEAFORT.

To the GLEANER.

From the Saloon of Solitude, December 15th, 1794.

WORTHY SIR,

IT is just two years and four months, this day, since I had the presumption to address you before. I have seen with pleasure the gradual progress of your Margaretta; she seems to possess every sexual virtue, while her attainments render her in every view supe|rior. A superstructure so rare, however excellent the materials, could not have been accomplished without the superintendence of uncommon abilities. The lot of the lovely orphan has been highly distinguished; and may she, as far as humanity will permit, be happily exempted from every future evil.

Yesterday my girl completed her twelfth year, and while every moment grows more and more interesting, my mind is struggling under the pressure of a thousand anxieties. Sophia Aimwell—tears stream from my eyes while I make the confession—is not exactly what I could wish! It is true her gentle bosom harbours no

particularly alarming propensities, and, that nature has endowed her with a good understanding, is also evi|dent; but notwithstanding the variety of expedients to which I have had recourse, I have never yet been able to impress upon her mind, the necessity of appli|cation. She seems unalterably opposed to uniformity; nor doth she ever, by her own choice, pursue either her book, her needle, or her pen, or even those lighter matters to which her attention is required, with the regularity which is, I have conceived, absolutely essen|tial to any considerable proficiency. My wish has been to produce her in society an accomplished female; but, alas! the execution of our plans remain not with us. Sophia is particularly averse to reading and writing; novels have not yet come under her observation. I have thought it too early to entrust those fascinating volumes to her inspection. It appears, Sir, that you do not altogether approve of novels, although, sub|mitting to the imposition of necessity, you have put them into the hand of your daughter. Pray, Sir, did you not exercise discrimination in this respect, or was Miss Melworth indulged with the free use of those books? Is it not possible to create, by habit, a taste for reading, where, unhappily, it is not inherent?

If it is consistent with your plans, you would do me a particular favour, if you would furnish me with cop|ies of a few of those letters, just by way of specimen, which passed between Mrs. Vigillius, and her amiable charge, by the post that was established between their respective chambers; and, any hint of direction which you may condescend to favour me with, will be re|ceived with much gratitude.

Sophia has never appeared so deeply interested in any thing, as in the story of your Margaretta; and a word from the Gleaner, will go farther than volumes written by any other pen. I am, worthy Sir, with high esteem, your constant reader, and sincere ad|mirer,

REBECCA AIMWELL.

Successive Gleaners shall pay the requisite atten|tion to the letters inserted in this number; and, in the interim, impressed with all possible consideration for my respectable correspondents, I offer them that grati|tude which is so eminently their due.

N^o. XXXVIII.

Joyless the man, who hails no bosom friend, Whose steps no lovely woman waits to greet; In his lorn self, whose pains and pleasures end, Concentrated where all his wishes meet: How comfortless his solitary home! In cheerless gloom he wears life's hours away; Around his board no smiling cherubs bloom, Nor voice of pleasure wakes the opening day.

THE picture which Mr. Plodder has given of his situation, is truly pitiable; and I am so far from regarding it as a caricature, that I am induced to be|lieve its most prominent features will generally stand confessed, in the life of those, who live and die bach|elors. I, however, once knew a happy exception to this conclusion, who, I confidently conclude, has now taken his station in a higher state of being. His de|parture out of time was marked by the orphan and the widow, with the deepest regret—sighs and tears were a tribute which his virtues necessarily drew forth, and his memory is embalmed by the richest per|fumes which gratitude can bestow. But the dwelling of this singular character was not a dreary solitude; it was irradiated by the smiles of infancy; and while the sons and daughters of penury, of every description, shared his bounty, the numerous offspring of a wid|owed sister, with their truly amiable mother, who was endeared to him, as well by kindred virtues, as by consanguinity, graced his board, became unto him as the children of his youth, and not only threw into ac|tion those paternal feelings which were inherent in his bosom, but furnished also an ample field for the exer|cise

of those uncommon abilities, which were largely drawn out in the course of their education. All who knew John Parker, esquire—generally distinguished by the name of Sheriff Parker—of Portsmouth, in the State of New-Hampshire, will readily acknowledge, that the voice of panegyric can hardly swell too high a note, when sounding the praises of this great and good man, who lived and died a bachelor.

But it is true, nevertheless, that the life of a bachel|or is almost invariably gloomy, or thinly strewed with rational pleasure. My friend Oswald may serve as an epitome of this class of men; he was bred a lawyer, and his youth passed in literary application; he either regarded la belle passion as below that dignity of character at which he aimed, or his moments of leisure were not sufficient to those attentions which its refinements require. Years rolled on, and succeeding seasons still found him busily engaged in scientific pur|suits, until he attained the sober age of sixty, without having made a single attachment which could interest the heart, or forcibly engage the tender affections. The classics were enchanting; they still continued the fasci|nating companions of his studious hours; and, although highly social by nature, his ruling propensities seem to have been, for a course of years, strangely over-ruled—but when once they were set afloat by reflection, he was roused to a melancholy view of his situation, and could not forbear regarding himself, in a very essential sense, alone in the universe. The guides of his youth, those persons whom he had been accustomed to revere, were mostly removed out of time, and the companions of his juvenile years were, to a man, "doubled in wed|lock and multiplied in children." Oswald was solicited to pass a month at the villa of Myrtilus, who had been his class-mate; he obeyed the summons, and he found the mansion of his friend the seat of domestic happiness.

During a period of twenty-five years, the life of Myrtilus had been ameliorated by the sympathies, cor|rected sentiments, endearing tenderness, and faithful attachment, of a lovely and elegant woman; a nume|rous

and beautifully promising family of sons and daughters seemed to emulate each other in their filial attentions; eagerly they watched every turn in his countenance, and while their animated features were impressed by glowing and duteous affection, they de|lighted to anticipate his wishes, and were on the wing to fulfil his commands. Thomson's family piece was strikingly exemplified; the union of Myrtilus and his charming wife was cemented by sacred love; the holy priest had witnessed their plighted faith; and, enriched by his pious benediction, their mutual tenderness con|fessed the righteous sanction. "The world, its pomp, its pleasures and its nonsense," were to them compara|tively of small estimation; possessing in each other what|ever they accounted transcendantly excellent,

some|thing than beauty dearer, both in the mind, and mind illu|mined face—truth, goodness, honour, harmony and love.

In natural succession their smiling

offspring rose around

transcripts of either parent—

by degrees those human blossoms blew, while each succeeding day, soft as it rolled, evinced some new charm, the father's lustre, and the mother's bloom

—the skilful hand of kind assidu|ous care, had formed their opening minds;

to rear the tender thought, to teach the young idea how to shoot. To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind—to breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix the generous purpose in the glowing breast.

This had been, of these blest pa|rents, the "delightful task." Perhaps they would have found it difficult to embody, by language, the sensa|tions of their enraptured bosoms, when, glancing round upon their little family,

Nothing struck their eye but sights of bliss—All various nature pressing on the heart: An elegant sufficiency, content, retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books. Ease and alternate labour, useful life, progressive virtue, and approving Heaven;

and perhaps, on such occasions, the tear of luxury which strayed adown their checks, was the most expressive testimony they could give of their ineffably exquisite feelings.

On the contemplative mind of Oswald nothing was ••ost—the past, the present, and the future, crowding

to his view, combined to furnish a most humiliating comparison; and spontaneously he exclaimed—

These are the matchless joys of virtuous love; and thus their moments fly. The seasons thus, as ceaseless round a jar|ring world they roll, still find them happy; and consent|ing Spring sheds her own rosy garland o'er their heads: Till evening comes at last, serene and mild; when, after the long vernal day of life, enamoured more, as more remembrance swells with many a proof of recollected love—together down they sink in social sleep; together freed, their gentle spirits fly to scenes where love and bliss im|mortal reign.

What an enchanting view! how beautiful, and how highly finished! Did poet ever pen superior lines?

Our bachelor heaved a sigh—a contrast so glaring was forcibly felt. "No young props," said he,

lift their green heads for my support; not an indi|vidual of the rising generation is bound to me by the silken bands of attachment, and this is a consequence of the arrangements of nature and of justice; for no mode of reasoning will invest me with a title to the fervours of that mind, which I have not particularly contributed to form, and in whose flexile dawn I have not been solicitous to obtain an interest. No deserving female honours me with her distinguishing regards—no gentle bosom swells for me the sigh of affection. I have not sought to lay the foundation of happiness; and it is in vain that I look for the superstructure of enjoyment. I have lived in vain, alas! for me it is now too late to form advantageous connexions, or to enter into engagements which should be the growth of many ripening suns. When I expire, my name will be extinct, and all remembrance of me will cease from the earth!!

Our comfortless old gentleman was perfectly right in his conclusions; and we would advise friend Plod|der to take the hint—should any mercenary female, caught by the lure of that establishment in his gift, cast her lot with him, we are apprehensive his chance for happiness will be small. It is too late in life for

him to begin that career, which should at least com|mence in the meridian of our days; and, besides, we think his motive for wishing to become a married man, is rather invidious. Revenge is rarely ever the parent of that tenderness, which is so indispensably requisite in a matrimonial connexion. We think he may have judged erroneously of his kindred; it will be strange if in a family so numerous he cannot find a worthy object; we advise him to make the experi|ment, to cultivate those attachments which nature authorizes, and to resign, at this late period (for we have good and cogent reasons to believe him turned of sixty instead of fifty) all pretensions to wedlock.

But however Mr. Plodder may determine, it cannot affect Serafina. The name of Clifford is now absorb|ed in that of Seymour; and the accomplished maiden, who wore it with transcendent honour, has added one more to the list of those matrons, who give dignity to, and bestow the brightest ornament upon humanity. I will own that some months have elapsed since the receipt of Mr. Plodder's letter; and, farther, that the marriage of Miss Clifford was not then solemnized; but as I was apprized of her engagements to a worthy man, and as neither his epistle, nor that of the facetious Mr. Bellamour, contained any thing which was considered of sufficient importance to stop proceedings, I did not think it absolutely necessary to derange my plans, by an earlier attention to their letters. Uninfluenced and undismayed by the threats of Mr. Bellamour, I might have contented myself with simply announcing the marriage of Miss Clifford; but feeling a degree of compassion for Mr. Plodder, and sincerely wishing ev|ery man and woman judiciously disposed of in holy wedlock, before they have fully completed their thir|••••eth year, I have produced a more copious exordium, than is perhaps necessary; and, as I know a wedding is a very grateful subject to most of my fair readers, I will, after briefly narrating a few preliminary articles, invite them to that of Miss Clifford.

The reader will have the goodness to recollect the important advantages which Edward Hamilton re|ceived, during his southern tour, from a friend, resi|dent in the State of South-Carolina; he will remem|ber also, the subsequent embarrassments of that friend, and that circumstances induced a belief that the state of bankruptcy, into which the generous Seymour was precipitated, if not procured, was at least accelerated by his efforts in favour of Edward Hamilton. Ingrati|tude can never take root in a noble mind; it could therefore find no place, either in the bosom of Mr. Hamilton, or that of the father of his Margaretta.

The abilities of Mr. Melworth were, on this occasion, commensurate with his wishes; and, after devoting a few days to paternal claims, and making ample pro|vision for the complete adjustment of Hamilton's af|fairs, he hasted upon the broadly philanthropic wings of benevolence, to South-Carolina. His dignified mein, conspicuous merit, and letters of address, pro|cured him a free access to the creditors of Mr. Sey|mour; and, with that dispatch which evinced the thor|ough accomptant, their several claims were examined, and a fund appropriated fully adequate to the reim|bursement of every just debt, while the unfortunate debtor, unconscious of the steps taking in his favour, wore away his melancholy hours immured within the walls of a prison.

The misfortunes of Seymour were not the result of misconduct; if there was a fault in his arrangements, the principle which produced it, conferred thereon a lustre which gave it, both in appearance and effect, the rich colouring of the most splendid virtue. It is im|possible but he who suffers by his extensive benevolence, and his commiseration for the unhappy, must carry with him his credentials of superior worth—must exhibit unequivocal testimonies of the justice of his title to admiration. It is true that the injunction to be just before we are generous, is worthy of observation; but if I endow a fellow creature with the means of obtain|ing a competency to-day, and to-morrow the ship in

which was contained my remaining property, is, by a stroke of Providence, whelmed beneath the waves, I do not see that I am greatly censurable because I did not, in the dread of this evil, withhold the solace which it was yesterday in my power to give. Mr. Seymour was of that class of men who never shut their ears against a tale of woe, and by consequence he could not lay up to himself much treasure; and when his ships of mer|chandize were either wrecked or captured, he had no means of satisfying those rapacious creditors, who, op|erated upon by principles the reverse of those which actuated his bosom, pursued him with unrelenting se|verity.

It was not until Mr. Melworth had procured a reg|ular course of proceedings; until every thing was in train; legal documents obtained, and the formalities necessary to his liberation completely adjusted, that he waited upon Mr. Seymour in his confinement; and he introduced himself to the then, (in his own estimation) unfortunate man, by words to this effect:—

"My name, Sir, is Charles Melworth. I am no stranger to the feelings of the unhappy. I am perfect|ly acquainted with the history of your rectitude, of your misfortunes, and of your generous munificence. But, Sir, you must not expect to contribute so nobly to the necessities of an Edward Hamilton, and to exercise toward that young man such unexampled forbearance with impunity: The day of retribution is at length ar|rived; the son of Charles Melworth, the husband of his Margaretta, must not submit to unreturnable obligations. Here, Sir, is your discharge in full; you are, from this moment, exonerated from a pressure, which must have been truly irksome to a mind like your's; and you receive this exoneration as a debt, which is your incontrovertible due. At liberty to pursue your own wishes, you will, doubt|less, be expeditious in departing from a place so little suited to your feelings and your character. But, ere you go, as we are now upon even ground, I request a lease of your good opinion, to be continued or forfeited, as I shall, in future, merit."

Melworth might have proceeded uninterruptedly to a much greater length; the understanding of Sey|mour underwent a kind of temporary petrifaction; astonishment absorbed his every faculty. Melworth paused in vain, and it was not until he had taken a variety of methods to rouse him to attention, that he was capable of listening to a regular eclaircissement. But to sketch his feelings, when the liberating truth first opened upon him, were a fruitless attempt; as well might I delineate to mortal view a disembodied spirit, as give the form of language to those exquisite sensations which then pervaded the bosom of Sey|mour; he however struggled not against the extricat|ing hand of his nobly generous friend—his composi|tion contained not a particle of false delicacy—he was conscious that a change of circumstances would have produced in him a similarity of exertions; and his unexpected enlargement, while it confounded his ene|mies, restored to his numerous friends that peace which his misfortunes had chased from their bosoms.

His emancipation, giving him an opportunity of an accurate investigation, he discovered many frauds by which he had been grossly injured; these he expos|ed, and debts to a considerable amount were recover|ed, while the return of several cargoes, that had been detained by the British for adjudication, by putting him in possession of considerable property, once more un|furled for him the golden wings of successful com|merce! Again he floated buoyant upon the stream of prosperity; and the expanding buds of hope obtained in his bosom primeval vigour. Hardly had he com|pleted his twenty-eighth year, ere he had witnessed all those vicissitudes which I have thus hastily sketched; and he may in truth be considered as an early profi|cient in the school of adversity. That he embraced the first possible opportunity of visiting Hamilton-Place will not be doubted; and it will readily be conceived that his arrival there was expected by his friends with uncommon impatience. Seymour was not only an accomplished man, but he had performed the part of a

guardian angel to Edward; and both Margaretta and Serafina regarded the moment which was to introduce them to a character whose virtues were unequivocal, and to whom they were essentially indebted among the most distinguished of their lives. Margaretta ad|vanced to meet the protector of her husband, with that chaste and elegant freedom which the dignified mat|ron knows to assume, nor did she conceive she trans|gressed any rule of propriety when her snowy hand was extended to his manly pressure, and her lovely cheek was modestly bent to his salute. Serafina ac|quitted herself with more timidity—her manner was characteristic of virgin delicacy; and while Seymour pressed her hand to his lips, "a higher bloom" suffused her animated features; and she permitted those civilities to which as the sister of Hamilton she was entitled, with silent complacency: Admiration and tender grat|itude were, however, evinced in her every gesture; and her expressive eye beamed those unequivocal tokens of welcome which her tongue refused to utter.

Edward ardently wished to reward the deserving Seymour, by some signal token of his grateful affec|tion. He regarded the hand of his sister as an inesti|mable prize—too rich, in his estimation, to be con|signed to the possession of any but his friend; and Seymour, on his part, from the moment he beheld Miss Clifford, became the most impassioned of men. But Serafina, devoted to the family of her brother, had repeatedly declared her absolute and unalterable predilection for a single life. Seymour was privately advertized of this resolution, and its motive, by Ed|ward and Margaretta; and thus obtaining a secret clue to her affections, he made his approaches with that address, which, in this age of finesse, seems to be a nec|essary part of the character of a finished gentleman. Had he directly attacked the fortress, by the common methods of assailment, the possibility is, that, prepared for an event, an expectation of which might have been induced by a variety of circumstances, she would resolutely have maintained her ground; but, proceed|ing

covertly to undermine, he slowly made his advan|ces, until, gradually sapping the foundation of her re|sistance, a coalition became an event in course. Ham|ilton and his charming wife; the little gentleman, whom Serafina regarded as a prodigy, with the infant Margaret|ta; these were the themes of panegyric, on which the enam|oured designer copiously dwelt, during those interviews that were frequently extended far beyond the limits which would have answered the wishes of common amity. The hours passed unheeded by; they were sentimental and refin|ed; the heart of Serafina was deeply impressed; she was conscious of her situation, and she secretly ex|claimed—"Yes, these delicious moments, snatched with the man who hath thus imperceptibly interested my best affec|tions, are productive of more highly zested pleasures, than I have ever yet experienced."

Edward and Margaretta saw that their utmost wish|es for their lovely sister was on the point of gratifica|tion, and they felicitated themselves on the prospect of an establishment for Miss Clifford, that was every way commensurate with her beauty and rare qualifications. They were careful not to interrupt the progress of a union they had so much at heart. Apparently uncon|scious of the growing importance of a friend, to whom they were so warmly attached, not a single observation escaped them; and thus was Serafina entrapped and captivated, before she had received the least suspicion of the combination formed against the singular resolu|tion she had avowed.

Seymour is one of the most accomplished men I ever beheld; his person is uncommonly handsome, and wonderfully prepossessing; his manners are easy and dignified; his morals are unexceptionable; and, me|liorated in the school of adversity, he unites, in him|self, every requisite which can insure felicity to a con|fiding female. To Serafina he every moment became of still more consequence, until, imaged upon her every thought, that hour was marked by frigid insipidity, that presented not the man of her heart—that witnessed not his indefatigable and tender assiduities.

It was after his return from one of those little neces|sary absences, which Serafina secretly lamented as real misfortunes, that, finding her alone, with his accus|tomed freedom, he took a seat by her side; and, after relating a new instance of the benevolence of her broth|er, he fixed his fine eyes tenderly upon her; the ready tear, at the recital of Edward's virtues, had strayed unbidden from its chrystal source, and was making its pearly way adown her lovely cheek, when, unable longer to resist his feelings, he took her not reluctant hand, and impressing upon i•• the second kiss of love, he ardently exclaimed—"Ah! Madam, how happy is your brother! I love you, Miss Clifford—passionately love you—and every faculty of my soul does homage to your peerless perfections: Forgive, loveliest of women, the freedom of a declaration, which I can no longer withhold. Surely, the sister of Edward Hamilton may still preserve that enviable character, and yet condescend to wear the title of the tender friend of Seymour. Turn not, I beseech you, from my ar|dent gaze—if I am reprehensible for devoting my every thought to you, thus, on my ••ended knees, sweet arbitress of my fate, I supplicate forgiveness—while, with the same breath, I solemnly protest, that an error so extatic, can nev|er be relinquished, but with my life."

Serafina, overcome by a declaration which she had long fervently wished, had averted her face for the purpose of regulating those tender emotions, that, ris|ing in rebellion against their lovely mistress, crimsoned her face, and filled her eyes with the most delicious tears she had ever shed. Soon, however, resuming her native fortitude, she wiped from her checks those of|ficious drops; and, smiling with more beauty than poets ever yet attributed to the dewy morn, with mild dig|nity (having previously entreated the supplicating Sey|mour to quit his humble posture) she thus responded: "You are, Sir, entitled to my utmost frankness—the confidence which you repose in me, invests you with this claim. I had formed a resolution to continue single: Penetrated by the virtues of my brother, and my not less amiable sister, I knew not that the universe

produced similar excellence—But you, Sir, appear to me to possess a mind fraught with those perfections I have delighted to trace. To adhere to my plan, after conviction of the error which originated it, would draw upon me the accusation of obstinacy. True, I imag|ined myself unalterably attached to it; but why should I blush to find—why hesitate to confess—that justice necessitates me to relinquish it—that I relinquish it to the virtues of a Seymour—and, that I can have no ra|tional objection to binding, by yet added ties, merit so unequivocal to a family, to which I am, by affinity, gratitude, and inclination, unalienably attached? Ac|cept, Sir, this attachment, as a pledge of that, which du|ties, yet superior, will impress upon my bosom."

Serafina ceased to speak—she trembled excessively; and, by a kind of involuntary motion, threw her hand|kerchief over her glowing face—Seymour caught her hand in extasy—But it was not our design to finish this scene; and not a step further will we proceed therein.

The now affianced lovers received the congratula|tions of their friends, with their accustomed dignity of character; no unnecessary delays were permitted; a few revolving weeks produced the bridal morn; Sey|mour plighted his faith with Serafina at the altar. Mr. Melworth, with that delicacy and propriety, for which he is remarkable, officiated as the nuptial father of Miss Clifford, and the venerable Urbanus received, while bending angels registered, their vows. Serafina was a beautiful transcript of Margaretta; her dress was white muslin, wrought after the same elegant pattern of the robe, which had been worn upon a sim|ilar occasion by her friend. But our party was not so select as that which had graced Margaretta's wedding-day. Some choice spirits attended the relations of Mr. Seymour, from South-Carolina; and they were resolved, as they said, to make a day of it. Their boisterous mirth, however, did not essentially impede the pleasure of the sentimentalist. Margaretta, aided

by Mary, presided; and it is unnecessary to observe, that hilarity was chastised by delicacy. The evening was concluded by an elegant rural ball, and every arrange|ment announced the ample fortune and capacious heart of the munificent Hamilton.

Mr. Seymour has erected a neat edifice in the neigh|bourhood of Hamilton-Place; he has displayed much taste in his buildings and his gardens; but his elegant fancy has been no where so conspicuous as in a beau|tiful grove, on which he has bestowed every embel|lishment of art and nature; and his seat, principally discriminated by this enchanting spot, is best known by the name of Seymour-Grove.

Mr. Melworth too, has tried his talents at architec|ture, and he has distinguished the paradisiacal retire|ment which he has completed, by the appellation of the Cottage of Amity. Thither, when we would inhale pleasures of the purest and the highest kind, our re|spective families collect; and if mortality is ever the abode of felicity, this mansion is, upon these occasions, its residence.

Serafina's attachment to the family of her brother, is, if possible, augmented since her marriage, and her regards are abundantly reciprocated.

Margaretta has introduced into being her third in|fant, to whom she has given the combined names of Mary-Augusta. Serafina continues her predilection in favour of the little William; but Mary whispers me, that a few months will probably produce a new candi|date for the affections of Mrs. Seymour, who will, doubtless, generalize, or render less marked, her at|tachment to the children of her brother; and, in the mean time, she has perfect complacence in her matri|monial connexion; she regards her husband as the first of men, and hesitates not to confess herself the happiest of women.

N^o. XXXIX.

Say, cruel trifler, whence the pleasure flow'd— See'st thou that face which once in smiles was drest? Where is the roseate h•••• that radiant glow'd? Whence are those sighs which swell that snowy breast? Where are the dimples of that lovely cheek, Which now so wan and worn by grief appears! Tell me, if just remorse will let thee speak, What is the source of that poor maniac's tears? Hail, doughty hero—trophied victor, hail! Deeply intrench'd, or, phalanx'd by thy art, Thou speed'st the arrow, pointed to prevail, Skill'd to transfix the fond defenceless heart!

HONEST Captain Seafort is in possession of the full commiseration of our respective families. The Melworths, the Hamiltons, the Seymours, with Mary, and myself, swell for him the sigh of regret. We wish indeed he had taken the command of his own ship, and we would gladly lend our aid to furnish the hawser, which should warp the bark into smooth water.

If we comprehend Captain Seafort, when he says—"frequently has she flung out false colours, and after bring|ing to her lure many a gallant sail, she has up jibb, and borne away quite in another direction"—we cannot altogether acquit Miss Seafort. It is true, a weak, inconsistent, and irregular mode of conduct in the commerce be|tween the sexes, from its supposed characteristic features, hath been hitherto tolerated, or has not excited that degree of contempt, and severity of reprehension, in the female, as in the male world. But in this enlight|ened period, when the sex seem emerging from the clouds which have hitherto enveloped them, and the revolution of events is advancing that half of the human species, which hath hitherto been involved in the night of darkness, toward the irradiating sun of science, we had ho|ped that women would have been contented to have resigned their charter for absurd and cruel trifling, and that a female coquette would have been held in as much detestation as a male. We allow, however,

that old habits are not easily relinquished; gradually the morning breaks, and we are willing to wait, until mid-day, for the meridian perfection of the sex.

For Miss Seafort, we hope she will call into exer|cise the heroism of the female character. Upon the glassy stream of tranquillity, her own efforts must again produce her. It is surely a pity to yield a coxcomb such a triumph, as her continued inaction, and melan|choly wearing away, upon the flats of apathy, would be|stow. She will consider that by the "false colours she has hung out," she has in some measure provoked the attack, that she is in one view the aggressor—that if she hath suffered, she hath also inflicted sufferings; and that although it is evident she hath not merited the neglect of him for whom she mourns, yet it is rare that re|taliation is consigned to the individual hand of him, who was originally aggrieved: The past, we know, cannot be recalled, and we counsel Miss Seafort to view her accounts with the world as adjusted, the bal|ance struck, and her arrearage fully paid. We rec|ommend it to her to begin her traverse anew, to place her worthy father at the helm, and to hoist every sail, and keep a steady course, until she once more makes the harbour of rectitude.

It may be an alleviation of her misfortunes, to con|sider, that the silly fellow, who, without suffering his words to invest her with a legal claim upon him, has barely amused himself with her easy credulity, would, had it suited his convenience to conclude with her a matrimonial bargain, have become either neglectful or domineering; the character of an idle, unprincipled, and dissipated young fellow, is not necessarily ameliora|ted by marriage; and a virtuous woman has no resource but her tears. Miss Seafort cannot esteem her "fair weather spark." His conduct is not calculated to give a favourable impression of his mind. Let her remem|ber that love, not grounded upon, nor invigorated by esteem, is more evanescent than the structures reared by the aërial illusions of fancy. The life of a woman of senti|ment and virtue, wedded to a man she cannot esteem,

is a constant warfare. Alas! that the welfare of society, and the laws of our country, admit no remedy for so com|mon an evil!

A man, thus circumstanced, it is notorious, is in possession of various means of dissipating his chagrin, and of eluding the shafts of disappointment—but a woman, (such are the laws which propriety enact) must waste her life in silence, and in solitude. Miss Seafort may be assured, that first attachments are frequently ill-judged; that they are not indelible; and that a woman of spirit, if she commits the conflict to resolution, will assur|edly entitle herself to the honorary wreath of victory. The homage paid to first love is a pernicious idolatry. The sentiments entertained of the durability of la belle pas|sion, have usurped a prevalence, which hath consigned the hours of many an amiable female to unavailing regret. I contend that love, in a good mind, will assur|edly expire, if not nurtured by esteem; nay, further, I as|sert that it is in fact a short lived passion, that its dissolu|tion is unavoidable, its own intense ardours naturally procure its destruction; and meliorating esteem is the Phenix which ascends from its ashes.

How deplorable is the situation of that wedded pair, who are not endowed with the requisites to insure mu|tual esteem; their conduct is necessarily under the daily observation of each other, and to the penetrating eye of keen and momently investigation their minds are frequently unveiled. How careful then should the sexes be to endow themselves with those intellectual qualities, which will procure mutual confidence and mutual complacency. Let Miss Seafort cultivate the worthy propensities of her nature; let her either con|tinue single, or wed a man of a sound understanding and cultivated mind, of pleasing manners and mild integrity, and I hazard my reputation on the trial. I pronounce positively, that her situation will be much more eligible, than if she had given her hand to the fop who now probably derides the aggravated anguish he hath originated.

I will confess, that my resentment is forcibly exci|ted against an idea which hath committed such devas|tation on the peace of society. I am determined that my children, the little Margaretta, and Mary-Augus|ta, shall receive timely impressions of the impotency of that chimera, endowed by imagination, with in|vincibility; and they shall be early taught, that dis|cretion ought never to quit the helm of a female mind; that reason is ordained to triumph over every weak idea. In one word, we will help them to attain the government of their passions.

The poor Lavinia is a melancholy instance of the fa|tal consequence of an unlimited indulgence of those sen|sibilities, which, under the requisite control, frequently make the felicity, and are always the ornament of humanity. She possessed a heart, glowing with every sentiment which is dictated by benevolence; she was eminently capable of friendship; disdaining suspicion, her confidence in the appearances of virtue was exactly what it should have been in long tried worth, and her susceptibility was extreme. Born to an opulent for|tune, she had multiplied opportunities of gratifying the propensities of a munificent mind, and she was re|garded by the sons and daughters of penury as the angel of consolation. She had lost her father in her in|fancy, and she continued the only prop of an amiable mother, of whom she was the richest solace; she was beautiful in her person, of a pleasing understanding, and highly accomplished; her manners were a transcript of her mind, open and undesigning; and a man of feel|ing would have suffered death, rather than have pur|loined the tranquillity of a bosom so exquisitely at|tuned, or betrayed the confidence reposed in him by such transcendent excellence. I think I have never seen a more amiable female than Lavinia; I recollect attending Mary and Margaretta, on a visit made to her and her worthy mother. Margaretta was then a child—she had been with us only one month; but young as she was, the prepossessing Lavinia captivated her little heart. A large party was assembled, La|vinia

extorted general admiration; her equal attentions to her numerous guests, the elegance of her move|ments, her solicitude to contribute to the pleasures of every individual, her duteous attention to her mother, the eagerness with which she hastened to divest her of every care, while the eyes of her enraptured parent followed her with an expression of extacy, which I have seldom seen equalled, and never surpassed; all this was calculated to produce the highest degree of approbation, and she necessarily received the hom|age of every eye. At our request, she played and sung, and her execution gave general satisfaction; dancing constituted a part of our entertainment, and the movements of Lavinia were attuned by harmony. Every heart congratulated the mother of such a daughter; and we became assured that Emly-House was indeed the abode of felicity.

From this sketch it will be imagined that the edu|cation of Lavinia had not been neglected; and indeed, the truth is, that her anxious and tenderly interested mother had spared, in the cultivation of her mind, neither pains nor expense; nor was there any defi|ciency, except in those cautionary guards with which young people should invariably be furnished, particu|larly when their sensibilities are manifestly glowing, and their brilliant imaginations are sketching scenes, which, alas! the present lapsed state of humanity will never give them to realize. To throw a restraint up|on the confiding innocence, the fine feelings, and gen|erous propensities of the opening mind—to plant the germ of suspicion in that soil which hath hitherto pro|duced only a growth of the most sweet scented flowers, is an act which seems to wear an invidious aspect, and it is undoubtedly a painful effort; yet, such is the imbecility of our nature, and such, in many instances, its depravity, as to render it the duty of every pre|ceptor, to endeavour as early as prudence will permit, or reason can digest the information, to give his pupils an accurate view of "man as he is."

It will not be doubted that the personal charms, fine accomplishments, and independent fortune of La|vinia, produced many candidates for her favour. In fact, she was surrounded by a little army of admirers; but although her heart refused to surrender to any of those passionate declarations, which assailed her ear, (and she invariably received every one who distinguish|ed her by his regard, with that ingenuous frankness, which, upon these occasions, always marks the conduct of an amiable woman) they still persisted in their so|licitations, affirming that her avowed preference of an individual should alone constitute a period to their pursuit. Among the acquaintance of Lavinia, figured conspicuously an accomplished youth, for whom her gentle bosom had long sighed. All her secret wishes were breathed for Alphonso, but Alphonso had never taken rank among the number of her declared ad|mirers. This, however, was, by the enamoured La|vinia, imputed to an excess of del••••••t••y; and often did she whisper a selection from a favourite ballad:—"Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, but never talk'd of love." Mean time, every day, and almost every hour, gave new energy to the assiduities of Alphonso; and no opportunity passed unmarked by his distinguishing attentions. In those rural walks, in which it was the custom of Lavinia to accompany her juvenile compan|ions, Alphonso was still by her side; for her the ripen|ed berry was culled, the elegantly fancied bouquet was presented with a modest and impressive air, and, to encircle her auburn tresses, he enwreathed a garland of the choicest flowers.

He was careful to procure for her every new pub|lication, and he would pass whole days in reading to her those volumes which he judged worthy her atten|tion; every impassioned sentence he would render still more glowing, never forgetting, by emphasis and gesture, to point to the heart of Lavinia each moving senti|ment. Often did he fix his eyes, apparently beaming with love, on her glowing face; on these occasions he would assume a tender air, sigh deeply, place his spread hands upon

his heart, anon clasp them in a kind of enthusiastic rap|ture; and rarely ever did he conclude this well acted farce without a tear, which he affected to conceal, and which the too credulous Lavinia never failed to impute to delicacy, strength of affection, and unexampled respect. He was inva|riably her conductor to places of public resort; and he seemed to regard every gentleman who offered himself by way of escort, as an invader of his prerogative.

Thus rolled on the halcyon months. Lavinia's at|tachment every hour augmented; all her sensibilities were in full force; her unbounded confidence was en|gaged, and her highest complacency ensured. Of du|plicity she had formed but a vague idea; she had heard, it is true, of the existence of a propensity which she esteemed monstrous, and it ranked in her mind, with the stories of giants and hobgoblins, which she had received from her nurse, in her days of childhood. To have imputed nefarious purposes to Alphonso, she would have regarded as a most cruel outrage against the brightest assemblage of virtues, which ever irradiated a human bosom; and to restrain the expansive flights of an ardent and luxuriant fancy, she had never been taught. She esteemed—she loved—and at the shrine of tender friendship, she offered the most impassioned vows. The numerous friends of Alphonso and La|vinia, gave them to each other; the world announced their marriage as an event which would speedily take place; her professed admirers, conceiving she had made her election, decently withdrew their pretensions, avowing a manly resolution, to act, in future, "a brother's part." Alphonso continued to evince himself in every action, and in every arrangement, the most impassioned of lovers; and yet, strange to tell, his tongue had never uttered a single sentence, which announced what his eyes were continually proclaiming; which amounted to the simple declaration—I love you. The mother of Lavinia beheld with approbation the grow|ing attachment of her beloved child—she regarded Alphonso as a man every way worthy of her daughter; and she anticipated a rich harvest of domestic felicity,

when Lavinia, wedded, should augment her joys, and probably give to her embraces a blooming offspring, amid whose endearing caresses she should breathe her last maternal sigh.

At length, however, the wary matron could not for|bear to question—"It is strange, my dear Lavinia, that Alphonso is not more explicit—you have received his attention with all that indulgent complacency, which is proper to a modest and a decent girl; he cannot doubt your approbation; what then can suspend his most unequivocal declarations? What delays his ap|plication to your mother?" Lavinia blushed expressive|ly; but it was not, however, a blush of conviction. The doubt, implied in the observations of her mother, she conceived derogatory to the immaculate honour of the man, whom she deemed incapable of error; and she had never before felt so much inclined to arraign the can|dour, and even the justice, of her, who, from the first dawn of reason, she had regarded as a perfect model of every excellence.

Alphonso, she replied, is the most delicate of men—of his ardent love I have had incon|testible proofs—a thousand times has the most une|quivocal declarations trembled upon his lips; but that uncommon respect which inmingles with his re|gards, his tender awe of me, hath hitherto restrained the fervour of an avowal, which is but delayed. Ought I to regard as reprehensible a mode of conduct, manifestly the result of his consideration for my feelings? Alphonso, Madam, is not to be influenced by common principles; he is affectionate, amiable, and disinter|ested; his passion is sentimental, precisely of that de|scription which I wish; and so eligible is my present situation, indulged, as I am, with the presence and tender approbation of my dear mamma, and amply gratified by the full enjoyment of those pleasures, which I derive from contributing to the relief of the necessitous, that, provided the assiduities and tender friendship of Alphonso is allowed me, I cannot form a higher idea of earthly felicity.

Thus was the matron silenced; and she the more readily acquiesced in the sentiments of her daughter, as her upright mind could not conceive of turpitude so enormous, as that which must excite a being, deliber|ately to perpetrate the murder of the peace of a fellow creature, without a single apparent motive to stimulate to a deed of such atrocity. She also knew how to estimate the value of her daughter; she was conscious of her exquisite beauty, and rare accomplishments, and she was sensible that her fortune was amply sufficient to gratify the most ambitious views; an impartial decision would, she confidently imagined, pronounce her in every respect the equal of Alphonso, and she therefore gave to the winds her maternal anxieties.

In this train matters continued many weeks longer: Alphonso contrived to extend his treacherous entangle|ments to the utmost possible duration. Perceiving, however, that he had at length attenuated the thread to the very point of breaking, he thought proper sud|denly to decamp; and having made up his mind, he announced to the family, quite in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 manner, his intention of taking a journey, mentioning it as a thing of course, and, quaintly enough, expressing his wishes that he might soon meet again, friends, whom he should ever value.

The mother of Lavinia now saw clearly the fate of her beloved child; but she hesitated to make a discov|ery, an apprehension of the consequence of which, fill|ed her with immeasureable dread! while Lavinia still continued ingeniously reasoning away appearances. Alphonso was still the best, and most undesigning of men—she confidently expected his speedy return; nor did she experience any other regret, than what his ab|sence occasioned, until many succeeding posts passed without bringing her a single line; then, indeed, her utmost tenderness and candour was put to the test, to invent apologies, or to account for a conduct so am|biguous. Still, however, the particular days in which the post returned, might have slipped his memory; his letters might have been written; his servant might have delayed

to put them in the office; the courier might have been un|faithful. In short, struggling to detain the deluder hope, there was scarce an absurdity which she would not have admitted, rather than suppose that bosom, where she had treasured up her dearest expectations of earthly bliss, should have relinquished every good. Conviction, however, could not be delayed; it per|force obtained; and when she learned that the beau|tiful Monimia had become the object of his pursuit, she could no longer doubt.

She received the information with a steadiness and composure, which was more terrifying to her mother, than the most violent exclamation of grief. She shed no tears, nor uttered a single complaint; but, folding her snowy arms, with a look expressive of the deepest woe, and all the aggravated anguish of a broken spirit, she meekly bent her head in token of resignation; and while evidently assaying to arm herself with fortitude, overpow|ered by the magnitude of the struggle, she fainted in the arms of her agonized parent! On her return to life, she gave 〈◊〉〈◊〉 tokens of a deranged intellect; and the disorder of her mind hath hitherto baffled the power of art. For a time, her lucid intervals cherished the hope of a perfect restoration; but her sensibility was extreme; and, unaccustomed to yield the control of the passions to the regency of reason, is it wonderful that, upon an occasion so cruelly calamitous, she became unequal to the combat?

Let the Monimia's of the female world beware, however meritorious they may be—they do not, they cannot surpass the amiable, the highly accomplished Lavinia; and an Alphonso who could meditate the destruction of a happiness so well founded, as was that of the now desolate sufferer, is abandoned enough to harbour the most atrocious purposes.

The glimmerings of reason which Lavinia discov|ered, during the first weeks that succeeded her misfor|tune, were transient, and more and more unfrequent; and the faint traces of recollection which she evinced, produced the most heart affecting melancholy that

can be imagined. She is now a confirmed maniac; and so total is her derangement, that some months have elapsed since she has manifested the smallest atten|tion even to her mother. She frequently holds long ideal dialogues with Alphonso, responding for him, and it is observable that she utters the answers which she shapes for him precisely in his tone of voice. Accord|ing to the caprice of the time being, she alternately upbraids and soothes him; and she is, by turns, grave and gay. Now with floods of tears she weeps his exit, chanting at his supposed obsequies, the funeral dirge; and anon, in an extacy of joy, she felicitates herself on his restoration to virtue and to her; not a sentiment does she utter in her strongest paroxysms, but is chastised by delicacy, but is descriptive of the purity and benev|olence of her soul. The scattered gems glitter with transcendent lustre upon the dark clouds in which she is enveloped; and it is hardly possible to conceive a more calamitous situation, than to be marked down the hourly witness of her plaintive sorrows. Yet this task is assigned to a fond, an aged, and a widowed mother. To other hands she refuseth to relinquish the care of her poor unfortunate! "No mercenary hireling" she exclaims, "shall inflict upon my gentle child, unnecessary sufferings. It is enough, that the blossoms of her youth have been thus untimely blight|ed. It is the part of her mother to soothe, as far as circumstances will admit, her woe stricken spirit; and no earthly consideration shall induce me to yield my melancholy charge, or quit for a single hour my faultless mourner!" Every night her bed is prepared in the apartment of her daughter; and she takes no sustenance but what she receives in her presence. Alas! alas! what a heart piercing contrast is mo|mently exhibited, to those scenes which she had con|templated as unveiling to her declining life, when, in the full enjoyment of her complacent hours, the chil|dren of her beloved daughter passed in vision before her.

Lavinia, like another Maria, is suffered to wander over the grounds which make a part of her paternal inheritance. Her insanity being of the melancholy and pathetic kind, she is never boisterous or unruly; her mother, and her woman, are continually the com|panions of her rambles; of these she takes no other no|tice, than barely to petition, in the most supplicating tone of voice, for any article of which she happens to fancy herself in want: She is particularly fond of stray|ing amid those walks to which Alphonso was attach|ed; and every tree and shrub is addressed by her in the most pity moving strains!

When death shall deprive Lavinia of her guardian parent, the augmentation of her calamity will be in|calculable. Nor can this event be far distant—accele|rated by the sad catastrophe of her daughter's once luminous expectations, and by her hourly sufferings, it must soon take place. She will sink into the grave; a distant branch of her family will succeed to her in|heritance, who, very probably, regarding the deranged Lavinia as an incumbrance to the accession which awaits him, will, by pretended necessary severity, hasten the demise, which it will be his interest to procure!!!

I visited Emly-House not long since—great God, how changed is the aspect of every object which presents! The servants, the apartments, the superb furniture, every thing seemed to partake the general gloom! In a remote chamber I beheld the aged mother—her head white as snow—on her bended knees, with suppli|cating hands, and streaming eyes, she was conjuring her daughter to relinquish a purpose, which she had recently declared, of putting an end to an existence that (with greater manifestations of reason than she had demonstrated for a long period) she affirmed was no longer to be endured. I joined, with an assum|ed authority, the entreaties of her mother, when, waving her hand, in a manner descriptive of inexpres|sible anguish, she bowed her assent to our united re|monstrances. Never did I behold loveliness so pro••|trated; she is astonishingly emaciated—her pallid cheek

is wan as death—the dimples which played around her enchanting mouth, are succeeded by the cavities of woe—no expression of gladness beams from her sky tinctured eye, a fixed melancholy is brooding there; the lines of her fine face are deeply sunk—a premature old age seems rapidly advancing; and her folded arms, (a posture she generally prefers) while they indicate re|signation, proclaim her, also, in the same moment, irretrievably the child of unrelenting misfortune!!!!

Could Alphonso now behold her—even Alphonso would pity.

N^o. XL.

Yes, if I may the anxious parent aid, To steps maternal point the better way, Assist to shield from harm the guileless maid, And scatter o'er her paths the beamy ray; Then, with re-kindling joy, I will retrace Those scenes on which so oft before I dwelt; To retrospection, once again, give place To days when I have all the father felt.

IT appears that the declaration of Miss Clifford's marriage, has answered only one part of the letter of my fair correspondent, Miss Monimia Castalio; and, as I make a point of paying the most minute at|tention to the epistles addressed to me in my official capacity, before I commence my responses to the wor|thy Mrs. Aimwell, I will briefly reply to the remain|ing query contained in that address.

Let me see—Miss Monimia Castalio and Miss Prim|rose wish to know, what the ladies Hamilton and Sey|mour think of naked elbows; whether they have thrown aside their modesty pieces, and whether they dress their waists as short as Mrs. Modish says they do? Now, that I may give to my anxious inquirers every possible gratification, I shall answer their queries both generally and particularly: And,

First, generally. It is not true, that the ladies are in the habit of employing Mrs. Modish. It is notori|ous,

that this sometimes excellent modeller, at all times pertinaciously insists upon her own whims, however ab|surd and fantastical they may chance to be, and that she frequently precipitates her determined votaries in|to the most ridiculous vagaries. Margaretta and Sera|fina take a cursory view of her followers, and adopt only such regulations as are proper and becoming; they are never fond of extremes; and hence the sud|den transitions of fashion cannot produce them outrée figures. If a particular colour is said to be the rage, and it does not happen to suit their complexions, they do not impose upon themselves the necessity of wear|ing it; their ambition is, to display their fine features and persons to the best advantage, and this their pre|dominant wish in dress is never prostrated to any in|ferior consideration; they have no violent desire to be considered as the standards of mode, or to be exalt|ed to the summit of taste; they have heard a favourite poet say, that

Beauty, when unadorn'd, is then adorn'd the most;

and, following the example of all other commentators, they contrive that the text should square exactly with their own ideas previously conceived; they produce it as an antidote to all extravagance in the materials or modification of their habiliments; discarding pomp, they adopt elegance, and generally appear as if attired by the Graces.

Secondly, particularly. I have never heard them give an opinion relative to naked elbows; but, since the request of Miss Monimia Castalio, I have accu|rately observed their sleeves, or, to speak more tech|nically, the dress of their arms, and with the assistance of my good Mary, I may perhaps present an intelligi|ble view of this section of their garments. It seems they have never worn long sleeves, except when rid|ing; and hence, it will rationally enough be conclud|ed, they have no violent predilection for a long sleeve; but I will whisper in the ear of my fair readers, a truth to which they may not perhaps immediately recur—

they have uncommonly fine arms: Their sleeve, then, de|scending one quarter of an inch, more or less, below that well turned curvature y'clepped an elbow, there re|ceives its graceful slope, the extreme edge being orna|mented with muslin, slight gauze, blond, or Brussels, as may suit the quality of the gown, or the occasion on which it is to be worn. They have not thrown aside their veils of modesty—God forbid they ever should—but with regard to modesty pieces, so called, in all their varieties, or those parapets upon parapets, behind which breast-work the fair intrencher seems to challenge the attack—as a sub|stitute for all these, their delicate muslin, simply edged with a border, varied agreeably to the elegance of their fancy, is drawn round the neck, and fastened with a knot of ribbon behind, over which the handkerchief receives a form somewhat conformable to the reigning taste. For their waists, as they never appeared like inverted cones, so their skirts have not yet obtained an addi|tional half yard in length, for the purpose of usurping that part of the body where the blond tucker formerly obtained a station. If the ladies make up a new dress, they so far condescend to the then fashion, as not to render themselves conspicuous for their non-conformity; and I believe this piece of accommodation makes up the sum total of their compliance with the fashionable world.

Thus having adjusted, as I conceive, this important particular, I turn with pleasurable alacrity to the ma|ternal epistle of the truly deserving Mrs. Aimwell. Tremblingly alive to every thing which can affect her beautiful charge, does not Mrs. Aimwell too readily admit those corroding apprehensions which undermine her peace? She confesseth that nature hath been liber|al, and that the mind of her daughter is exempt from those adverse inclinations which too often, even in the bosom of childhood, become fearfully productive. Ought she not then to felicitate herself upon the happy disposition of her Sophia? I pronounce that patience and perseverance will perfect her wishes. Miss Aim|well hath but recently attained her twelfth year. It is

rather early to expect a love of uniformity, and a pur|suit of regularity, as a matter of choice. The season of youth is happily marked by vivacity; and the playful candidates for more substantial good are filled with interesting wonder at every novel scene that comes un|der their observation. They love to walk, set, or stand, precisely as an imagination which does not readily submit to the sober agency of reason, shall dic|tate. The young lady in question at present, takes rank among this little eccentric class of beings; but under the judicious auspices of Mrs. Aimwell, she will eventually become that accomplished female, who will exhibit an exact transcript of the model already form|ed in the mind of her excellent mother.

Yes, indeed, I do conceive that the hand of skilful cultivation may implant an ardent thirst for knowl|edge; or, in other words, a love of reading in that mind of which it was not the original growth; nay, further, I affirm, upon the authority of experience, that the useful and fertile exotic will take as deep root, flourish as luxuriantly, and produce as plentiful a har|vest, as in its native soil; and perhaps the conforma|tion of this artificial taste, is one of the most eligible uses which can be made of novel reading. Curiosity in the minds of young people is generally if not always up|on the wing; and I have regarded curiosity, combined with necessity, as the grand stamina of almost every improvement. Narrative, unencumbered with dry re|flections, and adorned with all the flowers of fiction, possesses for the new plumed fancy a most fascinating charm; attention is arrested, every faculty of the soul is engaged, and the pages of the interesting and en|tertaining novelist are almost devoured. Thus an at|tachment to reading is formed, and this primary ob|ject once obtained, in that paucity of those kind of writings, which the watchful parent will know how to create, the entertaining biographer will become an acceptable substitute; the transition to history will be in course; geography constitutes an essential part of history; and the annals of the heavenly bodies will ul|timately

be studied with avidity. Pope's Homer may originate a taste for poetry, even in the very soul of frigidity; and a perusal of the beautifully diversified and richly ornamented numbers of the Adventurer, induces a perigrination through every essay which has been written, from the days of their great primogeni|tures, Steele and Addison, down to the simple num|bers of the humble Gleaner. In this view, novels may be considered as rendering an important service to society; and I question whether there is not less risk in placing volumes of this kind in the hands of girls of ten or twelve years of age, than during that in|teresting period which revolves from fifteen to twenty. The mind is instructed with much more facility, at an early age, than afterwards; and I have thought that many a complete letter writer has been produced from the school of the novelist; and hence, possibly, it is, that females have acquired so palpable a superiority over us, in this elegant and useful art. Novels, I think, may very properly and advantageously constitute the amusement of a girl from eight to fourteen years of age, provided always that she pursues her reading under the ju|dicious direction of her guardian friend: By the time she hath completed her fourteenth year, (supposing the voice of well-judged and tender premonition has occasion|ally sounded in her ears) I am mistaken if her under|standing will not have made such progress, as to give her to rise from the table with proper ideas of the light|ness of the repast; of the frivolity of those scenes to which she hath attended; of their insufficiency, as sources of that kind of information which is the off|spring of truth, and of their inability to bestow real knowledge, or those substantial qualities that nerve the mind, and endow it with the fortitude so necessary in the career of life.

Under the requisite guidance, she will learn properly to appreciate the heroes and heroines of the novelist; repetition will create satiety, and she will have risen from the banquet before the consequences of her intox|ication can materially injure her future life. She will

have drank largely, it is true, but revolving hours will give her to recover from her inebriety, and happily those hours will intervene ere yet she is called to act the part assigned her; and she will have extracted every advan|tage within the reach of possibility, from this line of reading, while the pernicious effects attributed thereto, can in no respect essentially hurt her.

When a torrent of novels bursts suddenly on a girl, who, bidding adieu to childhood, hath already entered a career, to her of such vast importance, the evils of which they may be productive are indeed incalculable! aided by a glowing imagination, she will take a deep interest in the fascinating enthusiasm they inspire; each gilded illusion will pass for a splendid reality; she will sigh to become the heroine of the drama; and, selecting her hero, it is possible she may be precipitated into irremediable evil, before she may have learned to make a just estimation of the glittering trifles, by which she is thus captivated. I say, therefore, I would confine novels to girls from eight to fourteen years of age; and I would then lay them by, for the amusement of those vacant hours, which, in advanced years, are frequently marked by a kind of ennui, the result, probably, of a separation from those companions, with whom we have filled the more busy scenes of life.

I grant that novels, under proper direction, might be made much more extensively subservient to the well being of society, than, with a very few exceptions, they have ever yet been. Was not love, unconquerable, unchanging, and omnipotent, their everlasting theme, they might abound with precepts and examples conducive to the best of purposes. This remark leads to the consideration of the question proposed by my anxious correspondent. In my toleration of novels, have I not exercised a discriminating power? Most assuredly I have. There is a class of novels, and of plays, which it ap|pears to me should be burnt by the hands of the com|mon executioner; and were it not that the good natured world generally takes part with the sufferer, I could

wish to see strong marks of public odium affixed upon the authors of those libidinous productions.

But it is as painful to dwell upon subjects of repre|hension as it is pleasurable to hold the pen of pane|gyric—let me hasten, therefore, to a selection which I have conceived indisputably worthy of preference; and, in the first grade of those writings, that take rank under the general description of novels, and that are entitled to the highest notes of eulogy, I have been accustomed to place the history of Clarissa Harlowe.

In my decided approbation of this admired pro|duction, I have the satisfaction to reflect that I am not singular. My paternal grand-father, who was one of the most respectable characters of the era in which he lived, indulged, perhaps to excess, an invincible aver|sion to novels. Yet, the Holy Bible and Clarissa Har|lowe, were the books in which he accustomed his daughters to read alternately, during those hours in which he attended to them himself. The Rev. James Hervey, Rector of Weston Favell, in Northampton|shire in England, celebrated as well for an exemplary life and purity of manners, as for the elegance and piety of his literary compositions, in a treatise written upon the education of daughters, recommends Clarissa, as a suitable present to those young ladies, who are to be trained in the paths of virtue and propriety; and a late writer, has asserted, that Clarissa Harlowe is the first human production now extant. He hesitates not to place it, for literary excellence, above the Iliad of Homer, or any other work, ancient or modern, the sacred oracles excepted.

But without taking it upon me to defend this opin|ion. I will only say, that it appears to me admirably well calculated as a useful companion for a female, from the first dawn of her reason, to the closing scene of life. It has been said that many a Lovelace has availed himself of plots, fabricated and developed in those volumes, which would never else have entered his imagination—be it so, I only contend for the placing them in female hands; and I affirm that they con|tain

the best code of regulations, the best directions in every situation which they exemplify—in one word, the best model for the sex, that I have ever yet seen pourtrayed. The character of Clarissa, it has been as|serted, is too highly wrought: but I ask, what perfec|tion did she possess that we should be willing to dis|pense with, in the female, who we should delineate as an accomplished woman! Was I to advance an objection against a work of such acknowledged merit, I would say that it is the character of Lovelace, and more par|ticularly of the Sinclairs, the Martins, the Hortons, and the Harlowes, of those pages, which are too highly wrought. It is surely much more easy to conceive of an amiable woman, acting precisely as did Clarissa, than of that degree of turpitude and inexorable se|verity, which must have preceded the perpetration of actions so black, and the manifestation of rigour so ill sounded and unrelenting.

It has been generally imagined that Clarissa's only deviation from strict propriety, consisted in her flight from the protection of her father; but a moment's re|flection will evince the error of this conclusion—that cannot ••e a fault to which I am compelled. Clarissa met her betrayer with a design to remonstrate, and to con|ciliate, but with a determined resolution not to abandon the paternal mansion; it appears that she was precipi|tated upon that fatal step, and, environed by the deep laid machination of the deceiver, her escape would have been miraculous, yet she continued to struggle, and even at the moment she was hurried away, the beauteous sufferer still vehemently protested against accompanying the wretch, who was armed for her destruction. Clarissa's error (if indeed, all circumstances considered, she was ever in any sort reprehensible) must be traced further back; it consisted in her correspondence after the parental prohibition, and in her consenting to meet the treacherous villain. Yet, when we take a view of the motives which stimulated her to those decisive measures, we can scarcely deem her censurable; and

she extorts from every bosom that kind of applause, which we spontaneously yield to persecuted merit.

Love, in the bosom of Clarissa, was always subservi|ent to virtue. It would never have taken the lead of duty; and, had she been left to the free exercise of her fine faculties, had she been permitted to call into action those rare abilities of which she was mistress, she would have completely extricated herself from every embarrassment. Love, in the bosom of Clarissa, was the noblest of principles; it was uniformly solicitous for the genuine felicity, establishment and elevation of its object; but it would never have permitted her to have allied herself to a man, who could barbarously triumph in the destruction of that sweet peace of mind, which is the bosom friend of the innocent and of the good; who could inhuman|ly meditate the ruin of those confiding females who were en|titled to his pity and his protection. Liberated from the resentment of her hard hearted relations, and moving in that enlarged and elevated sphere, to which her matchless intellect and uncommon information en|titled her, she would doubtless have investigated. The libertine would inevitably have stood confessed, and would as assuredly have been discarded from her fa|vour. In one word, love, in the bosom of Clarissa, was what I wish, from my soul, it may become in the bosom of every female.

The deportment of Clarissa, after Lovelace had so artfully betrayed her into a step which her judgment invariably condemned, has been the subject of much cavilling; she is accused of undue haughtiness; but surely such censurers have not well weighed either her character and situation, or that ambiguous mode of conduct, which the despoiler so early assumed. How often did he hold her soul in suspense, and how necessary was it for his nefarious purposes thus to do.

But I am not now writing a criticism upon Clarissa; the foregoing hints will inform Mrs. Aimwell what class of novels I particularly approbate; and I proceed, agreeably to her request, to select a few of those let|ters, which made a part of the correspondence be|tween

Mary, and Margaretta, during an early part of Miss Melworth's life.

To MARGARETTA.

NO courier ever produced a letter with an air of greater importance than did our boy Plato, when, ten moments since, he handed me yours. Indeed he seems much elated with his new office; and I freely own to you, my dear girl, that I am fond of giving pleasure even to Plato. When pleasure results from duty, as in the present instance, it can hardly be en|joyed too luxuriantly. Those beings who are fre|quently subjected to the caprice of the petty tyrants whom they serve, derive their existence from the same source with their masters and mistresses; their destina|tion is also similar to ours; and, considering the natur|al love of liberty which predominates more or less in every human bosom, and the pangs which must conse|quently result from servitude, it is a duty incumbent upon us to render that state of subordination in which servants are providentially placed, as easy as possible. Reflection will suggest the policy of this conduct, con|sidered in every view; and as the face of things is continually changing, and it is difficult to say what events time may produce—our fate may, in future, remain with him, who is to day under our direction: At any rate, if we would insure to ourselves a fund of pleasing reflections, we must treasure up those proper and becoming actions, which will alone stand the test of accurate investigation.

I thank you, my love, for your letter: It is a charm|ing specimen of what I am to expect in future; and as you have so well profited by my premonitory address, I calculate upon your continued docility, and antici|pate from this correspondence the most desirable con|sequences.

You are captivated by the Count de Poland, by his generosity to his niece, by Olivia, and by the sprightly Lady Morpeth; and this is precisely what I expected from my Margaretta. The young mind embraces with

extacy the most prominent excellence, and, 〈…〉〈…〉 dearing ardour, delighteth to expatiate 〈…〉〈…〉 too am an admirer of the consistent 〈…〉〈…〉 Count de Poland; his fraternal virtues 〈…〉〈…〉 bosom the most exquisite sensations of which it is ••••|ceptible; I mark, with pensive sympathy, his a ••••••|tion at the view and subsequent recollection 〈◊〉〈◊〉 faithful Ananette, with the poor bent six-pence in her closed hand; and, if there is a melancholy luxury in tears, my penetrated spirit partakes thereof, as I fol|low him to the chamber of death, as I behold his emo|tions at the emaciated appearance of his angel sister, and as he bedews the hand of the expiring saint with those testimonials of attachment which, doubtless, were most consolatory to her fleeting spirit!

His renewed and aggravated sorrow at the sight of the work-bag, the gift of blissful days—his emotions as the last offices were performing—the night passed in the chamber of the beatified Maria—the extreme anguish of his soul, as he perused the woe-fraught re|cital, addressed to his still confided in affection, by the pen of his injured, his matchless sister—all this is beau|tifully pathetic; and, when he folds to his throbbing bosom, the smiling legacy of departed excellence—when he commences the parent of the interesting lit|tle orphan—when he vows, upon the clay-cold hand of her deceased mother, to fulfil every wish which her maternal heart (while yet it beat in its mortal tene|ment) had expressed—when he recognizes this his sol|emn vow, as registered in the awful presence of the Almighty, and calls upon his justice to deal with him according to the exactness with which he shall perform it!—when I trace him in the execution of the duties he had so naturally assumed—when I view him by the bed's side of the lovely slumberer, and mark with what fond complacency he contemplates the features of sleeping innocence—when I see him bending one knee on the floor, his face close to the heart-affecting cherub, and pressing her forehead with the caresses of manly affection—in every of these scenes, the corresponding

feelings of my sympathetic bosom are beyond expres|sion. The description of the waking infant is highly finished: I behold, in idea, the long dark eye-lashes, suddenly contrasted by those mildly beaming splendors, which produced upon the paternal Count such enchant|ing effects. In short, the whole of that animated page is truly charming; and I will confess to you, my dear, that it is with passages of this complexion, I am most pleased in the Count de Poland.

Ah! my Margaretta, I once had a brother!—ques|tion me not relative to this brother. His fraternal bo|som is now as insensate as the cold by which it is cov|ered; his mind was the seat of every virtue. Had he lived—but I forbear—Let me not press upon the sweet bud of your opening youth, with those deeply surcharged sorrows, which a retrospect would occa|sion—let me drop over them the impenetrable veil of silence!!!

With the maternal character of Mrs. Osmond, and with the discretion of Lady Edgerton, I am much pleased: But it is not the fault of novelists, to be nig|gard of the virtues or the graces to those characters which they produce as objects of admiration. Hold|ing the pen of distribution, it is easy for them to com|mand an assemblage of every excellence; and these splendid habiliments, never impaired by use, will suit as well the hero or heroine of the present era, as those who figured centuries ago. The pecuniary fund of the novelist is also inexhaustible, and the liberality of those endowments, drawn therefrom, is only bounded by that sense of probability, which happens to exist in the mind of the munificent conferer of those aërial bestow|ments. To say truth, my love, that particular, which seems least to have commanded your attention, in the Count de Poland, is precisely that which, in my opinion, constitutes its principal value; it is a trait rarely met with in works of this kind; but it is, nevertheless, sus|ceptible of high improvement; and was it often dwelt on, exemplified, and richly coloured, it would proba|bly produce, upon the mind of the youthful reader, the

most beneficial effect. Are you at a loss to compre|hend me? I will be more explicit. I mean the com|plete triumph, which Lord Harenbrook and Lady Morpeth obtained over an inconsiderate attachment, that seemed vio|lently to have tempested the mind of the enamoured swain, and to have made no inconsiderable impression upon the heart of the fashionable nymph. Her recovery from those paths of dissipation, into which she had been betrayed by a pernicious plan of education, is truly acceptable to the interested reader; and the grateful attachment, which, it is apparent, she ultimately conceives for Lord Mor|peth, is a completion of her character.

Indeed, nothing can be imagined more absurd, than the endowing a hasty predilection, formed in childhood, or at best, in the days of inexperienced youth, with invin|cibility! I do not say that such attachments are al|ways improper: If they are approved of, after accu|rate investigation, and crowned by the sanction of guardian friends, their permanency is desirable, and we ought studiously to cultivate every sentiment which can contribute to their establishment. But the election of the uninformed mind is seldom judicious, and the im|mortality which we confer thereon, exists no where but in an over-heated imagination. A happy marriage is nothing else but the highest state of friendship, of which the sons and daughters of mortality are capable; and, in the choice of a companion for life, perfect esteem should point the election. If you discover either of the young ladies, to whom your gentle bosom is already so tenderly attached, to be unworthy of your regard, although she may still be followed by your anxious wishes for her restoration to virtue, yet you will no longer confer on her your confidence; and, was the same resolution in exercise, a discovery of the want of merit in the object, until then beloved, would as easily obliterate the attachment existing between the sexes, and we should shrink from the idea of embarking on the important voyage of life, without the rich cargo of esteem.

May Heaven guard from every evil, my lovely child—this is the continued prayer of your affection|ate mother,

MARY VIGILLIUS.

N^o. XLI.

The glowing ardour of the youthful mind, By no admeasurement of years confin'd, Dwells all extatic on the notes of praise; In fervid hues each common act pourtrays: And when, by gratitude and love impress'd, The bosom's avenues are thus possess'd, Bending obedient to the forming hand, As Reason points, the faculties expand.

TO arrest the warm affections of the youthful voyager, very little address is requisite. Easily susceptible of impressions, the opening mind generally estimates persons and things, with the benefits which accrue therefrom, agreeably to its own vivid imagina|tion; and its calculations, accumulated by a productive fancy, highly o'ertop the judgment of reason. Grat|itude, if not spontaneous, is implanted in the glowing bosom, almost without an effort; and affection, stamped by gratitude, is a substantial basis for the superstructure of education. To convince young people of our en|tire attachment, and that all our views, and every ar|rangement relative to them, are directed to their pres|ent and future advancement, is indisputably of the greatest importance. Children will receive lessons with confidence and advantage, from the lips of those whose tender attachment they do not consider as prob|lematical; and reciprocity of regards, between the teacher and the taught, is absolutely indispensable.

Happily, in the mind of Margaretta, an indelible conviction of our unalterable and disinterested attach|ment was early produced; and a reciprocation of re|gards, a decided preference, and even veneration, for our characters, with that calm reposing confidence,

which naturally results from affection so entire, and esteem which she conceived so well grounded, origin|ated in her gentle bosom the warmest sensations, and ultimately procured the very best effect. Many of her letters are too expressive of the impassioned feelings of a fervid and enthusiastically grateful heart, to meet the public eye; and, as Mrs. Aimwell requires only a specimen, I am at liberty to suppress them; selecting others, as they may happen to occur, without attend|ing to the order in which they were written. The fol|lowing are, however, in course.

To my honoured MOTHER.

DEAR MAMMA,

I DO not know that there is so happy a being in this world, as your little Margaretta. Your letters, best of friends, are more pleasing to me than I can find words to express. Alas! alas! who would have thought it?—When my aunt Arbuthnot used to weep over me, apprehending that she should leave her poor child quite friendless, she would sigh as if her heart would burst; and I, for my part, had no wish, but to go to sleep on the dear bosom of her, whom I supposed to be my mother, and never, never more to wake in a world, where I thought there was no one to cherish and to love the poor little creature, who was so soon to be deprived of her only friend! Were any one now to see the rich joyful Margaretta, as happy as the days are long, would it be possible to conceive her the same little destitute child, who shed so many tears in Mrs. Thrifty's house in Charleston? Dear me!—the big waves swallowed up my father!—my mother broke her poor heart!—and my aunt too, very soon followed to that better world, whence she can no more return, and ev|ery body said, there was no one remained to take care of me!—But God has sent two blessed angels to take charge of me; and for this I will prostrate myself be|fore him every morning and evening, and love and honour him all my days.

Well now, I think, if I should be a third time or|phanaged, I should never again hold up my head! You know, mamma, you have taught me to make obser|vations and comparisons; and so, standing in the bow window the other day, I could not help weeping at the fate of the plant, which we have so long cherished and watched with so much care. It was the last stormy day—and, although it had stood upright during the burning heat of summer, and the heavy rains of au|tumn, yet, the torrent that burst upon it from the first wintry storm, stripped it of all its leaves, and levelled it with the earth, from which it has never since lifted its head. Just so, thought I, it would fare with thee, Margaretta; thou hast survived the loss of thy parents, and of thy second mother; but, if envious death should deprive thee of thy present guardian friends, thou must never think to look abroad again; thou must lie down with the prostrate plant, and all thy fine expectations will be trodden to the ground! Dear me! my tears fell like big drops of rain. You remember, my mam|ma, that you had the goodness to wipe them away with your own handkerchief, that you kissed my cheek, and wished to know the cause of my sorrow. I could not then speak—but I determined to write you about it—they were partly tears of joy, and partly of sor|row—of joy, for the present; and of sorrow, for what may happen; but your indulgent smiles soon left nothing in my little heart but joy and gladness. Cer|tainly, as Mrs. Trueworth says, if I am not the best, I shall be the worst young body in all this world; and if I should ever be ungrateful to you or my papa, I shall deserve the displeasure of every good person.

Lady Morpeth's disrespect for her excellent parents surprised me very much; and although I was pleased with her fine qualities, yet, on account of this circum|stance, it was some time before I could be reconciled to her character—But what a shocking woman was Lady Ann Fostess! Are there such ladies in England as Lady Ann Fostess? fie upon them, if there are! I am sure they are not worthy to be called ladies;

and if they are, in reality, to be found in Old Eng|land, how happy am I that I have escaped to this new world, where sincerity and kindness are created king and queer, and where all their subjects obey their laws. I wish, mamma, you had written me your sentiments of Lady Ann—I am sure you must detest her.

I trust I shall never have a friend whom you do not approve; and you speak the very heart and soul of your Margaretta, when you say, that if any of my associates were to addict themselves to those habits, which you and my dear papa have pointed out to me as reprehensible, I should immediately become desir|ous of separating myself from them, however dear they might have been to me; and I do believe it is impossible I should continue to love those, whom you assure me are unworthy of my attention.

Miss Hayden has been diverting herself this hour past, with what she calls our funny correspondence; she rushed into my chamber, (you know she visits when and where she pleases, without ever thinking it neces|sary to ask her mamma's permission) having found her way up the back stairs, just as I was preparing to write. She had not stopped to put on either hat or scarf, and her appearance was so wild, that it absolute|ly frightened me! She says she believes it is the first time that ever people wrote to each other under the same roof, when they could talk together every hour if they pleased; and she would not be so silly, even though her mamma should require it! After this she wished to see your letter, but I refused to gratify her. I know she does not spell properly, and she reads very badly, with the very tone of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 which you, mamma, dislike; and she pay•• not the least regard even to a full stop! It is true, that she cares for nothing but running about from place to place. She was a whole month in making a shirt for her father, and it was ill made after all. They say she lays in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 〈◊〉〈◊〉 nine o'clock!—and I know that when any one tells her of her faults, she only laughs at them for their pains; and she says she is de|termined to enjoy herself in her own way! Indeed,

mamma, I was not sorry when she took her leave, and neither Miss Clifford nor myself would drop one tear, if she should never pay us another visit. She thinks herself handsome; but one of her eyes is plainly a darker blue than the other, and I am sure, therefore, she cannot be beautiful. I am glad, however, I did not show her my mamma's letter—the testimonies of the affection of so beloved a mother, are too valuable to be exposed to such eyes, by her ever grateful, ever duteous

MARGARETTA MELWORTH.

To MARGARETTA MELWORTH.

THE necessity of uttering to my Margaretta the lan|guage of censure, of penning the line of reprehension, will ever inflict upon my own bosom, pangs correspon|dent with, if not superior to, those which she may, up|on those occasions, experience. Contrary to my wonted custom, I deny myself the indulgence of responding to your last epistle in course. Your account of Miss Hay|den is so foreign from your usual style, so unlike every trait I have hitherto observed in a mind, of which I had conceived I had obtained an intimate knowledge, and, altogether, so extraordinary, as to demand my first and undivided attention. Solicitous to preserve the tranquillity of your bosom, and to eradicate the very seeds of detraction, I am, by consequence, upon this subject, solemnly serious.

"Miss Hayden rushed into your chamber without hat or scarf." Well, my dear, she is quite in our vicin|ity, and this was nothing more than a neighbourly mark of sociability; and if her mamma chooses to toler|ate her excursions when and where her inclination leads her, without so far interesting herself, as to take the direction of her movements, I do not see that we are called upon to take upon us the invidious character of her censors. Her education is not committed to our charge, nor have I, much less you, any right, either to arraign or condemn.

I would have my girl regard the faults that may pass under her observation, as cautionary occurrences, that may direct her to avoid the rocks on which too many have split; but she must not be eager to detect, nor hasty to expose. If, from whatever motive, there has not been that plan in the education of Miss Hay|den, without which, scarce any thing valuable can be achieved, is she not therefore invested with a claim to your kind commiseration? If the health and leisure of her mamma, had permitted her to bestow that atten|tion, which is so absolutely requisite in the cultivation of the mind and manners, the probability is, that her orthography would have been as unexceptionable, her reading as elegant, and that she might have used her needle as expeditiously, as girls, who have been thus systematically taught, generally do. Early accustom|ed properly to appreciate time, she would not then have slumbered away her hours in bed, but each re|turning morning, as it gilded the eastern sky, would have witnessed the glad orisons of the lovely maiden, would have marked in its progress those habits of in|dustry so proper, and so becoming, especially to the season of youth. I am not pleased with your refus|ing to show Miss Hayden my letter. It would have been better if, with your usual sweetness, you had put it into her hand, if you had replied, to the ridicule she endeavoured to throw on our correspondence, in words to this effect:

Why, Miss Hayden, my mamma ap|proves of this arrangement, and she is undoubtedly a better judge of the utility of the plan than I am; it is her wish to render letter writing familiar to me; and she thinks the books which she recommends to my perusal with those adventitious events that may be worth treasuring up, will be more deeply infixed in my memory, if I dwell upon them long enough to commit my remarks thereon to paper, than if I passed them by in a cursory manner; besides, she is thus presented with an opportunity of forming my taste, and correcting my judgment, which might not otherwise have been afforded her. With regard

to our dwelling under the same roof, I have heard my mamma observe, that we are as really separated by the walls of our respective apartments, as if we were placed in different kingdoms. It is often as difficult to recollect the features of a friend who is in the next room, as if he was removed to the em|pire of China. Spirit is not, in this particular, ei|ther embarrassed by distance, or assisted by vicinity. On the wings of imagination, I can transport myself to the mansion of any family I have visited in Philadelphia, with as much celerity, as I can be thus borne to the parlour, where I every day meet my assembled friends; nay, if spirit, when acting in|dependent of material organs, is in no sort govern|ed by their admeasurement, I can as easily peep in|to the city of London, with my bodily eyes, as into the next room, provided I made no advances to the neighbouring apartment; and, seated at my writing desk, without an observer, I do as certainly address an absent parent, as if she had been unfortunately called to cross the vast atlantic.

After you had delivered yourself to the above ef|fect, if Miss Hayden had continued her ludicrous com|ments, it would have been easy to have changed the subject; and, conscious of your own superiority, you must have experienced in such a procedure, a perfect calm. But, on the contrary, you have made your|self the aggressor—your indignation is roused by the prattle of a girl whom you affect to despise—you un|kindly refuse a request that you could have granted without the smallest inconvenience to yourself—you enumerate circumstances, with the odium of which, she is not justly chargeable—you produce them against her, and, with a degree of rancour of which I had not supposed you capable, by pointing out an almost imperceptible blemish—you endeavour to detract from those personal charms, which Miss Hayden is general|ly acknowledged to possess!!

Natural defects, suppose them to be irremediable, should never be pressed into the catalogue of faults, since I

am not to be responsible for that which in no sort de|pended upon me; they may properly excite our silent commiseration, or, if occasion calls it forth, our expres|sed sympathy; but a person remarking upon them in any other way, incurs the guilt of malevolence, injustice, and impiety. Of malevolence, because it is a manifest indi|cation that we are ill disposed towards a fellow crea|ture. Of injustice, because, as I have just hinted, we thereby condemn, or make an individual suffer, for a circumstance not to be avoided, and which the voli|tion of the being, whose misfortune we thus aggra|vate, was no how accessary in procuring. Of impiety, because we thus irreverently subject to ridicule, and tacitly arraign, the wisdom of that Supreme Being who presents his productions precisely in the order and manner which, to his unerring judgment, seem|eth best. There can be but one good reason, for hold|ing up to the view of the world at large, or the indi|vidual in particular, a deformity either in the intel|lectual or animal conformation. It is superfluous to add that this is reformation, and where this is not the object, those who remark thereon are both officious and ill-natured. The truth is, the person of Miss Hayden is uncommonly beautiful, her understanding is natur|ally good, and had her education been proper, she would undoubtedly have been acknowledged a very lovely young person. The variation in her fine eyes, scarcely amounts to a mote; it can hardly be deemed an imperfection.

The voice of praise from the lips of my Margaretta will always sound sweetly in my ear. Not that I would wish you an indiscriminate panegyrist—by no means, but let your silence give evidence of your pow|ers of discrimination. Applaud with all the energy of language, when incense so rich becomes righteously due. But forbear to publish (unless to answer some valuable purpose, that can be no otherwise accom|plished) the errors which you may remark. Believe me, my love, the injurious consequences of detraction are incalculable; when once the comment of severity has

escaped your lips, it is beyond your control, and while it may inflict the deepest wounds, a remedy re|maineth not in your gift; you can only lament the melancholy effects of your indiscretion. Often, also, have I known the tale of slander to implant in the bo|som of the propagator its deadly talons, and the un|wary detractor hath himself become the ultimate sacrifice.

But to dwell on the evils of detraction, would require powers more energetic than words can command. De|traction is the first-born of envy, the fiend of society, and the fell despoiler of honest same. Beware then, my child, of its blighting influence; let your friend Miss Clifford also beware, for there is not a calamity written in the book of adversity, of which it may not be productive. I am fearful you have treated Miss Hay|den unkindly. I recollect when she quitted your cham|ber that she passed the parlour window in tears; and your avowed complacency in her departure, and sub|sequent declaration, with that of your friend, relative to her future visits, abundantly justify my suspicion. Miss Hayden is a mild tempered girl, and her easy good humour, when told of her faults, evinceth the serenity of her disposition. To point out faults, is an office that ought to be sacred to that experience which is the growth of a length of years, or to that tried friend|ship that hath stood the test of various situations. Marga|retta Melworth is yet too young to take upon her this impor|tant task: If you can influence your companions by the propriety and beauty of your example, it is well; admo|nition and censure, must be referred to a riper age. If you have, indeed, deported yourself with undue reserve, superciliousness, or mortifying neglect, you have but one way of restoring yourself to my good opinion. Seek Miss Hayden—and in your own amiable manner cancel a fault, which I am willing to consider as pro|ceeding from a want of reflection—cancel this essential deviation from the consistency of your character, by conde|scending to solicit a reconciliation. Remember, my love, acknowledgment of error, always adds additional lustre

to the fine qualities of a person, capable of conducting so properly; and remember, also, that Miss Hayden is two years your senior. Put yourself in her situation—tell me how you would wish she should conduct towards you, and let your answer decide your movements.

Do not, my daughter, suffer the freedom of my re|marks upon this occasion, to envelop your future senti|ments and actions in a veil of mystery or concealment; seek not to restrain the frankness of your disposition; but let your lovely bosom be still open to my inspection. If I am strict to mark; if I carefully search out the deform|ing weed, it is because I would utterly exterminate from so fair a soil, every thing which can offend. Your virtues, I predict, will be permanent; your faults, I pleasingly believe, will be trivial; and from the eyes of a censori|ous world, I shall still be solicitous to conceal the er|rors of my child. Anxious for the consistency of her character, I shall, as often as I see occasion, freely cor|rect; and while I point out those mistakes, upon which persons less interested will be silent, or, perhaps, assail her ear with the strains of adulation, I shall thereby best evince my maternal regards.

I am, my dear, enchanted by your letter; and al|though I have hasted to erase from so fair a page the extraneous blot, I have not been the less captivated by its beauties. Your figure of the fallen plant is charm|ing—it robbed me of some delicious tears—May my favourite flower be never more surcharged by woe—may the ready prop be still presented—may the blos|soms of her youth be sheltered from every evil—may her life be a life of usefulness—and may the sweet com|placency, attendant upon deeds of worth, be the com|panion of her declining years.

Looking over your letter, I find I have yet to re|spond to the article relative to Lady Ann Fostess. You wish I had written my sentiments respecting this character: Why, my love, it requires no develope|ment; atrocious, in a high degree, its glaring enormities must strike the most superficial eye; and, as it is un|pleasant to dwell upon instances of such depravity, I

spontaneously turn with disgust from the view. But, s••ossibly, I have mistaken the purport of your question; and you may only be desirous to know if I imagine there exists a being in real life, who might have sat for the picture of a Lady Ann Fostess. Alas! my dear, I regret that my veracity impels an answer in the affirm|ative. Yes, indeed, your native island has produced a plentiful growth of vice, as well as virtue. But you are not to suppose duplicity, treachery, and haughty ar|rogance, confined to the Albion shore—Alas! no. Should I suffer you to retain the sweet delusion, in which in|nocence hath, in the present moment, cradled your ideas, experience would, ere long, convince you that America is not exempted from their desolating prog|ress; that human nature is every where the same; and that, in addition to the substantiality of virtue, her cau|tionary guards must still remain on duty. It is with re|luctance that I rouse my girl from the golden dream, in which I have so long permitted her to slumber; but it is necessary that she should gradually view ob|jects as they really are, lest, suddenly awakened by the hand of violence, she might, at too late a period, make discoveries fatal to her peace.

May the Almighty shield my daughter from every ill. I am, ever, her affectionate mother,

MARY VIGILLIUS.

N^o. XLII.

What clustering blessings mingle in their train, Who with success a parent's part sustain; Whose forming precepts mould the docile mind, By nature for the paths of truth design'd.

To my honoured MOTHER.

DEAREST, BEST OF FRIENDS,

WHILE you and my papa are continued in this world, there is no misfortune that can happen to your Margaretta, which will be so heavy as

your displeasure. I saw, immediately upon my enter|ing the dining parlour this day, that you did not look upon your poor girl exactly as you have heretofore done—your eye, as it met mine, did not say, "Mar|garetta, you are a good girl, and I am,"—as I re|member you have frequently styled yourself—"your approbating mother." You called me too, "Miss Mel|worth!"—and although you looked tenderly upon me, when this coolness drew from me a sigh, which indeed came from the bottom of my trembling bosom, yet I could see, too plainly, that you were not reconciled to me; and I should immediately have thrown myself at your dear blessed feet, entreating you to tell me in what I had offended, and supplicating your forgive|ness, had I not been sure and certain, that your disap|probation was occasioned by my letter, and had you not given it as a rule, that I should not refer, in con|versation, to those letters, until the close of a corres|pondence so delightful to me. The wonder is, how I continued at table—but dinner over, I was no longer able to suppress my emotions, and I flew to my cham|ber to weep over a fault, that I was sure I had com|mitted! Plato followed with your letter—with trem|bling lips I kissed the seal—I hastened to read, and the reason for the unusual reception I had met, was fully explained! I read it over and over again, blushing and weeping by turns. Ah, mamma! it is impossible I should ever commit a second error of this kind! Most sincerely do I despise myself, while my mother appears more an angel than before! You are all good|ness and sweet condescension to every body—every one whom I know has told me this again and again; and besides, I see it myself every day—how then could I act so very different from my mamma! How many tears has my strange behaviour cost me! and, what is worse than all, I, who should give nothing but pleas|ure to my mother, have wounded her bosom also!

Well, but when my poor heart was almost ready to burst, I began to see that there were many lines in your letter, from which I ought to take comfort. You

did not say, your poor orphan child had forfeited your good opinion forever—no indeed, no such thing—there was yet one way left, by which I might again become your own Margaretta; and, dropping down on my knees before the chair, (in which you usually sit, when you pass those charming moments in my chamber, that you bid me call the visits of my maternal friend) I thanked God and my blessed mother, for the consola|tion contained in that dear charming line, that there was yet one way left, by which I might be restored to your good opinion—and jumping upon my feet, I clapped my hands out of pure joy; and so, mamma, I immediate|ly tripped down stairs, without either hat or scarf, (for I thought it right to punish that impertinent pride, which had officiously brought upon me so much evil) and sat off in pursuit of Miss Hayden. When I en|tered her parlour, I began an apology; but she, not in the least attending to what I was about to say, threw into my arms a little lap-dog, which she said was the most beautiful creature in the world; that her mamma had just purchased it for her; and, "Margaretta," she added,

you will be pleased when you hear, that for this one indulgent action of my mamma's, (for she herself detests lap-dogs) I am determined to become the best girl in the world! Come hither, Florus—poor fellow—rest upon your mistress's lap—there—lay still. Yes, Miss Melworth, I will, if possible, be|come as good as Miss Clifford, or yourself, and I am sure I cannot have better models.

I will confess to you, my mamma, that I was mor|tified to observe Miss Hayden had thought my rude|ness (for indeed it deserves no better name) below her attention. At that moment I could not forbear ac|knowledging her superiority; and, had it not been that I must have passed from your care, I would gladly have changed characters with Miss Hayden; so much did her manner of passing by my unbecoming conduct, exalt her in my opinion. But, waving my hand, with an expression of gratitude for her kind sentiments of Miss Clifford and myself, I said, while a blush of con|scious

inferiority crimsoned my cheek—I have called upon you this afternoon, dear Miss Hayden, to make confession of the impropriety of my late behaviour to you; to ask your forgiveness; to solicit your future friendship; and to request, as a token you are indeed reconciled unto me, that you will read the letter, which, on an occasion so truly dishonourable to myself, you expressed a wish to see.

Miss Hayden, notwithstanding Florus was reposing upon her lap, immediately rose from her chair, and, throwing her arms about my neck, she burst into tears! Never, methought, did any one, except my mam|ma, appear so lovely. As soon as she had a little re|covered herself from the surprise into which my ad|dress had thrown her, she affectionately said—

I will not deny that I thought you, Miss Melworth, a little disobliging; you are generally so fond of giving pleasure, that any thing of a contrary kind from you is so much the more unpleasant: But when I relat|ed the circumstance to my mother, she thought that my flippant conduct might have drawn upon me your dislike, and she advised me to set about an al|teration of manners, which I was partly resolved to do, even before she made me a present of my little Florus; and when I saw you enter this afternoon, it gave me more pleasure than I can say. I thought there could not be a better time to set about my ref|ormation, as mamma calls it; and I was rejoiced too, that you thought enough of me to visit me. With regard to forgiveness, it is too much to say. I was, I remember, very provoking; I felt uncommon|ly mischievous. Let these expressions of endear|ment

—and she kissed my forehead—

help us to forget the past, and let me be considered in future, as a wild good-natured girl, who is determined to improve by your example.

I caught her hand with grateful tenderness, and just at this moment her mother entered; she looked both astonished and de|lighted at seeing us so affectionately engaged; we re|lated the termination of our misunderstanding, and she too shed over us tears of joy.

I produced from my pocket-book your dear letter, and put it into the hands of the young lady with a look of entreaty; she kissed the paper, and presented it with inimitable gracefulness to her mamma. Mrs. Hayden read it and commented upon it, in a way calculated to improve both her daughter and myself. I have heard you say, mamma, if I remember right, that Mrs. Hayden is an accomplished woman: She regret|ted that her Emily had been so little attended to; she wished she may be permitted to peruse as many of the letters of a correspondence so well judged, as might consist with propriety; and, that if it were not too great a favour, she might sometimes be permitted to make one of those reading parties, of which she had heard so much, and from which it was evident, Miss Clifford and myself had derived such essential advan|tages. I ventured to assure both the ladies, that it would add to the happiness of my mamma, if Miss Hayden would regularly join us upon our stated read|ing hours, (was I right, mamma?) and she will, ac|cordingly, meet us in the reading parlour when we next assemble. I took my leave, with repeated assur|ances, that I would endeavour, by future acts of kind|ness, to cancel the disobligation of the past; and, has|tening to my own apartment, I could not enjoy a mo|ment until I had given you this circumstantial account.

And now, mamma, again kneeling at the chair you have so often filled, I do most earnestly supplicate your forgiveness for the trouble I am sensible I must have given you. Let me entreat you, in your own charm|ing words, "Restore your Margaretta to your good opin|ion;" for indeed, indeed, she is lost to every comfort until you do! When I see you at tea will you again look kindly upon me, kiss my cheek, and call me once more your good little girl? If you assure me of your full and free pardon, and of your restored approbation, then will my poor heart leap for joy; and then, and not till then, will your ever dutiful child be again your truly happy

MARGARETTA MELWORTH.

To MARGARETTA MELWORTH.

COME to me, my angel child—come to me imme|diately—wait not for the distant hour of tea. Upon an occasion so every way answerable to my fondest hopes, we will dispense with forms—we need not re|cur by words to an affair, the termination of which has filled my bosom with unutterable joy—words will not be necessary; and if they were, I should not have it in my power to command them. But my eyes, so lately darting the chilling glances of reserve, are now humid with the gush of tenderness, and they shall speak every thing my Margaretta wishes—every thing she so richly merits. Come to me, my best girl, and let me imprint upon that lovely cheek, the fondest kiss I have ever yet bestowed—we will mingle some delicious tears, and I will clasp to my bosom, with augmented complacency, as the richest boon which Heaven can bestow, my sweet tempered, my virtuous child!

I await your presence in my chamber—no one but your father, whose raptures are equal to my own, will witness our interview—we are alike impatient to be|hold our now faultless Margaretta. Delay not, sweet love, but hasten to the arms of your approbating mother,

MARY VIGILLIUS.

Margaretta, thus receiving permission, rushed in|stantly into our apartment, and such were the rapidity of her movements, that, ere we were aware, flinging herself almost breathless at the feet of her mother, and clasping her knees in a kind of extasy, she exhibited a spectacle the most charmingly interesting which can be imagined. Mary raised her in her arms—alternately we pressed her to our bosoms, and, until that moment, I had never experienced transports so exquisitely de|lightful!

Thus ended an affair, that some may possibly regard as a "much ado about nothing;" but Mary, availing her|self of the ascendency she had obtained over the mind of her daughter, had purposely wrought it up to the high|est

importance. She was solicitous to uproot every propensity which discovered the most remote tendency to the malignancy of scandal. She conceived, that as impressions are generally made with success in the early part of life, she could hardly be premature in her efforts to implant a proper detestation of this hydra evil; and the event proved she had acted judiciously; for this little circumstance, with all its consequences, was indelibly stamped upon the mind of Miss Melworth; the serious solemnity with which it had been attended, engraved it there; it confirmed her the irreconcileable foe to detraction in all its varieties; and she recoils, with a kind of horror, for which perhaps she does not always stop to account, from the very semblance of a malevolent remark; nor do I believe she has, from the above era to the present moment, ever uttered a single sentence, that could, by any rational construc|tion, be termed invidious.

It was the design both of Mary and myself, to pro|duce our daughter, in that career on which she was entering, both theoretically and practically, a philan|thropic moralist. And to this valuable end were di|rected both my admonitions and precepts, as well as the conversation and letters of her mother. We were well aware of the vast importance of the first informed movements of reason, of first principles, and of a com|mencement in the path of rectitude. We were sensible that individuals, connected in society, necessarily de|pend upon each other; and that, of course, our felicity or infelicity is more or less deducible from sentiments and arrangements beyond our control. We proposed to Miss Melworth the general approbation of man|kind, as an object worthy her unremitting pursuit; and, as we could not conceive of a human being so insignificant, as to bar the possibility of his, or her, future influence upon our prospects, so we taught her to estimate the good will of every individual as a de|sirable acquisition. It must be remembered, however, that we always inculcated the necessity of circumscrib|ing a wish for universal applause, in itself laudable,

within the boundaries of virtue; that we erected our standard of rectitude, and first of all, carefully impressed an idea of the superior importance of self-complacency, and of approving Heaven. But, having taken down in short hand, as I was seated at my writing-desk, in a closet adjoining to Margaretta's, a few disjointed sentences, which fell from the lips of my wife, during one of those hours appropriated to the instruction of her beloved charge, I transcribe them from my minutes.

There are, my love, a variety of means, by which you may insure to yourself the general good wishes and esteem of all those with whom you associate; and this, too, without parting with a shilling of your prop|erty, or the smallest inconvenience to yourself. Nay, on the contrary, it may happen that you will thus procure considerable pecuniary emolument; and you will certainly reap incalculable mental advantages; your bosom will be tranquillized, and you will possess that harmony of intellect, which few events will be ca|pable of interrupting. But let me be more particular: Avoid engaging warmly as a disputant; deliver your sentiments, when called upon, with calmness and dig|nity; and never assume a decisive air, or tone of voice.

Accustom yourself to dilate on pleasing facts; dwell with pleasure on every good action; advocate the cause of the absent, and do not suffer yourself to repeat those instances of misconduct, which you may have heard. Hide the faults which may happen to come under your observation, with as much care as if they were your own; never make them the subject of your animadversions, except you have good ground for imagining that you shall thereby effectuate some valuable purpose. Be scrupulously exact in your ob|servance of that intercourse of civilities, pronounced, by a certain class of people, essential to good breeding. It is true, we may regard those ceremonies as trivial; but nothing, in fact, can be indifferent, on which the inestimable enjoyments of society are made to depend; in|deed, a regular observance of punctuality, in every department, will always be recognized as a virtue.

But while I counsel you to be a tenacious ob|server of the etiquette, established in those circles in which you may happen to move, as far as it relates to others, being careful, in no instance, to draw upon yourself the accusation of neglect, I would wish you, on your own part, to rise superior to those, in reality, little punctilios; be not easily betrayed into resentment; do not indulge an irritable disposition of mind, nor sub|ject your associates to the necessity of moving as if they trod on glass, for fear of wounding your feel|ings. There is one rule to which it will be well con|stantly to adhere—never take offence at any inatten|tion you may have reason to suppose undesigned; when you are in reality injured, accept an apology; and let that mild indulgence, so proper to a being subjected to error, be ever prominent in your conduct. With the ex|ample of my grandmother, of celebrious memory, I have been particularly charmed; as often as she found the shafts of slander aimed against herself, if the ca|lumniator ranked in the number of her ostensible friends, it was her custom to take an early opportunity of visiting them, not to reproach them, but to evince, by the augmented urbanity and indulgent forgiveness of her manners, how little she merited their censure: If the maligner was found among the sons and daugh|ters of penury, she never failed of bestowing upon them some extraordinary and liberal mark of the un|common elevation of her spirit. Thus did her enemies become her warmest panegyrists, and every malevolent princi|ple was absorbed in the splendor of her almost peerless virtues.

But while I am solicitous to put you in possession of the good opinion of that world, upon the great the|atre of which you are so soon to make your entrée, I wo••ld not, however, wish you to purchase it at the expense of the integrity or sincerity of your character. May undue commendation never be found upon the lips of my Margaretta; adulation debases the mind; and while I recommend the mantle of candour, with the same breath I would insist, that no temptation should extort a eulogy upon the indiscreet or the unworthy.

Be not hasty to make professions of friendship, nor credit those feverish impressions, which probably are, at best, but the paroxysms of an hour; but regard the deliberate and uniform esteem of persons of established vir|tue and reputation, as an incalculable treasure, and endeav|our to preserve their good opinion, by pursuing those attain|ments that, when possessed, will infallibly bestow upon you the perfumed wreath of sweet applause.

Much hath been said respecting the virtue of secret-keeping, and the necessity of electing a discreet confi|dant; let me rather hope that you will have no secrets to keep. You will, I dare believe, be careful to obtain, and to perpetuate, that equity of thinking, and pro|priety of acting, which will paint your cheek with the hue of innocence, endow with modest confidence your words and actions, and insure a continuity of that charming serenity and cheerful expectation, that at present triumphs in your bosom. Yet, it is true, that there are a thousand little delicacies, contingent alarms, hopes and fears, which alternately predominate in the female mind. These may create embarrassments, ob|scuring, possibly, the better way, and enveloping in clouds those enjoyments, that, under proper regula|tions, would unquestionably bestow the richest com|placency. Of all those entanglements, and intricacies of every description, the breast of a maternal friend is the only proper repository. Years almost necessarily en|dow with experience; and affection, directed by knowl|edge, is demonstrably the surest guide. A judicious moth|er, rising superior to considerations, which generally influence a younger and less interested confidant, will not cherish ill founded hopes, nor give energy to those passions that are founded in weakness; but she will do better; by her systematic efforts, she will annihilate the dif|ficulty, and again lead the footsteps of the lovely trem|bler into the beamy paths of peace. A mother will neither indulge nor soothe those errors, which are pro|ductive of imbecility; her plan is, to crush in embryo every thing that may have a pernicious influence up|on the future progress of her child, to nerve by resolution,

and to cultivate that fortitude so necessary in the ca|reer of life; and hence it is, that a mother should be considered as the only proper confidant of her daughter.

I will confess, my dear, that I am not only satisfied, but perfectly charmed with your conduct. Your res|olution to become exactly what I wish, has been inva|riably reduced to practice; and the sweet conscious|ness, and tender ingenuousness of your apologies, have totally cancelled those mistakes, on which you have been precipitated by inexperience. Never, I bless God, have I discovered in you a blameable impatience of reproof, nor censurable haste to procure your own justification; all aggravating, self-applauding replies, implied accusations of rigour, audacious pertness and self-sufficient loquacity, or discontented gloomy reserve, sullen glances, angry and provoking gestures, with dumb indigna|tion—from all these you have still been wholly exempt, and I have to acknowledge your mild submission, sweet discretion, and affectionate duty, as the richest solace, both to your father and myself.

Such also is your conduct to our domestics, as to merit our highest approbation. The authority which I have thought proper to delegate to you, has been admirably supported. Without assuming arrogance, or that imperious haughtiness, so vexatiously distressing to dependants, you have conducted with dignity, amelio|rated by condescension; and this hath insured you both respect and esteem. I am pleased with your man|ner of directing; and the habit you have so happily ac|quired, of requesting the assistance of those about you, is certainly preferable, both in form and effect, to that peremptory commanding tone of voice, and imperious style of language, so generally adopted. Nothing can merit contempt, but unworthy actions; and you therefore rightly judge, that the individual, who, in the order of things, is employed in the lowest useful occupa|tion, provided he sills his sphere with propriety, should not only be exempted from scorn and derision, but is, in reality, superior to the crowned head, whose life is a

combination of atrocious crimes. It is well observed, that good servants should be regarded as humble friends. I am persuaded it will ever be your aim to make their yoke easy; and I repeat, that in this house, the mild benignity of your temper, and your engaging deportment, without in the smallest degree diminish|ing the consideration due to you, as the daughter of our election, has established you in every heart. It has been your object to mitigate the unavoidable evils, and to lessen the respective burdens of those in|dividuals who compose our household; and I observe with pleasure, that you have become the sovereign lady of their affections.

I am not apprehensive, that the rendering you the praise, so indispensably your due, will be, in any sort, injurious. You will not, I flatter myself, be un|duly elated—far otherwise—the noble energies of your disposition will be thus stimulated to yet higher excel|lence. Nothing is more disgusting than an overween|ing self-sufficiency and presumptuous pride, particu|larly in young persons; modest diffidence carries with it its own recommendation. I should blush to find my Margaretta; except induced by particular circum|stances, making herself the heroine of her own narra|tions. Those events which may be importantly inter|esting to you, and from which you conceive you derive an elevation of character, will, too probably, fatigue in the recital; the indifferent will consider them as insip|id; you will be subjected to ridicule, and assuredly draw upon yourself the odium of egotism and imper|tinence.

It is wisdom to cultivate a complacency in the scene under your present observation. Contentment is the richest gem within the grasp of mortality; hardly any price can be too great for so valuable an acquisition; it is a substitute for almost every lesser enjoyment, and often supplies, with much respectability, the place of higher orders of felicity. You cannot call back the past, you may never attain the future, and, surely then, I may repeat, it is wisdom to cultivate complacency in

the present, and to use all possible diligence to accom|modate your mind to a situation, which you have it not in your power to ameliorate, however ineligible it may, in fact, be.

My minutes go no further, yet they may serve to give an idea of those sentiments, which were repeatedly and carefully inpressed upon the mind of Margaretta; and I can scarcely imagine the reader will think their introduction in this place stands in need of an apology.

N^o. XLIII.

Fond to select—the letters I retrace— While, in its turn, each line demands a place; With partial eye I view them as they rise, While this a thought, and that a grace supplies: Partiality, to every charm alive, E'en from a fault will excellence derive; And in a husband, and a parent's breast, Where the impassion'd throb is deep impress'd, Partiality with glowing ardour reigns, And all its fervours uncontrol'd maintains.

To my ever honoured MOTHER.

MY DEAR MAMMA,

IT is impossible for any words of mine to say, with what unequalled pleasure I read over and over again, those letters which you have condescended to write to me. I have this morning been placing them according to their dates. I have bestowed upon them more kisses than there are lines; and, conjoining them with a piece of purple ribon, I can thus turn to them the more readily; the impression made by the folds will gradually disappear, and, while I live, I shall be able to preserve them. The last ten letters* 12.1, contain|ing directions for my conduct, in all those situations in which you suppose I may possibly be placed, I shall certainly read, at least once, every day.

Surely, never—no, never—was poor, rich orphan so completely blessed as your Margaretta. When you

went through Evelina yesterday, I could scarcely for|bear interrupting you by an expression of those feel|ings of gratitude, which were all collected, if I may so say, in one delightful emotion of exquisite and almost ungovernable joy! Evelina, it is true, did not find a mo|ther; but Mr. Villars was exactly such a man as my ten|derly indulgent father; and, methought, it was my own dear papa who was addressing Lady Howard, when he so affectionately says,

That child, Madam, shall never, while life is lent, know the loss she has sustained. I have cherished, succoured and supported her, from her earliest infancy to her sixteenth year.

Good, kind gen|tleman—I was uncommonly affected. I have been looking over Evelina again this morning; and, on my knees, I pray God, that both you and my papa may be able to say of your Margaretta, as Mr. Villars of his Evelina, that she has amply repaid your care and affection, and that she is all which your fondest wishes had anticipated.

Evelina was very happy to meet in Lord Orville, a friend so like her papa. Is it not very uncommon, mamma, for so young a gentleman to be in the exercise of those virtues which seemed to have found a home in the bosom of the venerable Mr. Villars?

But Evelina deserved every thing—Was she not, my mamma, a faultless character? Surely the English reviewers, of whom I have heard so much, must have spoken highly of those volumes. I have again been weeping over the sufferings of Lady Belmont—Sir John Belmont I also pity—May God protect me from the cruel impositions of base and interested men! I think, mamma, you did not give your opinion of Eve|lina. Your next letter, I hope, will teach me how I ought to think of it; and may I never take a step without your kind advice and direction, and may I always continue your affectionately dutiful,

MARGARETTA MELWORTH.

To MARGARETTA MELWORTH.

MY DEAR CHILD,

RARELY doth a day pass without furnishing me with some new reason to love and admire my Marga|retta. You have experienced that I am not niggard of praise, nor is it proper I should be so. I would as soon withhold from you the light of heaven, lest you should become enamoured with the beauty of your face, or the symmetry of your person, (neither of which you have been any how instrumental in pro|curing) as I would keep back those commendations decidedly due to unequivocal merit, in the fear they might be productive of self-conceit.

Praise operates upon the youthful mind like the vernal shower upon the tender plant, or like the clear shining of that parent orb, whose genial ray succeeds the fertilizing irrigation. And I am, at this moment, in possession of a motive sufficient to extort applause even from the frigidity of apathy. Yes, my love, since you retired to your pen this morning, I have made a discovery, that, while it elevates to a degree of rapture, the complacency I am in the habit of experiencing in my child, incalculably augments my confidence in her virtues.

You recollect when your papa first informed you, that you should receive, at the close of every week, a small sum, as pocket money, (which has since been regularly paid you) he at the same time assured you, it should remain entirely at your own disposal; that he would never require, or receive an account of its expenditure; and that, however you might think proper to enter it in your calculation of expenses, it should, on no occasion, be subjected to his inspection; and by this assurance he has ever since been religiously bound. I will confess to you, my dear, that having never observed even a vestige of this money, I have had a strong curiosity to know in what manner it was bestowed; but regarding the wishes of your father as rules for my conduct, I have forborne to investigate;

and, as the sum was small, I was the less anxious re|specting it. This morning, however, has produced a most unexpected and captivating eclaircissement. In|duced, by its beauties, to prefer a walk to a book, I strolled further than I have done since the illness under which I so long laboured, and which filled the bosom of my Margaretta with such tender apprehensions. It happened in my walk, that I passed the cottage of Me|lona, whom I have not seen for more than a year; and, indulging a hope, that time, aided by necessity, might have procured that reformation, for which my coun|sels had been ineffectual, I felt a strong inclination to look in upon the poor woman. I passed her humble threshold, marking, with pleasure, an appearance of neatness, I had never before witnessed in the dwelling of Melona.

The cottage, you know, has two apartments; no person was in that which I entered; but it bore strong testimony of the cleanliness and industry of its mistress; and, moreover, the buz of a spinning-wheel saluted my ear! This is excellent, thought I, and just as I was about to enter the other room, little Peggy open|ed the door, and carefully shutting it after her, tripped into the street. The child had her eyes so steadily fix|ed upon the spelling-book, which she held open in her hand, that she did not observe me; and the grateful noise of the spinning-wheel still continued. Peggy's apparel was strikingly descriptive of scanty means, dili|gently employed to the best possible advantage; and this cir|cumstance, together with the new face which every thing in the cottage of Melona assumed, determined me to interrogate the child, expecting, from her inno|cence and simplicity, a clue of direction for my ap|proaches to her mother. I soon overtook her, and in|terrupted her studies with a—How are you, my pretty little Peggy? She had no recollection of me, and not having reflection enough to teach her to wonder at my knowledge of her name, with a childish kind of bash|fulness, she dropped a courtesy, and said, "Pretty well I thank you, Madam." Where are you going, Peggy?

"I goes every day to school, Ma'am, now-a-days." And what do you read in, pray? "I reads in this here spelling-book; and I studies my lesson every morning." That is very proper, my dear; you seem to have a very handsome spelling-book, quite new; I hope you take care of it: Who gave it to you, Peggy? "That I must not tell, Madam; for Miss Melworth would be angry if I should." Miss Melworth! said I, almost gasping for breath; why, child, what has Miss Melworth to do with it? "I must not say, Madam, for Miss Margaretta herself bid me not to speak; but for all that, my mamma says how that she is an angel, and that she has saved us all, and made her a thousand times gooder than she was before; but this is all a se|cret, and I would not tell for the world."

Here I will own to you, my love, that your per|severing superiority originated in my bosom, admira|tion of my daughter, and accusation of myself. But determining to trace every step, by which you had ef|fectuated so valuable a change, I took Peggy by the hand, and once more entered the cottage of Melona. "The wicket opening with a latch," gave us a ready ad|mittance into its back apartment. Melona threw her eyes over a countenance she had so long known; a crimson blush instantly suffused her cheek, and was as instantly succeeded by a death-like paleness; her wheel stopped, and, sinking upon a chair, it was with difficulty that the immediate application of my salts preserved her from fainting.

When she was a little composed I began my attack, and managing with some address, I soon obtained the full confession of a secret, which adds another beauti|ful trait to the character of my Margaretta. She in|formed me of your appearance under her humble roof upon the week you first received your little sti|pend—of your sage admonitions—of your earnest en|treaties that she would permit you to put her little Peggy to school—of your proposal to purchase the spinning-wheel—of the assistance she had received from you during her illness, and that of her husband—and

of the happy change a patronage so unexpected had produced in her life. Reflecting, she said, upon the great goodness of so young a lady, upon her stooping to take such a compassionate interest in her affairs, and condescending to urge her, with such extraordinary earnestness, to assist herself to have pity on her husband, to have pity on her poor little Peggy, and to make the best of that little which was allowed her, filled h••r with grief, joy and astonishment—grief, at her own unworthiness and great wickedness—and joy and astonishment, that a little angel had come down from Heaven, to dwell among the sinners of mankind—(I give you her own words.) She immediately made a vow, that nothing stronger than water should, in future, pass her lips; and, that she might have no temptation to forfeit a resolution so salutary, she forthwith com|mitted the intoxicating distillation, hitherto carefully con|cealed for her own particular use, to the stream which winds its way at a little distance from the cottage; and, being earnestly bent upon a thorough reform, her application became as remarkable as her previous negligence had been; and habit reconciling her to her new walk, frugality, neatness and industry, with all their captivating charms, soon burst upon her.

Melona informs me, that she long refused to receive any part of your weekly stipend; but that, on your positive assurance, that the kindness of your parents had left you no wish ungratified; that you possessed an undoubted right to dispose of this sum exactly accord|ing to your own pleasure; and, that her acceptance was the only compensation she could make to you for the interest you so kindly took in her welfare, she had at length consented to receive from you weekly dona|tions; that you had furnished her husband with many articles necessary to his business; and that you par|ticularly paid for the instruction of Peggy. But she added, that she believed, she and her little family were not your only pensioners! Matchless child! My God! how I glory in my Margaretta! or rather, in those heavenly propensities, with which thou hast en|dowed

her. I inquire not, my beloved girl, for a list of your dependants; enjoy, in this particular, the lux|ury of concealment; but it shall be my care, that your means shall be immediately augmented; she, who knows so well how to dispose of money, must not be circumscribed within such narrow bounds.

Do you not think I came home in raptures with those peerless virtues which I have the honour to cher|ish and to protect? I could hardly, upon this occasion, arrogate to myself the title of your Mother, and I felt my mind spontaneously prostrating before an intel|lect, whose brilliant dawn surpasses the meridian ef|fulgence of common intelligence.

Plato met me with your letter. I was prepared to accede to any request of yours—and, as your father does not return until the evening, I reserve, till that period, the pleasure of a circumstantial account of Me|lona and her cottage; of the means by which I ob|tained the delightful particulars which I shall narrate; and of bestowing upon the brow of merit, the wreath of unequivocal applause. Shall we not, my dear, en|joy a most enchanting evening? Well, but you solicit my sentiments of Evelina. Surely, my Margaretta is an enthusiast in her gratitude—but the enthusiasm of virtue is a noble enthusiasm.

The plot of Evelina is well 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and happily executed. It is a novel to which we can return with pleasure, even to a second or third perusal, and this is more than can be said of common productions of this kind. The style is familiar and easy; and the ideas seem naturally to grow out of each other.

Evelina is said to be a first production, and, if so, it is entitled, or the abilities of its author, to high admi|ration. But I think you will esteem Cecilia (which is a publication of the same author) as a work which merits a decided preference. The character of Albany, in Cecilia, is a highly finished original, and has for me peculiar charms. I do not say it is natural; but I could wish to render such characters official, and to multiply them in society. Miss Burney's publications have hith|erto

done honour both to her fine genius and benevo|lent heart; and, I think, they have much appropriate excellence. I am ignorant in what class the reviewers have placed the productions of Miss Burney; but jus|tice must award them a very high rank in the literary line. Yet, it appears to me, that Evelina, as a com|position, is not without a blemish; and, I conceive, the heroine herself is strikingly deficient in one particu|lar, which constitutes a capital requisite in the compo|sition of a young and amiable woman. The task of a censurer must always appear invidious; yet, for the sake of my Margaretta, who warmly demands, "Was not Evelina a faultless character?" I express my senti|ments without reserve. Evelina then, was greatly want|ing in that delicacy, which should have marked her de|portment to Madame Duval. Madame Duval had been denied the aids of education; this was her misfortune, rather than her fault; and a well informed, amiable de|scendant should have thrown over this defect the veil of du|ty, and not have sought every opportunity to have exposed it in the most glaring colours! In the letters ad|dressed to her reverend correspondent, the old lady is rarely mentioned without a sketch of her bad English, as, "Ay now," cried Madame Duval, "that's another of the unpolitenesses of you English, to go to talking of such things as that: Now, in Paris, nobody never says nothing about religion, no more than about politics." And again, "I would have you learn to be more politer, Sir," &c. &c. Was it, I ask, the part of a well disposed, well educated young lady, to hold up to view errors of this kind, when found in the mouth of a person, whose years, and whose affinity, entitled her to a more candid and dutiful representation?

It appears that Madame Duval was indebted to na|ture for nothing but the charms of her person, and that her temper was very unhappy and cruelly implacable; yet it is not insinuated, that her enormities were greatly multiplied. She is, however, treated as the most atro|cious of criminals; and, by the instigations of a Cap|tain Mirvin and the lover of her grand-daughter, she re|ceives

the most absurd and cruel outrage. The gentle Evelina, who is apprized that some mischievous plot is in agitation against her grandmother, sets out without a single remonstrance, attended only by the servants, to accom|pany her to a justice of peace, although she had expressed previous fears of entrusting herself to her care! A farce, of which I cannot see the wit, succeeds. The poor old lady is made to believe herself in the possession of a savage banditti—her apprehensions for her life are apparently well founded—she is torn from the carriage by masked men—she is dragged along the road, cruelly agitated, shook, and thumped about—stuck fast in a ditch—her legs bound—tied to a tree—and, robbed of her head dress, she is thus left to her own contemplations, while her grand-daughter continues in her chariot, listening to a tale of love!!

In one sense, Evelina must be considered as accessary to these unwarrantable proceedings; a single hint would have saved her parent all the cruel mortifications to which she was subjected; but this hint she withheld! If conduct so reprehensible is too gross, even for a romping miss, in pursuit of fun, how must it detract from the character of a pupil of the venerable Villars? Surely, Evelina should not have been astonished, (considering the propensities of Madame Duval) at the slap which she received in her face—and the unrestrained violence of the old lady's disposi|tion, is, upon this occasion, rather too conciliatory. An air of ridicule is thrown over this doleful narrative by Evelina, who, giving it in the manner of the poor suf|ferer, intersperses it with such sentences as this—"I am sure, I dare say, I am out of joint all over, &c." Evelina is a silent observer of the mirth of the servants, and confes|ses that she was, herself, almost compelled to laugh at the pity-moving recital!! For a conduct so unequal to every other instance of her blameless life, there can be but one reason, the fear of offending a sea-monster, on whom she in no sort depended, and from whom she could, in any moment, escape to that sanctuary, which had, for so many years, continued the asylum of her innocence. But, if the fear of giving offence is an apology for Evelina, can it be considered as such

for the venerable Villars, to whom every circumstance is related, and from whom she receives not the smallest re|proof? It is impossible to inculcate upon the mind of young people too high a respect for years; age is ever entitled to veneration, and we should regard the feel|ings of persons in advanced life with the utmost de|ference. It is true, that Madame Duval had been im|placable to the mother of Evelina; but it does not ap|pear, that the young lady had embraced a vindictive plan; and it is also true, that the mother of Evelina had imprudently confided in a libertine! Nor can we oth|erwise account for this rashness, considering that she too had passed eighteen years of her life with the re|spectable Villars, than by supposing she inherited a portion of the imbecility so strongly marked in the conduct of her parents. The agonies of Madame Du|val, on the death of lady Belmont, should, to erring mortals, have palliated her offence; and it ought al|ways to have been remembered, whatever were her faults, or foibles, that she was still the grand-parent of Evelina.

At a transaction so enormous as the unprovoked attack upon Madame Duval, we conceive additional disgust, from the consideration that it was perpetrated by persons taking rank in a circle, which, we are in|duced to suppose, was the seat of elegance. But, for the honour of human nature, I trust, no one of its fraternity ever sat for the picture of a Captain Mirvin. I know not what the British sailors may be, but I have had an opportunity of making many observations upon various characters among that class of people in this country, and I have never yet met with a resemblance to this extravagant caricature! Do but recur to his capital enormities, plotting so unwarrantably against a female, who was countenanced as a visitor to the respectable Lady Howard; and, in the close of the third volume, throwing the whole company, consisting of genteel, well bred persons, into consternation, alarm|ing the ladies, and distressing every individual! Are you not ready to ask, could exploits of this nature have

been submitted to in any civilized country under heaven? The general terror excited upon that singular occasion, (it is unnecessary to observe that I refer to the introduction of the monkey) with the blood stream|ing from the ear of poor Lovel, would have drawn upon the malevolent plotter of the outrage, the vindictive resentment and consequent chastisement of a horde of savages.

Yet this invader of the rights of hospitality and betrayer of the peace of society, is first announced to the reader, by the penetrating, refined and sentimental Lady Howard, as the man of her daughter's heart, and as a personage, whose unexpected return had given birth to joyful surprise.

It is difficult to conceive how a lady of Mrs. Mir|vin's refined sensibility, could ever unite herself to such a man▪ but, having thus done, the propriety of her subsequent conduct will not admit a doubt.

I cannot say I am pleased with those descriptions, which attribute to humanity a greater degree of de|formity than consists with experience. It is a sufficient apology for the exaggerated delineation of an exalted character, that it may have its use. It frequently 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a spirit of emulation; and, although we may not reach the goal of perfection, yet every advance we make thereto, is a very valuable point gained, and certainly an ample compensation for our most arduous efforts. But vice and folly are sufficiently odious, when exhibited in their own native colours; and, while I can see no benefit in heightening the imbecility and atrocious de|pravity of the species, I am fearful that the transgressor, when called to the observation of hues still blacker than the turpitude of his own enormities have ever yet assumed, may thence conclude his offences comparatively venial.

The trivial scenes interspersed through the pages of Evelina and Cecilia, are, it is said, too frequent and too prolix; but I am not convinced of the justice of this remark; and I have to say, that whatever may be the defects (and no human performance is without its blemish) of those inestimable productions, their beau|ties

are of the first order. And I repeat, that their right to rank with compositions of the first class, in their line, is indisputable.

The character of Lord Orville is indeed highly fin|ished; it is enriched with every virtue of which our nature, in its present state of degradation, is suscepti|ble. Nor do I find it difficult to conceive of a sensi|ble, discreet young man, whose mind has been early occupied by sentiments of propriety, acting, upon ev|ery occasion, precisely as did Lord Orville. The ven|erable Villars may also be regarded at nearly faultless. The most beautiful passages in Evelina are to be found in his letters. How tenderly affecting is his address to Lady Howard, by his Evelina! It can hardly be read too often.

Do you not think, my Margaretta, that I too, make my applications? But every heart must be interested in such a character; and after having, in idea, followed with him his orphan child to the ordeal over which she victoriously triumphed, we listen, with inexpressible pleasure, to his concluding address.

I adopt the language of this venerable man as a pe|riod to this letter.

These wounds, which the former severity of fortune hath inflicted, are healed by the ulti|mate consolation of pouring forth my dying words in bles|sings on my child! Closing these joy-streaming eyes in her presence, and breathing my last saint sighs in her loved arms! Grieve not, Oh child of my care! grieve not at the inevitable moment; but may thy own end be equally propitious! Oh mayest thou, when full of days, and full of honour, sink down as gently to rest—be loved as kindly, watched as tenderly as thy happy mother! and mayst 〈◊〉〈◊〉, when thy glass 〈◊〉〈◊〉 run, be sweetly, but not bit|terly, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 by some remaining darling of thy affections, some yet surviving

Margaretta. These, my love, are also the breathings, the real wishes of thy affectionate mother,

MARY VIGILLIUS.

N^o. XLIV.

Pursuits, commencing in this present scene▪ Where clouds obscure, and sorrows intervene— Born of the mind—by sacred truth confess'd, In future worlds are with completion blest; For there the intellect new vigour gains, And all its heav'nly energies attains. Knowledge but dawns upon this dusky shore, In heaven its full meridian we explore.

To MARGARETTA.

I DO not blame your tears, my dear; the loss of your young friend is a serious calamity, and it is natural to weep over our misfortunes. Horatio was a promising youth; his demise has overwhelmed with distress a worthy family, and the well grounded hopes of tender and judicious parents are thus laid in the dust. But, my dear Margaretta, while I allow you to regret the removal of Horatio, I cannot justify your impassioned exclamation—"To what purpose was he so good, so wise, so learned, and so every way accomplished?" Does not my daughter know that virtue, transplanted to a celestial soil, will flourish with immortal beauty? The faculties, while embodied in this clay-built tenement, are literally muffled by the dense and heavy materials, in which they are envel|oped. The mind is only in its dawn of being; but the valuable acquirements which it attains while here, are not, upon its emancipation, lost; far otherwise—they are rather introductory to that career, which is to be continued and perfected in future worlds.

The student of history becomes acquainted with all those characters that have borne conspicuous parts upon the vast theatre of this globe. The philosopher, devoted to the study of nature, attaining those blissful regions, shall pursue, with abundant advantage, his delightful employ. The astronomer will behold, with astonishment, where other systems rise! Suns, which

have not even theoretically darted a single ray on his inquiring mind, will then burst in resplendent lustre to his enraptured gaze. The laws of attraction, of gravitation, the centrifugal and centripetal force of bodies; these will be fully understood. Causes, as well as effects, will stand confest; and knowledge, combining complacency, will accumulate in sublime progression. Every laudable investigation, which may be ranked un|der the head, of intellectual contemplations, will prob|ably be resumed with augmenting energy, while the virtues, attaining their native skies, will flourish with immortal beauty.

Thus the young Horatio may be considered as an amiable novitiate, who obtaining, while here, the ru|diments of science, is now removed to a superior sem|inary, where every acquirement worth preserving will receive the highest finishing of which it is suscep|tible. This reflection is a source of infinite con|solation, and often have I experienced its soothing ef|ficacy. I was once tenderly attached to a youth, beau|tiful, virtuous and informed as Horatio. His under|standing unfolded with uncommon brilliancy; an insatiable thirst for knowledge gave him to pursue, with eagerness, those branches of literature which were proposed to his consideration, and he acquired in his little span, a vast stock of erudition, for which, alas! he had no use in time! From this youth I received even filial attention; but he was ••ut off in the bloom of life, and melancholy hours were written for me.

On my b••nded knees, with every rising day, I offer up my orisons of devout thankfulness to that God, who hath given my Margaretta to fill up the void in my bosom, which the demise of a youth so beloved had left therein; and I will, ere long, put into your hands a collection of my letters in manuscript, address|ed to this son of my affection, while he was a student at the academy of—, including a concise view of persons and events; and, in the mean time, as you have already made considerable proficiency in the study of biography and history, I request you, as an

exercise from which will result obvious advantages, to answer me unreservedly, according to the dictates of your deliberate judgment, to the following questions.

First, To which of the heroes, whose actions are re|corded by Plutarch, you give the preference?

Secondly, Whom you esteem most of all the mon|archs who have swayed the British sceptre, from the year eight hundred and twenty-seven, which united the kingdoms of the heptarchy, under Egbert, when he was solemnly crowned king of England, unto the accession of George III. to that throne?

Thirdly, What were your sensations as you read, and what are your sentiments of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, Henry IV. of France, Charles I. of En|gland, and Peter the Great, Czar of Russia?

And, fourthly and lastly, although I do not enjoin you to weigh with accuracy the murders of a Cortez, although I expect you will pass rapidly over the pages in which a Montezuma bled, and in which are regis|tered the massacre of an innocent and defenceless people; yet, my dear, I am solicitous to know whom you characterize as the most amiable of all those ad|venturers, who, quitting the chalky cliffs of your native land, crossed the broad Atlantic, to obtain establish|ments in North-America?

It is by the careful investigation of proper, great and virtuous actions, as performed by others, that the glow of emulation is enkindled in our bosoms. We gaze at each transcendent excellence, until our minds acquire n••w energy; they are nerved by fortitude, and we are rendered equal, as far as opportunity calls us forth, to the most consistent and uniform exertions.

The time we devote to the reading of history, or to the perusal of the lives of eminent persons, who have really acted a part upon this globe, is indeed well spent. It put•• us in possession of a fund of knowledge; for a narration of facts is, decidedly, information; while the page•• of the novelist can, at best, bestow only the light|er or more trivial embellishments; they originate in fiction, and the pleasures in their gift are as evanescent

as the passing breeze; they may amuse for the moment, but they constitute no valuable part of erudition. An ignorance in geography or history, supposing the means of instruction have been furnished, is a just cause of reproach; but I should not blush to acknowl|edge my daughter wholly unacquainted with a large proportion of those novels, which are daily issuing from the fertile resources of imagination. That my lovely charge may, by every possible means, gain that im|provement which will render her a valuable member of society, and a truly amiable woman, is the unceasing wish of her maternal friend,

MARY VIGILLIUS.

To my honoured MOTHER.

THANK you, my mamma, for permitting me to weep for Horatio; you are in all things indulgent; and I cannot but blush for an expression of sorrow, which is, indeed, unbecoming in a young creature, who has been privileged by receiving your instructions, and observ|ing your example. I will no more regret the virtues of Horatio; but I will endeavour to obtain those ac|quirements which shall render me a fit companion for him in that world whither he hath flown.

You, my mamma, have often been afflicted, and yet you are cheerful and happy! It will be my pride to tread in your steps, and for two very good reasons; first, I shall thus become amiable and virtuous; and, secondly, I shall give joy to your maternal bosom. To be called your daughter, and to merit, in any de|gree, that distinction, is my highest ambition; and while I am thought worthy to succeed the beloved child whom you mourn, I shall indeed be the happy Margaretta. The letters which you are to give me, are a new instance of your goodness; my treasures are daily augmenting, and my gratitude ought to be proportioned.

I have again carefully looked over the volumes of biography and history, which I have so lately read in

your presence; and, although they are all fresh in my memory, yet I can hardly tell how to give an opin|ion respecting them, and, but in obedience to the wishes of my Mother, I should not presume to express my sentiments.

Plutarch has recorded so many great actions, that I am almost lost in astonishment while I read his pages; but, after hesitating who, of all his heroes, to name upon this occasion, I have thought that as Aristides so generally obtained the appellation just, he must have possessed superior excellence; and, upon attentive|ly examining his deeds of worth, I cannot say that he did not deserve the title which he received. I am ready to ask, Was not Aristides a perfect character? and, since you have put me upon the comparison, I have taken the liberty to conceive, that there are not many of the English kings worthy to be compared with him.

If Edward VI. had lived, as he was so early re|markable for virtue and for learning, he might have exceeded all who went before; and I should not then have hesitated in my answer to the second question of my dear mamma. The reply of the son of Henry VI. upon being interrogated by the prince whom he deem|ed a usurper, relative to his appearance in England, betokened an intrepid mind: But this youth was bar|barously murdered. Henry VII. was a good king; he is said to have rendered his subjects powerful and happy, and to have wrought a great change in the manners of the people. Henry V. is a celebrated and victorious warrior. The Black Prince is rendered il|lustrious by many virtues. Goldsmith tells us, that he left behind him a character without a single blemish—that time could scarcely alleviate the sorrows occasion|ed by his death—that his affability, clemency, and lib|eral disposition, is extolled by many historians; and that, although he was born in an age in which milita|ry virtues alone were held in esteem, he cultivated the arts of peace, and seemed ever more happy in deserving praise, than in obtaining it—But he was not a monarch.

Thomson's Edward and Eleonara, has prepossessed my mind in favour of that monarch. Shall I, my mamma, greatly err, if I give the preference to the hero of the poet? Suffer me to point out a few in|stances wherein I have been charmed with the charac|ter of that sovereign.

At an early period, when Prince of Wales, he ap|pears fighting the battles of his father, whose rebellious subjects had taken arms against him. Fired by the insults offered to his royal parents, he pursues and takes vengeance upon them; he submits, with calm resignation, to the hardships imposed upon him, and becomes a voluntary hostage for his father: he extri|cates himself with great dexterity from the difficulties in which he was involved; he escapes from the am|bitious Leicester, and suddenly appearing the brave leader of his armies, his presence insures success; he hastes, with filial eagerness, to snatch his father from the threatened danger; he overcomes, in single com|bat, the rebel Gordon, a veteran trained to arms, and skilled in combat! He does more; for, good as he is brave, he obtains his pardon, reinstates him in the king's favour, and restores him to his family and estates! He mourned for his father with true filial sorrow. When he came to the throne, he might have been despotic; but he contented himself with limited power. In the midst of danger he discovered great intrepidity; no circumstance could diminish his valour; he was never vindictive but when he conceived the exigencies of the State required it. We are informed, that he added much to the real emolument of his subjects; that he was solicitous for the tranquillity of the people, and was seldom arbitrary but with a view to their interest. He was devout, fond of justice, essayed to distribute it indiscriminately, and confirmed the rights of the people. Such is the character of Edward I. and yet, methinks, many of his actions were deeply tinged with severity.

To read the life of the Queen of Scots without tears, appears to me impossible. I prefer Doctor Stuart to Doctor Robinson, and I view Mary as the most injured

of women. I cannot regard her as a murderer—I am distressed if she is accused—I am fond of considering her as blameless. I do not love Elizabeth—I am aston|ished to find her at any time the object of admiration; and I feel disappointed, that no remarkable calamity overtook her as a punishment for her cruelty to a woman so unfortunate and so meritorious! The Earl of Murray I detest, nor did I part with a single tear at his assassination.

Henry IV. of France (excuse the arrogance of your girl) was, I conceive, inferior to the Duke of Sully. I have been ready to think he owed his greatness, in many instances, to his minister; he is often extricated by him from his difficulties, and saved from the most dishonourable connexions; yet the king is frequently angry with the duke without a cause. Besides, the king was an apostate; and the duke of Sully, although im|portuned by his sovereign, who enforced his arguments by the most splendid offers, preserved his religion inviolate. The duke is tenderly attached to his family, while the king very soon enters into habits of intimacy with persons who were supposed to have procured the death of his mother! nor does he pay much attention to the feelings of his sister! And indeed I am ready to ask, Was not the duke of Sully, as well as Aristides, with|out a fault? The action of Ravaillac was horrid, and, methought, I felt the wound which pierced the side of the king.

The fate of king Charles has cost me unnumbered sighs and tears. Surely, had the advances which he condescended to make, been accepted, he would have become the father of his people. The heroism of Lady Fairfax, at the trial of the unfortunate monarch, excites my gratitude and my admiration. When the royal sufferer takes leave of his children, and when, for the last time, he presses his in••ant son to his bosom, I can scarce control the anguish of my spirit; a sick|ness comes over my heart, and I feel as if I were about to part with the dearest of my friends. I follow Charles to the scaffold—I attend to the good bishop—

I behold the venerable sufferer—I listen to his em|phatic "REMEMBER"—I see his head extended on the block, his hands out-stretched! and I shudder at the fatal blow!—I turn from the bleeding trophy of rebellion!—I execrate the enemies of the martyred monarch!—I join in the lamentations of the deeply affected spectators; and, I think, I would not be Eliza|beth of England, nor Oliver Cromwell, although I might thus be raised to the empire of the whole world.

I take pleasure in travelling with the Czar Peter; I admire him while in Holland and England. He was called great—but I had rather he had been less rigorous to his son.

You have taught me, Madam, to venerate the char|acters of those matchless men, who, quitting their native country, and those commodious habitations where they enjoyed the elegancies of life, crossed the wide Atlantic, and took up their residence in a wil|derness, where even the articles necessary to their existence were with difficulty obtained; thus encoun|tering various hardships, for the sole purpose of ob|taining liberty to worship God agreeably to the dictates of their consciences; and I attend, with superior satisfaction, to the actions of persons, who were thus distinguished for patience, fortitude and piety.

But, when I am required to say which I admire most, I again feel as when making a choice among Plutarch's Greeks and Romans; and I am ready to conceive, that the naming one would render me guilty of disrespect to the rest; yet my mother would not put a question to her girl unbecoming for her to answer, and I cannot but feel a pleasure in accommo|dating myself to her requests. Mr. Johnson, of Clips|ham, seems to have exercised himself in acts of kind|ness towards America; he was an upright and pious man; after his death, the people of Massachusetts evinced the estimation in which they held him, by directing their bodies, as they departed out of time, to be interred around him. But the perusal of the life of

Govenor Winthrop has given me inexpressible satis|faction; he was early distinguished in Suffolk, and his being appointed a justice of peace at the age of eighteen, is a striking proof that he was supposed to possess supe|rior virtue. He enjoyed an estate of many hundreds a year; but he hesitated not in parting with every thing which was eligible in his prospects, when they were set in competition with his integrity and his religion. Placed, by general consent, at the head of the new formed colony, he was eleven times chosen its gov|ernor, and it appears that he conducted with prudence and justice. The death of Governor Winthrop, who was styled, the Father of the infant State, caused a general lamentation throughout the colony; and his virtues, it is said, were many, while his errors were few—perhaps he had no superior.

Thus, my dear mamma, have I endeavoured to obey you. Often attending to conversations passing between my papa and you, on interesting points in history, I have expressed myself with the greater confidence. I know you will have the goodness to point out my mistakes, and tell me how I ought to think of persons and things, and I request you to write me a separate letter upon each of the subjects you have proposed, and thus add to the number of those pleasing obligations, which you have long been in the habit of conferring upon your ever duteous and affectionate

MARGARETTA MELWORTH.

N^o. XLV.

Though frequent crimes deform the Grecian page, And Roman annals often blush in gore, Yet let me contemplate the virtuous sage, The patriot's beamy steps untir'd explore. I'd rather count the stars that gem the sky, Or in the azure path, or milky way, Than follow where tremendous whirlwinds fly, Volcanoes burst, or plagues in embryo lay.

To MARGARETTA.

YOU have, my love, fully answered my expecta|tions, and I pronounce decisively, (a liberty which you know I seldom allow myself to take) that few young women have made better improvement of their time and advantages than my Margaretta; and, as I am in the habit of gratifying all your reasonable wish|es, I shall, according to your desire, address you in separate letters upon the principal points to which I have required your attention.

I did not calculate on precision of comparison from my daughter. Plutarch, after carefully collecting the materials for the lives which he hath written; after weighing every circumstance, and digesting them with that admirable regularity in which they are handed down to us, is often at a loss to estimate the compara|tive excellence of his heroes. He narrates particulars, places them in a parallel view, and seems rather to leave the decision to his readers. My purpose, in the exercise which I have exacted, was to insure your ac|curate attention; well knowing, that the disquisition of a subject, a conference on its merits, and, more espe|cially, those researches which are requisite to the mak|ing up of an opinion that we are to commit to writing, is the most probable means of impressing the mind. Besides, we cannot too often contemplate virtuous ac|tions. Stimulated by the approbation that will, indis|putably, sooner or later, attend on rectitude, we be|come

enamoured thereof, and, aiming at those excel|lencies which may entitle us thereto, we seek to implant in our bosoms every good and proper principle.

The heroes of antiquity, grouped together, may be considered as a splendid constellation, illumining those tremendous periods, which, fraught with blood and murder, unveiled scenes that seemed to threaten the universal wreck of nature! Lycurgus, the Lacedemo|nian legislator, evinced his integrity in the most ardu|ous actions of his life; no difficulties were too great for his enterprizing spirit. Zealous for his country's weal, he endured every hardship; visiting the learned men in various cities, that he might, by their collected wisdom, become qualified to consult the general good. His valour was equal to his love of information. In early life he was proof against the assault of perfidious beauty; he cheerfully resigned royalty; and, although some of his regulations, apparently at variance with nature, may be deemed rigorous and cruel, yet we cannot call in question his probity, nor the light in which he himself regarded his institutions, when we find him voluntarily yielding up his life, in the hope of insuring their perpetual operation.

Solon, the Athenian law-giver, united wisdom and clemency; his philanthropy was demonstrated by his remission of debts, and his exempting the body from seiz|ure in cases of insolvency. He abrogated the bloody laws of Draco, and equity was the basis of his pro|ceedings: He ordained, also, that no one should speak evil of the dead. Thespis, the immortal father of the drama, was cotemporary with Solon.

Numa Pompilius was a virtuous prince. He seemed born to humanize the ferocity of the Romans; he cul|tivated the arts of peace; and his supposed intercourse with the goddess Egeria, giving him the ascendency over the minds of the people, he became indeed a sov|ereign, and he employed his power for the emolument of his subjects. His acceptance of the royal dignity was in conformity to their persevering importunity, and he justified their utmost confidence. His institu|tions

were descriptive of wisdom; he erected public edifices; he shut up the temple of Janus; and, al|though he exercised sovereignty for the space of forty-three years, this temple was never again opened dur|ing his reign. Numa exhibited an example of justice, clemency and goodness; and the benign virtues of humanity prevailed throughout his dominions. The sources of contention were cut off; the gentle breezes of complacency were abroad; the healthful and tran|quillizing occupations of agriculture were diligently pursued; the authority of religion was established; the people saw good days; festivity gladdened their hearts; and amusements, under the auspices of virtue, were established. Italy assumed a face of confidence and contentment; an amicable intercourse succeeded those hostilities which had distracted the land; a per|suasion of security obtained, and commerce revived.

Valerius became illustrious by his virtues. He was the friend of the people; his condescension to their feel|ings obtained for him the sirname of Publicola. He demolished, without hesitation, the superb mansion which gave them offence; he inverted the insignia of authority as he approached their assemblies; thus in|ferring his reverence for their sentiments, and his ac|knowledgment of their sovereignty. By these judicious concessions he cut asunder the sinews of envy, and es|tablished himself in the hearts of the many. He was the first Roman consul that ever mounted a triumphal chariot; and the oration which he delivered at the funeral of Brutus, is said to have originated that cus|tom among the Romans. Publicola enacted wise and equitable laws, and he communicated to his adminis|tration the requisite energy. He gave liberty to of|fenders, condemned by the consuls, to appeal to the people. No person could legally exercise any office, who had not been elected by the free suffrages of the people; and he exempted the poor from any custom, or im|post of any description! He ordained questors; he exer|cised himself in acts of liberality; and he was indus|trious in establishing all that equality which is consistent

with the regular administration of government. He was an intrepid warrior; he was victorious over the ene|mies of his country; he was frequently elected consul; his triumphs were repeated; and he died, honoured and regretted. The Roman ladies, to demonstrate their high sense of the merit of this illustrious citizen, appeared in black one whole year after his decease. If Solon's definition of happiness is admitted, Publicola was happy, for he was virtuous; he served his country honourably as a legislator and a general, and his services were gratefully compensated. He died amid the continued victories of the republic, which had attained respectability under his auspices; and to him is referred the splendor and ancestry of the noble houses of the Publicoloe, the Messalloe and Valerii.

Marcus Furius Camillus bore many honourable of|fices under the Roman commonwealth. Perhaps, if we except the Decii and the Regulii of the Roman history, it records few, if any lives, that exhibited more uniform and glowing patriotism. He was five times chosen dictator; and his deeds of worth rendered the family of Furia illustrious. The authority which de|volved singly upon himself, he judiciously communicat|ed; and when he was associated with others, the ele|vation of his understanding, giving him to originate every seasonable and important regulation, rendered his superiority apparent. It is remarked of him, that he commanded without envy, and that his contemporaries cheerfully yielded him the preference. It was during a contest relative to Camillus, that the Roman ladies evinced their patriotism by parting with their jewels; in consideration of which, a decree passed the senate, that orations should be pronounced at the funeral of meritorious women. The indignation with which Ca|millus received the infamous pedagogue who betrayed the Falerian youth, basely conducting the students committed to his care into the Roman camp, and his equitable decision relative to the traitor, demonstrates the wisdom and integrity of his character; while his re|marks, on that memorable occasion, are descriptive of

magnanimity, heroism and rectitude. War, said he, is of itself a sufficient evil; oppression, cruelty and bloodshed are in its train: Nevertheless, the man of probity will still square his actions by the rule of right; he will not accept a victory obtained by perfidy; but he will trust to his own valour to procure for him that decision, which the jus|tice of his cause may authorize him to expect. Virtue, as it often happens, was, in this case, its own reward. The unexpected restoration of the Falerian children, with the marks of ignominy bestowed upon the per|fidious preceptor, were circumstances which enkindled in the bosoms of the well near distracted parents, the most ardent veneration for the Roman character; and while their emancipated sons extolled Camillus as their father, their god and their deliverer, ambassadors were immediately dispatched to the Romans, and an advan|tageous and a bloodless peace was obtained.

Yet Camillus, at a period when he was involved in the deepest domestic calamity, when the cheek of the warrior was wet with the tears which fell over the early grave of the son of his bosom, became the victim of ingratitude! Arraigned by the ill-founded malice of the people, he anticipated judgment, and only es|caped an ignominious sentence, by submitting to vol|untary banishment. But, unlike Coriolanus, during his exile, his good genius still hovered round the city of Rome, and, as her guardian angel, he watched over her for good. The Gauls attacked and destroyed the city, massacreing the senators in their robes of dig|nity; but the exiled hero was fruitful in resources, and his most arduous efforts were embodied for the relief of his desolated country. As a private soldier, associating with a veteran band, he obtained a signal victory over the common enemy; and, so sacred did he hold the authority legally appointed, that he refused the com|mand which he was solicited to assume, until the represent|atives of the State, then besieged in the capitol, should elect him to that office! The heroism of an individual pro|cured the necessary investiture; and, thus armed with regular powers, his actions proclaimed the patriot, the

hero and the warrior! He led an army against Bren|nus; disappointed the mercenary views of that Gaul; set the battle in array; obtained a decisive victory; extricated his native city; entered Rome amid the ac|clamations of the citizens, and was received with every possible demonstration of joy! Camillus rebuilt the city of Rome, and was honoured by the appellation of its second founder. He enjoyed, for the fourth time, that triumph which he had so well deserved! In short, he attained the highest summit of human glory.

Cincinnatus is enrolled in the brightest annals of fame! His magnanimity, his abilities and his moder|ation merit the sublimest eulogy. Departing from the rural haunts of peaceful virtue, he saved Rome, obtained a triumph, and returned to that retirement, where he had so successfully reared to maturity that noble patriotism, which, in the hour of danger, had nerved his arm, and led him forth to victory!

Cimon, the Athenian, it is said, "possessed all those qualities that dignify the soul." He was zealous for his country's weal; his politics were upright; he was an accomplished general; modest, when raised to the highest employments and most distinguished honours, liberal and beneficent, simple, and averse to ostenta|tion. He had the glory of curbing the vanity of his countrymen, and dissuading them from acting tyran|nically; and he uniformly inveighed against that pro|pensity, which taught them to sacrifice virtue to profit, and honour to power.

Philopoemen, produced in the old age of Greece, is characterized as the last of her sons. He was an un|daunted warrior; he trained his countrymen to arms, and led them forth to victory: Many were his valorous deeds; and he continued, through a long life, the de|termined enemy of tyrants. The integrity of Philo|poemen was not to be corrupted; and such were the impressions of his rectitude, that no Lacedemonian dared to offer him a bribe. The citizens of Sparta wished to tender him the sums, accruing from the sale

of those valuable articles, which had been the proper|ty of the tyrant whom he had subdued by his valour: But they were aware that much address was requisite, and they committed the business to Timolaus; who, after undertaking it, upon observing the wisdom, jus|tice, temperance and moderation of Philopoemen, despairing of succeeding, pronounced him superior to seduction, and returned to his employers without exe|cuting his commission! A second attempt was alike ineffectual; a third trial, however, enabled him to produce the gratuity; when Philopoemen, rejecting the largess, calmly observed to the Spartans, that it would be economical to reserve their gold for those unprincipled men, whose nefarious purposes might else ac|complish the public ruin.

Philopoemen was the eighth time appointed general of the Achaeans, after he had completed the seventieth year of his age! What mortal could achieve he great|ly wrought: But misfortunes overtook the winter of his days. He was imprisoned by Dinocrates; and when the impoisoned chalice was placed in his hands, he questioned the messenger of death relative to the horsemen who were in his train, and upon being in|formed they had escaped, he replied with a smile, "It is well—we are not every way unfortunate;" and, swallowing the fatal draught, uttered not another sen|tence! The Achaeans revenged his death. The body of the hero was placed upon the funeral pile—the con|secrated urn received the ashes, and it was adorned with garlands of flowers. Polybius, the historian, conveyed it to his native city. The whole army, drawn up in solemn procession, attended the venerable re|mains. People, of all ranks and conditions, flocked from the towns and villages, to meet the sad retinue; pressing, with tears and lamentations, to touch and embrace that sacred urn, in which was deposited all that was mortal of him, who had so often delivered them from impending evil. He was interred with ev|ery demonstration of respect; and statues arose to his memory in all the principal cities of Greece.

But Plutarch pronounces decisively, that neither Philopoemen, nor any other warrior, can be compared to Titus Quintius Flaminius, in regard to benefits conferred upon the Grecian States. Titus combined gentleness of manners and piety with his valour. He was steady in his friendships; and his clemency to a conquered foe was exemplified in many instances. He was judicious in his arrangements: deliberation preceded his actions; and his bravery was tempered by wisdom. Being victorious over Philip of Macedon, he left him in the possession of his realm and crown; and he manifested great tenderness to the Etolians.

I pity the reader who is not elevated to a tone of extacy, when, borne on the wings of imagination, he presents himself amid the assembled Grecians, and lis|tens to the proclamation of the Roman herald.

Greece had been torn by intestine dissensions, and alternately the prey of contending nations. At length, subdued by the Romans, she looked for despotism and bondage. The Macedonians were expelled; they were totally dispossessed of all their conquests in Greece, and their garrisons were, by consequence, re|moved.

They were without a remedy, wholly at the mercy of the victor. That the Romans would relinquish the cities they had conquered, was improbable; the very idea was infinitely absurd and romantic. Solacing themselves, however, with the prospect of that repose which peace might confer, they prepare to celebrate the Isthmian games. A vast concourse of people are assembled—every heart is replete with expectation—persons of the highest rank mingle in the crowd—a decree is to be promulgated; a decree of their conquer|ors; and their fate hangs upon the lips of those who have obtained the power of decision. Hope and fear alternate|ly prevail; but the most sanguine expectancy could only calculate upon being indulged with a mild sys|tem of government. See how the agony of suspense is impressed upon every deeply interesting countenance! Hark! the trumpet sounds—silence is proclaimed—

the herald advances into the centre of the ARENA—he is about to speak—What will he say?—Hush, hush, let not a breath interrupt.

The senate and people of Rome, and Titus Quintius Flaminius the proconsul, having overcome Philip and the Macedonians, declare the Corinthians, the Phocians, the Locrians, the Euboeans, the Magnesians, the Thessalians, the Perroebi, the Achoeans, and Phthiots, FREE FROM ALL KIND OF SERVITUDE. ALL THESE NATIONS SHALL LIVE IN AN INDEPENDENT STATE, AND BE GOVERNED BY THEIR OWN LAWS!!!

The herald is but imperfectly heard—the multitude is exceeding great—the sudden burst of joy has inter|cepted and split asunder his sentences—Let him speak once more—a profound silence obtains—Again, with a loud voice, he proclaims, "The senate and people of Rome," &c. &c. &c.—Not a syllable is lost—not a doubt remains—Gracious God! is it possible?—but they are fully assured of their happiness, and their raised hands and streaming eyes express the unutterable transport of their bosoms! A universal shout of joy succeeds!—a shout, which is resounded by the far dis|tant shore—their united acclamations split the sur|rounding atmosphere—and, Plutarch informs us, im|peded, in their aërial passage, the feathered tenants of the sky!

The Isthmian games are neglected—more elevated and important attentions engross their minds—they crowd around the Roman chief—But description, how insufficient! how totally inadequate as a vest|ment, to enrobe those exquisite sensations, which this scene embodies and sublimes! Surely, the genius of humanity must lament that Rome ever deviated from a mode of conduct, at once so upright and so splendid.

Leonidas defending the straits of Thermopylae—Epaminondas, the brave victim of heroic patriotism—Pelopidas, his magnanimous friend—Agis, struggling in the cause of virtue, and submitting to death with heroic constancy—Socrates, expiring beneath the stroke

of factious bigotry—(you see, my dear, I have not paid much attention to chronology; let your next ex|ercise place these names in their proper order)—the virtuous Phocion, greatly superior, I had almost said, to error—But, my love, it is not my design to give a list of all those illustrious men, who are justly consid|ered as the ornaments of humanity. I only aim at exciting your curiosity, and stimulating your research|es. To-morrow I will give an answer to your ques|tion, "Is not Aristides a perfect character?"

Your papa intends a little jaunt this afternoon; we are to accompany him; we shall take an early din|ner, and it will be well for you to order your dress accordingly. Hasten, as soon as possible, to your af|fectionate

MARY VIGILLIUS.

N^o. XLVI.

Alas! humanity, to error prone! Unblemish'd rectitude hath rarely known; Around the lapsed nature, shades collect, And the dun hues a length'ning gloom reflect.

To MARGARETTA.

"IS not the character of Aristides perfect?" This is the present question. Let us, my love, pro|ceed to a careful investigation thereof, and our an|swer will follow of course. It appears that Aristides was, indeed, eminently virtuous; and, that although highly capable of friendship, his attachments could never render him unjust. His decisions, when sitting in the seat of judgment, were not influenced by a sense of personal injuries. "Friend," said he, to a plaintiff who sought to bias him in favour of his suit, by repre|senting the aggressor as the adversary of Aristides;

Friend, tell me only what injuries he has done to thee; for it is thy cause, and not mine, which I set to judge.

He was modest, and averse from ostentation, nor was he ambitious of the pageantry of office.

He was highly patriotic; the public good was the prime object of his pursuit; and, to a consideration so im|portant, he cheerfully prostrated his individual glory; yet, in fact, he thus rendered himself truly illustrious. I regard the action, by which Aristides relinquished his authority to Miltiades, among the most splendid of his life; the consequences were happy; he thus extermin|ated the noxious seeds of jealousy and contention, which, taking root, gave indications of a plentiful growth; and he taught the Grecian warriors the ad|vantage of being led to battle by a veteran, experi|enced in the toils and arts of war; nor could inferior chiefs, thenceforward, refuse to follow an example so evidently productive of general utility. Justice is said to be the most prominent virtue which Aristides pos|sessed; it raised him from the humble walks of life to the highest honours his country could confer; and the ascendency with which it invested him, giving a colour to the plea, that the liberties of Athens were in danger, became the foundation of that verdict of the ostracism, by which he was banished. "Hath Aristides ever injured you?" said the hero, to an illiterate stran|ger, who, ignorant to whom he applied, requested him to inscribe the devoted name upon the shell. "Not in the least," replied the cynic, "neither do I so much as know him; but I am weary of hearing every where of Aristides the just."

His prayer, at departing from Athens, breathed the true spirit of that kind of philanthropy, which is nearly allied to Deity; and his conduct during his banishment, together with his coalition with Themistocles, taking measures, from devotion to the public good, to advance to the highest eminence, the reputation of an inveterate foe, gives him an incontrovertible right to that splendid immor|tality, which is entitled to deathless praise. Who can set bounds to their admiration, when they behold the enterprising hero, bidding defiance to every danger—forcing his way, at the extremest peril, through the enemy's fleet, and suddenly presenting himself in the tent of Themistocles, not with the language of re|proach,

but in a tone that announced the friend of his country, glowing with unabating zeal for her interest, and ready to devote himself to her service?

The virtues of Aristides seem, on this occasion, to have attained the highest pitch of which humanity is susceptible; the intrigues of Themistocles had procured his banishment, and the invidious calumniator was then invested with that authority, to which the services and transcendent merit of the illustrious exile had given him an indisputable title! Yet he is superior to resent|ment—he takes no retrospect of injuries. The state of Athens is in danger, and he utters not a recriminating sentence! In one word, he approximates to divinity. The concentrated riches of the universe, in the estima|tion of Aristides, would not have been held as an equivalent for the liberties of Greece; and had he still sojourned in mortality, he would have waged war with her enemies, so long as the sun and the moon endured.

His benign efforts were industriously employed to mollify the enkindling resentments of chiefs, engaging in the common cause; and he gained every thing by his pacific interposition.

His address relative to the disaffected Grecians, can|not be too much applauded; nor do I conceive, that, in this instance, he sacrificed justice, since the two de|linquents, against whom he proceeded, were confessedly the most culpable, and the rest were referred to the battle, as an ordeal, by which they might silence the clamours of accusation, and produce a conviction that they had never imagined any thing prejudicial to the welfare of Greece. Aristides exemplified both his policy and his justice, by the decree which declared the victorious citizens alike eligible to the offices of government, and which authorized an impartial election of the 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 the great body of the people.

We find Aristides repeatedly opposing himself to the treacherous policy of Themistocles, and it appears that the Athenians at length knew how to appreciate properly, the abilities and the virtues of those two

warriors. I have conceived a design, said Themisto|cles, which will be of vast advantage to the State, but its success depends upon its continuing a profound secret. Communicate your design to Aristides, cried the Athenians, and we will abide by his decision. The project was, to burn the combined navy of Greece, which conflagration would have invested Athens with sovereignty. But one judgment can be formed of this scheme—it was infamously perfidious. "Nothing," said Aristides, as he gave in his report to the assembly—"could be more advantageous, and nothing could be more unjust." We conceive a high idea of the integrity of the Athenians, and of their unbounded confidence in Aris|tides, when we hear them, without waiting to investi|gate, command Themistocles to relinquish his purpose.

The dignified condescension of Aristides induced the confederated forces to solicit his acceptation of the general command of their united army; and his matchless integrity constrained the Lacedemonians to supplicate the Athenians, that he might have leave of absence, while he examined, in person, the compli|cated revenues, and assigned to every citizen their due proportion of the expenses accruing from the general burden of the war. Yet this personage, rendered illustrious by an assemblage of virtues, led a life of poverty, and daily practised a close observance of the most rigid frugality. His candour and moderation were frequently apparent. Themistocles continued the determined foe of his virtues; yet he "refused to join in the prosecution of that citizen," when his practices being unveiled, he was finally accused of capital crimes, and he possessed too much real dignity of mind, to insult him in his misfortunes.

My Margaretta repeats her question, "Is not the character of Aristides perfect?" I answer—we have hith|erto only attended to the fair side of his conduct. Perhaps Aristides attained to as much rectitude of life, as hath ever yet fallen to the share of a being who is subject to the assaults of passion, who is the sport of contingencies, and who too frequently finds himself

involved in a labyrinth of error. But neither Aristides nor any other mere mortal, since the defection of him who was placed in the garden of Eden, hath ever yet been, strictly speaking, wholly exempted from the effects of that imbecility, which, from the abovementioned pe|riod, hath, more or less, pervaded human nature. But Plutarch says, "that he was firm and steady in his behaviour, immoveable in every thing that appeared just, and incapable of using the least falsehood, flattery, disguise, or deceit, so much as in jest." True, he does so, and this very assertion is another proof of the imperfection of poor human nature. Plutarch is highly respectable as an historian, and yet his life of Aristides expressly contradicts this summary which he has given us of his character; for, besides that, he seems to adopt the opinion, that the enmity of Aristides and Themisto|cles originated in an unwarrantable attachment, which they had mutually conceived to a beautiful individual. He represents Aristides the just as strenuously combating a measure of great importance and advantage, merely because it had been proposed by Themistocles! I confess, on this occasion, he acted in contradiction to the general rectitude of his mind; but he did act, and a conscious|ness of the impropriety of his conduct, extorted from him a confession, "that the Athenians would never be safe, till they threw Themistocles and himself into the Barathrum."

I am aware that his matured judgment amply cor|rected this error; but neither were his riper years en|tirely free from blame. As a treasurer, he discharged his trust with that integrity which made so essential a part of his character; but upon surrendering up his accounts, being accused by Themistocles, and other nefarious incendiaries, of embezzling the public monies, although he was honourably acquitted by the chief and best men of the city, and continued in his office, he affected, during the course of a complete year, an utter derelic|tion of his former probity; he courted the approbation of those who robbed the public, and passed their ac|counts, without that equitable investigation and detec|tion

of treachery, to which he had been accustomed. It is true, that upon his second re-election, he thus ob|tained the privilege of rebuking the Athenians, by the following address:

When I discharged my office faithfully and honourably, I was reviled and disgraced: but now, when I have suffered your treasury to be robbed by these public plunderers, I am admired and applauded at the best of citizens.

It is also true, that this plan might be politic. Athens, thus warned, probably reaped the benefit in her subsequent regulations and appoint|ments; but surely it is a circumstance which destroys the assertion of his biographer, for he appears during the transactions of a year, capable of "using falsehood and deceit." Thus, if we would not be missed, the necessity of an accurate investigation of even the best authors, becomes obvious.

But having adjusted our first point, we proceed to the second. You have very naturally accounted for your predilection in favour of Edward I.; but your favourite poet has enriched the drama, by rendering another English monarch the hero of his production. Alfred the Great was surely not inferior even to Aristides. I will confess to you, my daughter, that I have never read the history of this prince without the most animated and pleasurable sensations. I may be an enthusiast in my admiration of his virtues; but he appears to me to have united in himself every ex|cellence which can dignify or adorn humanity; and I experience a degree of elevation, in the consideration that this magnanimous monarch was of that order of beings, in which nature hath conferred on me, also, the gift of existence.

Let us, my good girl, take a cursory view of the splendid actions which rendered illustrious one of the most distinguished lives that is to be found in the an|nals of human nature. The favourite son of a father, who, from misjudging fondness, neglected his education; we find him, at the age of twelve years, ignorant of the lowest rudiments of literature; but the productions of the ••ard, recounting the valorous deeds

of heroes, are rehearsed in his presence, and his noble faculties are roused to action; an ardent thirst of knowledge, and desire of virtue, pervades his bosom, and his maternal parent cherishes the princely emula|tion, which is thus happily originated. The elevated and penetrating genius of Alfred was superior to every impediment. Both English and Latin were soon attained, and his progress in every useful and ornamental study was astonishing. The death of his father placed his brother Ethelred upon the throne, by whom he was deprived of his patrimony; yet, relinquishing at the shrine of public safety, his sense of individual wrongs, he bravely fought the battles of his brother. Providence at length invested him with the sovereign authority; but his dominions were previously reduced to the very brink of destruction, and his pros|pects were indeed truly lamentable. The progress of the Danes was fearfully rapid. Agriculture was arrested in its most essential operations—the grounds remained uncultivated—the sacred temples were laid in ashes—every resource seemed cut off, and despair, with tremendous aspect, stalked through the desolated land! yet virtue, valour and wisdom united in the person of Alfred—the trio was august—it was equal to the most astonishing achievements—the clouds gradually dispersed—every evil was redressed—and confidence, regularity and felicity were restored!

ALFRED, justly receiving the epithet GREAT, was anointed by Heaven, the deliverer, restorer and pro|tector of his prostrate country; and although his first onsets were unsuccessful, and the Danes still continued their barbarous ravages, yet no misfortune could repress his heroic ardour; but yielding, for a season, to those melancholy necessities, imposed by an enemy, rendered powerful by successive victories, whose per|fidy no treaty could bind, and constrained also by the superstitious fears of those few followers who remained, he relinquished the ensigns of royalty, dismissed his attendants, and, clad in a shepherd's garb, he took his way to the cottage of a herdsman, to whom his rank

was unknown; where, in this disguise, he continued, impatiently expecting the hour, when he might advan|tageously present himself, and reduce to practice those preconcerted plans, which were to emancipate his bleeding country. Equal to every situation in life, he supported himself with propriety during this reverse of fortune. Music constituted the prime source of his amusement, and hope illumined his hours. Thomson lays the scene of the most interesting of his dramatic productions, in this rural abode of royalty. The Masque of Alfred opens with a dialogue of the shep|herd and his wife, respecting the stranger who resided in their cottage. It commences in the following beautiful manner:

Emma.

Shepherd, 'tis he. Beneath yon aged oak, all on the flowery turf he lays him down.

Corin.

Soft! let us not disturb him, gentle Emma. Poor though he be; unfriended and unknown; my pity waits with reverence on his fortune. Modest of carriage, and of speech most gracious. As if some saint or angel in disguise had graced our lowly cot|tage with his presence—he steals, I know not how, into the heart, and makes it pant to serve him. Trust me, Emma, he is no common man.

Emma.

Some lord, perhaps, or valiant chief, that from our deadly foe, the haughty, cruel, unbe|lieving Dane, seeks shelter here.

Corin.

And shelter he shall find. Who loves his country, is my friend and brother. Behold him well. Fair virtue in his aspect, even through the homely russet that conceals him, shines forth, and proves him noble. Seest thou, Emma, you western clouds? The sun they strive to bide, yet darts his beams around.

The succeeding scene between Alfred and the Earl of Devon, is deeply interesting; but as your father intends reading for us this evening Thomson's Alfred, I forbear a continuation of my extracts.

The auspicious era at length dawned, and the dis|persed Saxons once more rallied round the standard of their prince. But a hazardous enterprize remained;

a knowledge of the numbers and situation of the foe was absolutely indispensable; and Alfred, at a loss to whom to confide an undertaking so important, devoted himself to the perilous investigation! In his rustic habiliments, with his harp in his hand, he passed the Danish lines—amused the soldiers—addressed in the most soothing strains, the admiring officers; and thus procuring an introduction to the Danish prince, con|tinued with him many days; until, obtaining the requisite information, he departed to that retreat from whence he issued those commands which placed him at the head of an army, resolutely determined to make for their lives and their liberties a vigorous stand! The consequence was glorious. The Danes, astonished to behold again in the field, a power which they had considered as totally annihilated, gave way on every, side; a decisive victory was obtained; and, although those who escaped, again intrenched themselves, yet speedily surrendering at discretion, they experienced the clemency of the conqueror. From this period Alfred continued victorious; a series of brilliant suc|cesses utterly expelled the treacherous invaders, while the fleet which he appointed, destroyed their vessels, and defended the English coast. It was now that he attained the extreme acme of human glory. His territories were extended far beyond the domain of his predecessors. The Welsh monarchs acknowledged his superiority; the Northumbrians accepted the sove|reign whom he appointed; no enemy remained; and general peace was restored.

Twelve years of profound tranquillity ensued, and Alfred appropriated this interval to the originating, restoring and establishing whatever could be consid|ered as contributing to the welfare of his subjects, whom he regarded as his children. The cities rav|aged by the Danes, were rebuilt; a regular militia, well ordered and equipped, was embodied. He num|bered and registered the people, and, placing weapons in their hands, he taught them to defend themselves. He divided the kingdom into classes, assigning to each

a respective routine of duty; thus the lands were cultivated, while well appointed and duly regulated bands held themselves in readiness to repel an invading foe. The navy, also, obtained a due share of his foster|ing care; an able and completely furnished fleet, con|sisting of one hundred and twenty ships of war, were stationed along the Albion coast; and the English, in this reign, became expert in sailing and in naval en|gagements; and thus were succeeding incursions ad|vantageously repulsed.

He next turned his attention to the embellishment of the kingdom which he had thus delivered and pro|tected; he enacted laws, and established the most judicious regulations. The wisdom of his civil insti|tutions is highly celebrated. The trial by jury, that grand palladium of justice, is ascribed to him; and to such perfection had he conducted the system which he originated, and so well did the morals of his subjects harmonize therewith, that he is said to have ordered bracelets of gold to be hung up in the high-way, as a challenge to robbers, which bracelets remained in perfect security. He was the uniform friend and patron of literature; this necessarily ameliorated the manners, and humanized the habits of the people. He mounted the throne at a period when his subjects were enveloped in the most profound ignorance. The character of the age was ferocious; and the fluctuating state of the English government, together with the depredation of the Danes more especially, impressed upon that nation the features of barbarism. The Latin tongue was almost wholly unknown in England; and Alfred took measures to allure to his dominions the most learned men of Christendom. He renovated the University of Oxford, and conferred on that seminary many privileges. He was truly economical of his own time, regulating his hours to the best advantage, and appropriating them most judiciously: Grammar, rhetoric, philosophy, architecture, and geometry, con|stituted a part of his studies. He is celebrated as an historian; his knowledge in music is said to have been

respectable; and his poetical talents were in high esteem. He was fond of allegory; he translated from the Greek, the fables of AEsop; and many of his pro|ductions are handed down to the present day! Thus did the example of the sovereign furnish a powerful incentive to application and improvement. He also liberally encouraged the mechanical arts. His palaces were constructed of brick, and his example was properly influential. He patronized manufactures of every description; and every useful invention, was, by the munificence of the prince, suitably rewarded. Com|merce and navigation, which he invariably cherished, furnished him with the elegancies of life; and England was at length taught how to appreciate the value of justice, tranquillity and industry.

"It was," says a respectable historian,

after a glorious reign of twenty-nine years thus spent in the advancement of his subjects' happiness, that he died in the vigour of his age, and the full enjoyment of his faculties; an example to princes, and an ornament to human nature. To give a character of this prince, would only be to sum up those qualities which constitute perfection. Even virtues seemingly oppo|site, were happily blended in his disposition; perseve|ring, yet flexible; moderate, yet enterprising; just, yet merciful; stern in command, yet gentle in conversation. Nature, also, as if desirous that such admirable qualities of mind should be set off to the greatest advantage, had bestowed on him all bodily accom|plishments—vigour, dignity, and an engaging open countenance. In short, writers have taken such delight in describing the hero, that they have totally omitted the mention of his smaller errors, which doubtless he must have had, in consequence of his humanity.

I am sufficiently acquainted with the mind of my daughter, to feel a conviction that her sentiments of ALFRED the GREAT, will be perfectly in unison with those of her tenderly affectionate

MARY VIGILLIUS.

N^o. XLVII.

Who but must mourn, when vice th' ascendent gains, And in the heaven-born mind triumphant reigns; When the fair life admits the deep'ning stain, Which must through time indelible remain— A stain for which no action can atone, Though in the richest hues of fancy shown. Splendid humanity we love to view, And, with regret, the spot deforming shew.

To MARGARETTA.

THE lively imagination which you, my dear, pos|sess, together with your exquisite sensibilities, so properly balanced by reason and by judgment, cannot, I think, but be productive of the most pleasing conse|quences. Your strong emotions as you read, will serve to impress on your mind the events you contem|plate, and thus you will treasure up a fund, which will, through life, constitute a source of emolument and pleasure.

Your sentiments of Elizabeth are such as her con|duct to Mary very naturally originate; and it is cer|tain, that her cruelty to that princess would have stamped, even upon the life of an angel, impressions of guilt, never to be effaced; and yet it cannot be denied that Elizabeth was capable of dignified actions. I approve your preference of Stuart. The historian engaged in exonerating from reproach the memory of the dead, is, I conceive, entitled to praise; and I can more ea|sily forgive the writer, who multiplies or exaggerates the virtues of deceased persons, than he who imputes to them crimes which, while living, they detested! The vio|lence done to Dido, in this respect, cannot, I have imagined, be justified, even by the license which is al|lowed to poets. The best authors concur in represent|ing Eliza, or Dido, as a most intrepid and magnani|mous princess. Deprived, by the hand of a barbarous

brother, of the husband of her youth, to whom it ap|pears she was fondly attached, and attended by her sis|ter and a few faithful followers, she fled from her na|tive realm; when, encountering with heroic fortitude, the hardships inseparable from her enterprize, she found|ed, or established, the city of Carthage; she enlarged and beautified it; she inclosed it by a strong wall, and erected in it a citadel; her subjects rapidly increased; she laid the foundation of a flourishing commerce; and her administration combined justice, wisdom and prudence. Her institutions, and the form of govern|ment which she introduced, are pronounced by Aris|totle, the most perfect that had ever been known in the world; and Polybius informs us, that monarchy, aris|tocracy and democracy, all concentred therein.

Her attachment to the memory of her murdered husband continued inviolable. Agreeably to the idol|atrous custom of the times, she ordered divine honours to be paid to him; and while she was indefatigable in her endeavours to promote the advancement of her subjects, she remained wedded to his memory; thus exhibiting a pattern of female delicacy, propriety and faithfulness. A consciousness of the happiness which she communicated tranquillized her bosom, and her life would have closed serenely, but for the interested proposals of ••••••bas, a neighbouring prince, who sought her in marriage. The Carthaginians, fearful of of|fending their sovereign by an explicit communication of the overture, practised that kind of punic subtilty, for which they were afterwards so remarkable; and the unsuspecting Dido, ensnared by their address, found herself in a situation, which, of all others, she most deprecated. With streaming eyes she appealed to her deceased lord, and, continuing firm to her plighted vows, laying her hand upon her breast, with dignified resignation she pronounced. "Give me three months for deliberation, and I will go where my own fate and that of my people calls me." In this interval the funeral pile ••rose, which ascending precisely at the stipulated mo|ment, she voluntarily relinquished a life, which she

could no longer, consistent with the public weal, pre|serve free from a second hymenial engagement.

This is the Dido of the historian, and authors ascribe to her uncommon attractions and an unconquerable chastity. Yet she is precipitated from the sublime height upon which her achievements and her merit hath placed her, and described in an immortal poem, which hath been, and will be read by thousands who never look into history, as a lascivious wanton! The slave of imbecility, sacrificing the prime honour of womanhood, and finally becoming the victim of an illicit passion! Strange as this (I had almost said sacrilegious) violation ap|pears, our astonishment is heightened, when we learn that some writers deny that Dido was even a cotem|porary with AEneas! Surely this licentious degradation of a character, eminent for virtue and abilities, was unworthy the rare talents and acknowledged benevolence of the Mantuan bard.

You will see, my love, as my prime object in these letters is, to engage you in the study of history, that this exordium is not altogether digressive.

Doctor Stuart proposes himself as the historian, and not as the panegyrist of Mary; and as his means of inform|ation were probably as direct and infallible as those of any other writer, I yield him my cheerful and grateful cre|dence. Mary, as delineated by Stuart, descends to posterity, an interesting and deeply injured princess. Deprived of her father in the early bud of infancy, the complexion of the times rendered it expedient, that, passing from the care of her mother, she should receive her education in France. The opening powers of her mind autho|rized the fairest expectations; her disposition was amiably mild, and her understanding was even splen|did; she was a proficient in elegant needle work; she obtained an accurate knowledge of the Latin tongue; she could converse with propriety and fluency in French, Italian, and Spanish; she attained a high degree of excellence in painting, poetry and music; her dancing was inimitable, and her movements com|bined a grace irresistibly enchanting. Many writers

have expatiated on the beauty and elegance of her exterior; and her personal and mental attractions, rendered her charming beyond any woman of the age in which she lived. Her early years passed under the happiest auspices, and her marriage with the Dauphin, opened her way to the highest regal dignity. Mount|ing the throne of France, she was placed in a sphere which she was well calculated to fill, and her talents and her virtues became properly conspicuous.

But alas! how momentary was the bliss!—the evanescent vision soon fled, and the youthful queen was arrayed in the melancholy garb of widowhood! From this moment she seems marked the daughter of sorrow. The death of her mother rendered her return to Scotland indispensable; and, with an aching heart, she prepared to obey the dictates of duty. Is there, who shudders not, as she receives, while yet in France, the homage of the contending parties? Gladly would we remove her from the toils and tumults of a turbulent administration, and shelter her amid those so|cial haunts which she would dignify and adorn. Yet, conscious of integrity, and with a heart glowing with the benevolent purpose of appeasing conflicting passions, destroying animosities, and healing every breach, she prepared for her voyage to her hereditary dominions.

Although zealously attached to the religion in which she had been educated, and which was the election of her ••••per years, yielding, nevertheless, to the popular current, she judiciously placed her confidence in those lords, who were avowedly in the Protestant interest; and it appears that all her plans were conciliatory. What a vast accession of care instantly devolved upon her, and what a fearful conflict awaited!!!

Elizabeth—the powerful Elizabeth, nearly allied to her in blood, but the determined foe of her virtues and her pretensions, was irreconcileably offended by the early declaration which had been made of her right to the crown of England; and her inveteracy was apparent in almost every action; but the firmness and penetration of Mary was fully equal to every open and

avowed attack; and it was only to the studied artifice of dissimulation, that she became a victim. Her answer to Throgmorton, while she continued in Paris, relative to the treaty, binding her to abstain forever from assuming the title and arms of England, was at once descriptive of her wisdom and her address, and con|firmed the favourable ideas which were entertained of her character.

Elizabeth commenced hostilities by denying Mary a safe conduct to her dominions; and the remarks of the Scottish princess on this occasion were spirited and proper. Taking leave of the royal family of France, at St. Germains, she proceeded to Calais, where she embarked for Scotland. And, connecting the deplo|rable circumstances of her life with its tragical catas|trophe, our sensibilities are roused almost to agony, as we witness her departure from a scene which had naturally engaged her fondest partialities. The in|fantile joys, the soft indulgence, and fostering care, which hovered round her morn of life, the felicity and dignity of her wedded days, passed in review before her, and her regrets were proportioned to the pleasures she had experienced—we acknowledge their propriety—we mark the deepening anguish impressed upon ev|ery feature—we hear her exclaim, as the Gallic shores recede from her gaze, "Farewel, France! Farewel, delightful country! I leave thee, never to return!" We listen to the tender iteration; her perturbed sighs vi|brate upon our ears; the intervening shades of night officiously obtrude; and, with the lovely mourner, we watch the returning dawn; eagerly we catch a parting look, and we seem to inmingle our streaming tears with those of the royal sufferer. Yet we bless the enveloping mist which sheltered her from the em|issaries of the inhospitable Elizabeth; and when we behold her in her native dominions, amid the acclama|tions of her gratulating subjects, we become solicitous to deceive ourselves, and we would fain disperse, in these happy presagements, the deep gloom which a knowl|edge of succeeding events hath thrown about the heart.

For a time, the tenderest considerations gave to the beauteous queen, in the bosom of manhood, an affect|ing interest! Introduced into being during the calam|ities of her country—a sovereign in her cradle—expos|ed to dangers while yet unconscious of suffering—crossing the ocean to receive that shelter her native realm could not afford—now mounting buoyant upon the wings of prosperity, and anon plunged from the highest elevation, and immersed in all the anguish attendant upon the entire wreck of those hopes which reason had authorized! These circumstances endear|ed her to the bosom of sympathy; while her youth, her figure, her natural and acquired abilities, and the beneficent mildness of her disposition prepossessed al|most every heart in her favo••••••. The commencement of her administration demonstrated a depth of under|standing and a maturity of reflection, rarely to be found in the bosom of youth, beauty and royal birth. To the establishment of the Protestant faith she expli|citly agreed, reserving only to herself that mode of worship to which she was conscientiously attached. Could the most uniform discretion have decided more judi|ciously? Justice would have awarded the stipulation, and loyalty would have evinced its gratitude by the most cheerful and exact observance. Yet, a fearful storm began to gather; the queen was affronted in the exercise of her religion, and the renewed declara|tion of her pacific wishes was ineffectual, as a barrier, to the impetuous torrent of ferocious zeal, which was bursting upon her. She proceeded, however, in her tranquillizing plan; and an attempt at innovation in the established religion was made death! But still the brutal spirit of the times relented not: Knox proceeded in his inflammatory harangues, and his sovereign was disturbed and insulted! Nature pointed out the Lord James Stuart (one of the leaders of the reformed religion) as a proper object of the queen's confidence; and she accordingly bestowed upon that nobleman strong marks of her attachment: But alas! he was a wretch, who was seeking to elevate himself upon the ruin of her

from whom he derived his importance. Elizabeth, too, cherished the most malignant passions, suffering her hatred to her rival to reach the extreme of rancorous malevolence! But Mary, although surrounded by in|veterate foes, who were variously interested in her de|struction, borne forward on the stream of innocence, and fanned by the gales of conscious rectitude, pursu|ed her steady and equal course. Strange, that to a conduct not only unexceptionable, but highly meritorious, the professors of the mild and peaceable doctrines of chris|tianity should unnaturally oppose themselves, inconsist|ently taking rank with the most determined of the queen's enemies! Open, generous, inexperienced and confiding, she embarked against ignorance, bigotry, perfidy and the most ferocious cruelty; and, in a con|test so unequal, it cannot be matter of astonishment, that she ultimately became the sacrifice.

Many sources of inquietude combined; parties were daily more and more exasperated; the age was infi|nitely profligate; and events, truly distressing, which human efforts could neither foresee nor prevent, were almost hourly succeeding. The queen, superior to partiality, referred offenders to a court of law, and only interfered by extending her royal clemency, as of|ten as the safety of her subjects and her personal secu|rity would admit. The animosities of the disaffected nobles filled her with the deepest regret; whatever party prevailed, joy was a stranger to her bosom; the sympathies which she experienced for the sufferers, barred the entrance of pleasure; and her mind, accus|tomed to the refinements of science and of reason, the abode of the virtues and the graces, was now, by stern necessity, surrendered up a prey to anxiety, perturba|tion, and a host of fearful apprehensions. In a situa|tion thus cruelly embarrassed, she became still more solicitous to secure the amity of the English queen. Negociations for an interview were opened, and on her part, every advance, consistent with regal dignity, was cheerfully and sincerely made. But hatred is a dead|ly poison, and no emollients can arrest its progress.

The nefarious duplicity of Elizabeth was triumphant; and after the place and time of their meeting was ap|pointed, she had the address to delay, and finally en|tirely to set aside this desirable event!

Without a friend—destitute of a protector—no guar|dian hand to point the better way, we spontaneously lament the fate of a woman so young, and so environed by danger. The daring attempt of Chatelard was a specimen of the evils to which she was subjected; but his succeeding punishment should entirely free her from the shadow of suspicion. Proposals of marriage were made her by many crowned heads: while the clashing interests of contending parties, and their consequent intrigues, seemed an insuperable bar to a conjugal en|gagement. Elizabeth, opposed in every possible situ|ation to the advancement of Mary, even exceeded her|self in adroitness of finesse, relative to her marriage. She was indefatigable in raising obstacles thereto; and she dictated, remonstrated and objected, in a style so imperious, that if the Queen of Scots had not pos|sessed unequalled discretion, would have procured an utter dereliction of her conciliatory views; but her reversionary expectations, relative to the crown of England, still kept her true to her system.

At this crisis of affairs, the feminine heart will con|fess a high degree of exultation, at the view of Mary taking her seat in the great council of the nation. See! she looks, she moves a queen. She is solicitous to imprint upon the public mind the most favourable impressions: All the dignity of majesty is blended with the most benign demonstrations of complacency. She enters the senate-house—the insignias of royalty are displayed—she is richly habited—she is beautiful as the daughters of paradise—she ascends the throne—she addresses the three estates—persuasion dwells upon her lips—and her words are replete wish affection, wisdom and prudence. Lovely woman! how savage and how unrelenting was that premeditated and deter|mined cruelty which decreed thy ruin!

It was at this juncture that the Protestant preachers renewed their clamours; the improvements originat|ing with the queen, were made to assume the hue of criminality; and even the ornaments of her person became the subject of their inflammatory declamations. With that severe reformer, Knox, Mary condescended to expostulate: He had laboured to procure the con|demnation of the adherents of the mass! What detest|able insolence! How cruelly inconsistent would he have rendered the administration of his sovereign! and how insulting were the importunities which directed her to execute persons for those religious observances, which she herself practised, and from which she derived her most solid enjoyments! Mary represented to Knox the inclemency of intoleration, and the horrid barbarity of devoting men to death, merely for an opinion. It is diffi|cult to conceive of words or ideas more shockingly gross, than those which constituted his indecent replies. Samuel hewing Agag to pieces; Jezebel's false prophets, and Baal's priests—these were brutally held up to view, until

Mary, fall of astonishment at the boundless audac|ity of the man, and too sensible of the insulting freedom of his speech, burst into tears!

But the zealot persisted to justify his conduct, and she commanded him to depart from her presence. Viewing the Queen of Sco•••• as conscientiously attached to the religion of her ances|tors, we cannot but admire the continued moderation with which she replied to those rude requisitions, that finally insisted on an utter abjuration of her hereditary faith! Yet her firmness remained unquestionable; and she equitably determined not to deprive of life, tranquil|lity, nor estate, merely on account of religious sentiments.

The queen endeavoured to excite the officers, in their different departments, to a performance of their respec|tive duties, by an augmentation of salaries. She pre|sided in person in the courts of law, exciting emula|tion, and accelerating the course of justice; thus dem|onstrating her early attainments, and her right to the utmost respectability of character. She was solicit|ous to establish herself in the hearts of her people; and

she was laudably ambitious of fame. May the bles|sing of Heaven rest upon that historian, who hath, at this late period, renewed those laurels, which, plucked by the rude hand of prejudice and superstition, might else no more have wreathed the brow of so meritorious a candidate for excellence.

The revolt of the Earl of Murray was attended with circumstances of aggravated atrocity; but was never|theless excited and abetted by Elizabeth.

Mary at length effectuated her marriage with Lord Darnley. The exterior of this nobleman was prepos|sessing, his address captivating, and the queen was tenderly attached to him. It was not a connexion calculated to excite the jealousy of Elizabeth; it was primarily concerted by herself; yet it consisted with her insidious policy to affect displeasure; and, possibly, the few halcyon days allowed to Mary, might be to Eliza|beth a subject of serious regret.

At this period, the majority of the Scotch preserved their loyalty, and the people in general entertained proper sentiments of the dissimulation and intrigues of Elizabeth. The festivity, consequent upon the royal nuptials, gave place to hostile preparations! The queen, at the head of a formidable army, appeared in the field; the Earl of Murray and his adherents were put to flight, and immediately took refuge in England; while Elizabeth, with her accustomed duplicity, secret|ly patronized, and ostensibly condemned them. Mary, having thus conducted to an honourable issue an in|surrection sufficiently alarming, might have tasted the sweets of domestic peace and tender amity, had she not been written in the book of fate, irreversibly un|fortunate.

Darnley possessed a mind incapable of a refined at|tachment. His capacity was below a mediocrity! Those superficial accomplishments, which captivate at first sight, soon lose their effect; and Darnley, alas! could not command esteem! He was arrogant, haugh|ty and jealous; no entreaties could subdue his obstina|cy; and he was at once inconstant and inflexible, rude

and contemptible. In short, the queen too late discov|ered a melancholy truth; and painful experience con|vinced her that she had made a most unworthy election! But although love, spreading its downy pinions, fled from the bosom of Mary, (and it is too certain that its place was not supplied by esteem) yet virtue, regent in her breast, continued the bulwark of her honour. A sense of duty took the lead, and kept her steady in the path of rectitude. It is true, she wept the precipitancy of that step which had decided her fate; but, notwith|standing Lord Darnley's coldness, and unmerited neglect, although incontestible proofs of his infidelity were frequently furnished, yet she still remembered that he was her husband, and failed not to consider what was due to her own character, as a wife and a queen.

The supposition that Mary was improperly attach|ed to Rizzio, could only have originated in the dark bosom of prejudice, heated by bigotry, and stimulated by the extremest rancour. Rizzio was old, ugly and misshapen—and "it is a wild absurdity to imagine that the queen would submit to the caresses of de|formity and old age." His assassination in her pres|ence, at a time when her interesting situation ought to have engaged the utmost tenderness of her husband, (especially when her high dignity and superior accom|plishments are remembered) was indeed a barbarous outrage, and must shock even the most phlegmatic feelings of humanity. The subsequent treatment of the queen; the drawn dagger, pointed at her bosom; the tremendous threats which were sounded in her ears; her imprisonment, and the audacious reproaches to which she was subjected; the attempt to infix upon her unsullied honour an indelible stain; and all these atrocities passing under the eye, and sanctioned by the man on whom she had conferred the highest honours, and even raised to a throne—these aggravating circum|stances rank this black transaction, when considered in all its parts, among the most horrid and enormous crimes which were perpetrated in those days of tur|pitude and murder. Yet even these deep transgres|sions,

a disposition superior to malignity, enabled the queen to forgive—she consented to a reconciliation with the king—she approbated an act of amnesty—she remitted the offences of the delinquent Murray, who again sought his own emolument in a restoration to her favour—and observing, with an air of dignity, that she utterly detested every species of inhumanity, she nobly sanctioned the act of oblivion.

While the barbed shafts of misfortune were thus piercing the bosom of the Queen of Scots, a white moment was however at hand; and when she ushered into being her first-born son, she in that instant forgot all those sorrows which, with such accumulating weight, had pressed upon her. The birth of the roy|al infant was celebrated in Scotland by every possible demonstration of joy—while Elizabeth mourned this event, as a serious calamity! Alas! alas! how do the virtues fade in that bosom, into which the deform|ing fiends, jealousy and envy, have made their deso|lating entrance!

At this period, we are again constrained to regret the uniform unworthiness of the king, and his total deficiency in all those qualities inherent in a noble mind. But his haughtiness was still unsubdued! Yet, through all the deepening glooms which he so injudi|ciously assumed, through all his ungrateful returns to the tenderness of the queen, even to the hour of his melancholy exit, we trace, on her part, a uniform ex|emplification of prudence and virtue; and we repeat, that the precepts of religion, together with an exqui|site sense of the delicacy of her situation, and the con|sideration she owed to virtue and to herself, was, in her bosom, an effectual substitute for that affection which the demerits of the king had banished from thence!—To-morrow, my dear, we will pursue this in|teresting subject.

Your epistle of this morning 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••eautifully written; it drew tears of rapture from the eyes of your affec|tionate

MARY VIGILLIUS.

N^o. XLVIII.

Untir'd, the mournful pages we pursue, And weep those scenes which pass in sad review.

To MARGARETTA.

MARY, utterly averse to the departure of the king, opposed it by every proper method; and her condescension, upon this occasion, was truly amiable, truly feminine. But his peevishness and his obstinacy remained invincible, and it was in those in|teresting moments that he conceived the ungrateful design of divesting Mary of that sovereignty to which she was born—of placing the crown upon the head of his infant son, and of assuming, as his father, that au|thority he was so ill qualified to maintain. Yet the queen, although apprized of these proceedings, perse|vered in the mild system she had adopted; and, while her hours of retirement were devoted to sorrow, she continued in public, to disguise her grief by an assum|ed gaiety; and her elegance, urbanity and native dignity, prepossessed in her favour all those with whom she associated.

The perturbed situation of her mind brought on, however, a dangerous illness: It was apprehended her last moments were at hand: and she yielded herself, with holy resignation, to her fate. The king contin|ued unmoved, nor deigned, even at the moment when her death was pronounced inevitable, to make her a single visit. But she was restored to health; and in the succeeding indisposition of the king, she exhibited a reverse of conduct, which reflects the highest honour upon her principles and her humanity. Uninfluenced by the remonstrances of those who eagerly solicited her to procure a divorce, her husband's danger awakened the tenderest sympathies of her generous bosom, and she ceased, in the calamity of the moment, to remem|ber her manifold injuries! Days and months had re|volved,

and their lenient influence had blunted her keen sense of the wrongs she had received. She was by nature placable; her anger resembled the passing cloud, which, for an instant, intercepts the mildly beam|ing radiance of day; and while her streaming eyes evinced her grief, no vindictive passion harboured in her bosom! Her tender melancholy paved the way to the renewal of her affection, and every sense of disobli|gation, every idea of his inferiority, like the vision of some dark and comfortless night, instantly vanished away. The king too, placed, in his own apprehen|sion, on the verge of dissolution, experienced the saluta|ry sensations of remorse; and he reproached himself, in the bitterest terms, for his ingratitude to the queen. The news of his relenting was expeditiously conveyed to her; and all that impassioned tenderness he had originated in her bosom, rushed upon her memory—the felicities of wedded amity—the hour, which in the bloom of youth, and the full perfection of her personal charms, devoted her to Darnley—the lovely infant whom she hourly pressed to her bosom—these inter|esting considerations obtained in her mind their due weight; and, quitting her palace in the depth of he wintry months, she hastened to attend him; with af|fectionate assiduity she hovered round his bed of lan|guishment, and her presence, and her endearments op|erated as the sweetest solace; the mind of the king became tranquil, and health again glowed in his veins. He accompanied the queen to Edinburgh, and her demonstrations of fond solicitude were unwearied.

It was at this juncture, that the nobles, who, by an aggravated representation of the king's offences, had cherished the resentments of the queen, apprehensive that the consequences of the reconciliation between the royal pair would be destructive to themselves, contriv|ed and perpetrated the murder of the king! The supposition that Mary was accessary, consenting, or even privy thereto, is devoid even of the shadow of probability; It was forged in the dark haunts of igno|rance and credulity; and it is confuted by a circum|stantial

series of well attested facts—by the mildness, moderation, tender sympathy, and genuine piety, which were conspicuous traits in the character of the queen—by the testimony of many who endured the extremest torture—by the dying asseverations of all those who were executed for this crime—and by the declaration of Bothwell, who, having dragged out a number of years in close imprisonment, in his last moments made a complete confession of his own guilt and her innocence. The anguish, horror and consternation of the queen▪ at the fatal intelligence, were equal to the enormity of the crime which had been perpetrated; and she affirm|ed, that if her kingdom and her life were the forfeit, all those who had procured a catastrophe so shocking, should be prosecuted to the death. She called on her assembled nobles to assist her in her just purpose, of delivering up to condign punishment, offenders so atrocious; and, with streaming eyes and heart-affect|ing earnestness, she conjured them to leave no means unessayed, which might involve the remotest probabil|ity of a surrender so important. She pathetically la|mented, that in a moment, when the sunny beams of hope had revisited her bosom, when the clouds, which gathered round her prospects, had began to disperse, and the serene pleasures of domestic life were opening to her view, she should thus fatally, by the audacious hand of guilt, be overwhelmed in sorrow, and consign|ed over, the hapless victim of a transaction, dark, une|qualled, and tremendous!

The circumstances attendant upon the king's death, were sufficient to enkindle in the bosom of humanity the keenest regret: and to this cause the extreme de|jection of Mary is to be attributed. The most af|fectionate and meritorious of men could not have been lamented with more unequivocal demonstrations of grief. Immured in the deep recesses of her castle, she resigned herself to the most lively sorrow: her apartments were hung with black; the light of the sun was excluded; and the faintly burning taper but served to mark the glooms which hovered round her.

But emerging at length, from this extreme of grief, she adopted the most vigorous measures for appre|hending the regicides. Many circumstances produced in her mind a persuasion, that the conspirators had aimed at involving her in the king's death, and her orders for the prosecution were unequivocal and ab|solute. The sum of two thousand pounds, together with an annuity for life, was tendered to any individ|ual who should give information of the perpetrators of this horrid transaction; and this largess, with the addition of a free amnesty, was proffered to the con|spirator, who should make an unreserved disclosure of his own guilt and that of his accomplices. In conse|quence of this proclamation, placards were affixed in various public places, accusing the Earl of Bothwell, and others, as the murderers; but as those papers and placards insinuated, that the queen herself had been a party concerned, she very justly estimated their innocence by her own. Bothwell, solemnly attesting his integri|ty, loudly demanded a trial, and he inveighed bitterly against his calumniators; no positive proofs were ad|duced of his guilt; the Earl of Lennox alone appeared against him, and not a single witness to corroborate the charge was produced. The queen's council affect|ed to consider Bothwell as the subject of rancorous malice; the principal nobility warmly espoused his cause, and they charged the Earl of Lennox with acting un|der the influence of the most ignoble passions. The queen had frequently remarked that Lennox was sus|picious, revengeful and passionate. The defamation, in such general circulation, might probably result from his arrangements; and besides, the impression that the assassin was armed against her own life also, being indelibly infixed upon her mind, a design so atrocious, with respect to her, could not consist with the unbroken fealty, and uniform homage, which the conduct of the Earl of Bothwell had invariably exem|plified. Bothwell was, however, brought to a public trial, and the jury acquitted him of all share in the king's murder! I•• this judgment is an evidence of

their criminality; if it is viewed as a mockery of law and justice, however ignominious 〈◊〉〈◊〉 may be deemed, it cannot arraign the conduct of the queen; nor can she, by any rational construction, be involved in its guilt. Circumstances, relative to the criminality of Bothwell, which have since transpired, were then en|veloped in mystery; yet, that there existed presump|tive proofs, sufficient to justify the strongest suspicions, cannot be denied; and, moreover, his licentious habits forcibly pointed the public odium.

The queen remained in entire ignorance of the de|signs formed upon her by Bothwell; his behaviour indicated, in her apprehension, nothing more than that respectful attachment which was due to his sovereign; she was grateful for his zealous exertions to promote her interest; she regarded him as a man of talents; and she allowed him that consideration, which she conceiv|ed due to his abilities. Her unprincipled nobles, however, industriously seeking her ruin, agreed, amid the tumultuous riot of a banquet, to point out this man of crimes as a proper person to become the husband of their sovereign! and they ratified a deed, in which they extolled the integrity of Bothwell, the antiquity of his lineage, and the essential services he had render|ed the state. They expatiated upon his trial for the murder of the king, upon his subsequent offer to meet his accuser in single combat, affirming them to amount to a perfect justification of his innocence; and they declared themselves fully convinced of his integrity.

Bothwell was now in the precise situation at which his audacious wishes had long pointed. His subse|quent seizure of the queen was the finishing stroke, and fully completed his nefarious climax of villany. Mary's infinite astonishment at so daring an act of pre|meditated violence, from a man whose submissive man|ners had given her the highest idea of his respectful fidelity, and the bitterness and indignation which she expressed, corresponded exactly with the whole tenor of her preceding life. Her resentment was the resent|ment of outraged virtue, and her reproaches character|ized

the queen and the woman, offended in a manner too atrocious to be forgiven.

Hitherto we have contemplated Mary as an orna|ment to humanity. She hath struggled with many evils—she hath frequently been deeply injured—but she hath passed the ordeal brightened by calamity. Her dis|cretion, her fortitude and her perseverance have given her to emerge from every cloud; and from the hour of her birth, to the era now under contemplation, while there hath been an ample field for commendation, there hath been little to extenuate. Would that we could blot from the history of Mary, the name of Bothwell. Over a connexion so fatal we would drop the curtain. Surely, surely, it ought never to have taken place—it was, in every view, improper! Delicacy, virtue, and all those considera|tions which are peculiarly sexual, receive, by this transac|tion, from the most lovely and deserving of women, a fatal stab! and the tearful eye of humanity weeps over the many woes to which it was introductory. If Mary possessed no means of escaping from the captivity, in which she was held by Bothwell, she should have repelled, to the utmost of her power, every act of personal violence; and those injuries which she could not avoid, would neither have contaminated her mind, nor infixed a stain upon her honour. The reception of the unprincipled offender, as her husband, sanctioned his guilt; and, in this instance, effectually prostrated her own character! Mary should have died, rather than have taken this step! The bond, obtained from the nobles, may, and undoubted|ly does, greatly palliate the business; but a high degree of culpability remains. Alas! alas! this is an indeli|ble stain, nor can any process, however ingenious, re|move from a character, which impels both our love and admiration, a spot which female dignity will not cease to deplore! We cannot, in this particular, agree with the elegant historian of Mary; nor can we acknowl|edge, that "recent terror" (especially if those terrors are produced by the nefarious practices of an audacious offender) the more readily disposeth the mind to give admittance, in favour of the violator, to the softer passions.

But we dwell with pain on this part of the career of our heroine. The sun, we know, admits of spots; and no human being, we have already concluded, is exempt from error. The calamities which, from this period, in rapid succession overtook, and finally whelmed beneath their combined pressure, this inter|esting unfortunate, if they cannot obliterate, do, never|theless, abundantly expiate; and it should ever be re|membered, that she was encompassed about by subtil and designing adversaries, who sought their own exal|tation in her destruction! who, notwithstanding the solemn instrument with which they had armed her seducer, delayed not to embody their adherents; and after taking every method to blacken the reputation of their sovereign, thereby exciting against her the pub|lic odium, made haste to appear in arms, for the pur|pose of opposing her authority! It was not enough that they had confederated to strip her of fame and tranquillity; she must also be despoiled of her crown and sceptre, and abridged of that liberty, which is the nat|ural right of every human being! With humid eyes we have attended to the forlorn sufferer! we have marked her perturbation, her distress, and the humili|ating insults which she received from him, who had become her husband! his rude, indecent and brutal behaviour has excited our utmost indignation; we have beheld those reiterated indignities and calam|ities, arming the hand of the despairing queen against her own life! and we have unhesitatingly exclaimed—Surely, there is no species of suffering to which she is not subjected! Her separation from the finished vil|lain, who had so treacherously betrayed her, and her voluntary surrender to the confederated nobles, fur|nished a temporary relief; while their respectful recep|tion of, and flattering address to their sovereign, soothes, for a moment, our fondest wishes for her restoration. Had the least spark of humanity or integrity remained among them, the queen had been saved. But it was a dissolute age; the reign of perfidy had commenced; black clouds gathered; and the storm advanced, tre|mendously terrific!

We follow the queen to her imprisonment; we be|hold, with glowing resentment, the fresh insults to which she is subjected; we mingle our tears with the sympathetic multitude, who lament the degraded maj|esty of their sovereign! we listen to her sorrows; our attachment to the beauteous mourner is augmented, and we are ardently solicitous to snatch her from im|pending danger! The renewed duplicity of the no|bles fills us with detestation and horror; yet we can scarcely forbear to do homage to that credulity and "beautiful humanity," which characterized her, even in the most melancholy situations of her life. By the ma|chinations of her enemies she was now completely envi|roned—letters from her to her seducer were forged—and she was, alas! irretrievably undone. See! she is stripped of her robes of royalty!—she is meanly attired!—she is closely immured within the walls of a prison!—and she is committed to the custody of a person, who from powerful motives is predisposed to heap upon her every species of the bitterest mortification. The triumph of Eliz|abeth was at length complete!—her insidious prac|tices had procured the downfal of her meritorious ri|val, and a detail of the real or supposed errors of Mary, vibrated upon the ear of the English queen, as the sweetest music.

By a series of enormous cruelties, matchless rude|ness, terrifying threats, and various species of barbari|ty, the Queen of Scots was compelled to sign deeds, which contained a resignation of her authority, and the perturbed anguish of her spirit, while affixing her name to instruments, which she deigned not to read, is beyond the power of description. The visit of the Earl of Murray to the royal prisoner, opens a scene of art, perfidy and cruelty too black for contemplation! Accomplished villain! thy ingratitude, and thy crimes to thy sovereign, must render thee a subject of detes|tation to the latest posterity!—Horrid traitor! how is the honest mind agonized by the feelings to which thy transgressions give birth; and how effectually hast thou secured thine own infamy, by labouring to tra|duce

the source from whence thou derivest thy exalta|tion! Was not Mary thy sister, as well as thy sovereign? Didst thou not know, notwithstanding that solemn robe of sanctity in which thou wrapped thyself about, that thy nefarious ambition and enormous practices would bring down upon thy devoted head a fearful ruin? Couldst thou suppose that those lascivious ex|pressions, of a coarse, irregular and illicit passion, which thou inserted in those execrable letters, so atrociously forged for thy sister and thy queen, could be passed upon the world as the production of that elegant, in|formed and polished mind which inhabited the bosom of the injured sufferer? Could prudence, chastity, and every vir|tue, which can give dignity to our sex, so suddenly become lost to honour, play the wanton, and utter the most profli|gate sentiments in a language only adopted by beings grown old in vice, and attaining the last stages in the career of in|famy? These considerations are of themselves suffi|cient to fasten upon thee, the guilt of forgery, in those vile scrawls, with which thou attempted to affix upon thy royal mistress imputations of the darkest hue; but, separate from these, the proofs now standing up|on the page of history, while they establish (in the ap|prehension of the impartial investigator) beyond all controversy, the innocence of the queen, stamp the strongest conviction of thy infamy and thy ingrati|tude.

"Those letters," says the able historian,

are in di|rect contradiction to the tenor of the queen's life, and to the testimony of undoubted monuments of history. The friend|ship of the nobles for Bothwell; his murder of the king; his eagerness for a trial; their protection of him; his acquittal; their bond, inculcating his inno|cence, and pressing the queen to take him for her hus|band; her conveyance to Dunbar; her seduction; her marriage; their rupture with him; their permission of his flight; their accusation of him in his absence; their attempt to involve her in his wickedness; their rebel|lion; the indignities with which they treated her; her imprisonment; her forced resignation of the crown;

the elevation of Murray to the regency; and, in fine, the project of the letters, as the apology of their own proceedings, and the evidence of her guilt—These transactions, so particular, so united, and so concurring, are all the parts of a system which carries in its bosom the full conviction of their deep deceit, their unprincipled profligacy, and their intrepid and sanguinary ambition. They were now to achieve the last act of their drama; and by the death or utter humiliation of the queen, to secure their future tranquillity.

The execution of Bothwell's servants, who, notwith|standing the attempts to render them accusers of the queen, departed protesting her innocence, and declar|ing, in the presence of Almighty God and his attend|ant angels, that they conceived the Earls of Morton and Murray, the procurers, through Bothwell's in|strumentality, of the king's murder—furnish, if it were wanting, abundant confirmation of her integrity and of the guilt of her adversaries.

Mary's escape from Lochlevin, and from her ma|lignant blood-thirsty soes, diffuses over the tragical page a momentary gleam. We bless the sensibility of the youthful Douglas—we hail the emancipated queen, and we would gladly dwell upon the narration of her short-lived triumph!—The act of amnesty, which, with such unparalleled clemency, she tendered to transgressors of so deep a die, was exactly conform|able to that divine benevolence, which gave a lustre to all her actions. But nothing less than her utter ruin could complete the sanguinary views of her virulent adversaries. The queen, urged by the impetuosity of her council, submitted her cause to the issue of a bat|tle. An event judging world hath condemned this pro|cedure, as injudicious—her faithful adherents were de|feated—and the victory obtained by the regent, was completely decisive!!! Our sensibilities are infinitely agonized, while we take a view of the desolate suffer|er, who beheld from a rising ground the flight and slaughter of her friends; and no words can delineate the sorrows by which she was overwhelmed. Hope,

that had so recently dawned in her bosom, now bid her a pangful adieu! Despair assumed the regen|cy, and fearful apprehensions surprised her soul.

Arriving, by hasty and perturbed movements, at Dundrenan, under the pressure of unequalled grief, she commenced her melancholy deliberations! In this forlorn condition, whither could the lovely wanderer direct her way? This was the pathetically interesting question. To abide in Scotland, was, in her idea, certain death!—To retire to France, which had witnessed her days of splendor, in her present state of humiliation, the thought was replete with anguish. Application had been made to Elizabeth, who had practised her wonted finesse—she had soothed Mary during her captivity—she had solicited her to seek the means of escaping from imprisonment, and to accept an asylum in her domin|ions—she had promised her she would meet her on her way—that she would receive her with all those demonstrations of amity due to their consanguinity, and to that affection she professed to entertain—and she had presented her, as a memento of her amity, a ring of great value.

Mary, naturally confiding and gentle, was yet more softened by affliction: She regarded Elizabeth as a friend in adversity; and the impressions made by acts of kindness, at such a period, are efficacious and per|manent. She estimated the mind of Elizabeth by that transcendent generosity and genuine benevolence which was ever glowing in her own bosom; and she hasted to make the perilous experiment! The Lord Herries and the Archbishop of St. Andrews, on their knees remonstrated against her resolution to depart for Eng|land—but they remonstrated in vain. Embarking, in a fatal hour, she crossed the stream, and appeared sud|denly in the dominions of a queen, who had, for many succeeding years, been assiduous in her efforts to em|barrass and distract her councils—who was the con|firmed enemy of her fame and person, and who had invariably received and succoured her most deadly foes!!!!

What, my love, can we say? We can only console ourselves by the reflection, that events are at the dis|posal of an unerring Being—that we cannot reverse his decrees—that our God is still our Guide—that baleful passions will finally be eradicated from human|ity—while "one unclouded day encircles all."

Do not, my dear Margaretta, forget that you are this afternoon to compare your chronological arrange|ment with Miss Clifford's, and that the most accurate computor is to have the privilege of presenting to the good Annette, the garment of which she stands so greatly in need.

I am, my dear, your affectionate mother,

MARY VIGILLIUS.

N^o. XLIX.

Fond to exonerate Eliza's name, The clust'ring virtues round her path-way bend; Waiting to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 own her with immortal fame— Her devious steps they anxiously attend.

To MARGARETTA.

HUMANITY, my dear girl, must lament Eliza|beth's depraved politics, as they related to the Queen of Scots. Whatever question involved the interests of Mary, seemed to possess the power of rous|ing to action the most nefarious propensities—of nar|rowing her views, and of yielding her up to the do|minion of envy, jealousy and every ignoble passion! When the Queen of Scots, soothed by the recent expressions of commiseration which had been transmit|ted her by Elizabeth; and allured by the tender appel|lation, sister, confided in that sympathy which is con|stantly prompting the efforts of delicacy, and origi|nating those acts of kindness that are calculated to succour and restore the children of adversity—when, notwithstanding the mystery which too often envel|oped the conduct of Elizabeth, Mary evinced her noble

and unsuspecting nature, by seeking shelter in her kingdom; by electing her the arbitress of her fate, and committing her dearest interests to her decision—Elizabeth was then furnished with a most desirable opportunity of erasing from the annals of her admin|istration, every deforming trait; of removing the odium which rested upon her transactions relative to her royal kinswoman; and of insuring to herself the unbounded applause and veneration of posterity. Her unfortunate rival was sufficiently humbled; and by the indissoluble ties of love and gratitude, she might have bound the gentle and affectionate Mary forever to her bosom.

Elizabeth, in her own dominions, was nearly des|potic; she maintained an ascendency in the Scottish councils: It would have been easy for her to reinstate the Queen of Scots upon her throne; and such a pro|cedure would have been princely, it would have been great, and nobly worthy the combined claims of sex, of kindred, of misfortune, and of Queenship! It would have been an action suited to the majesty of the sovereign of a powerful and gallant nation. But if Elizabeth could not soar so high, had she marked the arrival of Mary by those tender offices of friendship which are the balm of life—had she received her as her guest, yielding her those honours which were due to her rank—had she exercised her authority and in|fluence to render her situation eligible—had she indul|ged the lovely mourner with those intercourses of amity, which in every period of her life were so com|pletely in unison with her feelings—the sorrows of her heart had been assuaged; we should have regarded Elizabeth with complacency, and sought for the mo|tives of her limited kindness, in that policy, to the ob|servance of which, the exigencies of state may fre|quently condemn the philanthropic mind.

But the conduct of Elizabeth was unsexual, unjust, and infinitely cruel. The desolate queen, rudely de|nied admission to her presence, was condemned to perpetual imprisonment; and Elizabeth, while she was

ingenious in devices to hold her suffering captive in the most agonizing suspense, assayed to justify her inhos|pitable rigour, by pleading those crimes with which she stood charged by her audacious subjects! Yet the queen of England had caressed the Scottish nobles, when deformed by ingratitude, and recent from the haunts of rebellion! whose hands were imbrued in blood, and on whose lives were infixed the deepening stain of guilt!

Mary, in the anguish of her spirit, solicited for an interview—conscious of her innocence, she only wished to be heard; but, alas! no sympathy pervaded the bosom of Elizabeth—she triumphed in the misfortunes which she was assiduously employed in accumulating; and that dignified arrangement which would have restored an outraged and an afflicted queen to the ample and unalienated possession of her hereditary honours and prerogatives, found no place in her delib|erations! Pity she could not have known that by acting the part of a sister and a queen, she might have en|wreathed her brow with a garland, the perfume of which would have been immortal; but she chose to proceed in the crooked path she had so perversely entered.

The Earl of Murray was encouraged to accuse his sovereign before the English queen, while Mary stood astonished at the presumption of that princess, who interpreted her wish to narrate in a personal interview her misfortunes, and to exculpate herself from the calumnies of her rancorous foes, into a desire of a public trial, and a submission to her jurisdiction! What heart but bleeds at the perusal of a letter ad|dressed by the Scottish princess to the malevolent Elizabeth.

I came into your dominions to ask your assistance, and not to save my life. Scotland and the world have not renounced me. I was conscious of innocence—I was disposed to lay all my transactions before you; and I was willing to do you honour, by making you the restorer of a queen. But you have afforded me no aid

and no consolation. You even deny me admittance to your presence. I escaped from a prison, and I am again a captive. Can it expose you to censure to hear the com|plaints of the unfortunate? You received my brother when he was in open rebellion. I am a princess, and your equal, and you refuse me the indulgence. Permit me then to leave your dominions. Your severity encourages my enemies, intimidates my friends, and is most cruelly destructive to my interests. You keep me in fetters, and allow my enemies to conquer my realm. I am defenceless, and they enjoy my author|ity, possess themselves of my revenues, and hold out to me the point of their swords. In the misera|ble condition to which I am reduced, you invite them to accuse me. Is it too small a misfortune for me to lose my kingdom? Must I also be robbed of my in|tegrity and my reputation? Excuse me if I speak without dissimulation. In your dominions I will not answer to their calumnies and criminations. To you, in a personal conference, I shall at all times be ready to vindicate my conduct; but to sink myself into a level with my rebellious subjects, and to be a party in a suit or trial with them, is an indignity to which I can never submit. I can die, but I cannot meet dishonour. Consult, I conjure you, what is right and proper, and entitle yourself to my warmest gratitude; or if you are inclined not to know me as a sister, and to withhold your kindness, abstain at least from rigour and injustice; be neither my enemy nor my friend; preserve yourself in the coldness of neutral|ity; and let me be indebted to other princes for my establishment in my kingdom.

How pathetically interesting, how modestly digni|fied, and how characteristic of the amiable writer. But Elizabeth remained unmoved; the enemies of Mary were inspirited, sanctioned and patronized, while the interposition of her friends was wholly disregard|ed. Commissioners for the trial were appointed, and they were directed by Elizabeth to proceed in such a manner, as to infix upon the reputation of the Queen

of Scots an indelible stain! Yet in the course of their investigation, incontestible proofs of her honour press|ed upon them, and they could not but commiserate a princess so unfortunate. The deputies of Mary insist|ed that she should be heard, but their remonstrances were disregarded. "An accusation," said they, "is given; the person accused is anxious to defend herself; this privilege is denied to her, and yet a demand is to be made for the vouchers of her guilt! What is this but an open violation of justice?" Thus was every measure cruelly calculated to deepen the distress of the Scottish queen. Tremendous was the crisis she had obtained—••••ick darkness overshadowed her—of crimes of the deepest dye she was accused, and pretended proofs were on the point of being produced! Had she been conscious of guilt, she would have shrunk from the ordeal, but she im|plored and demanded permission to confront her adver|saries; and this privilege, this important request, this right, was barbarously denied her! The artifice and duplicity of Elizabeth succeeded but too well; for al|though no formal decree was obtained, yet upon the credit of papers proved (by internal conviction, and a se|ries of incontestible facts,) atrocious forgeries, an attempt was made to stamp upon the public mind a lasting impression of Mary's guilt. Mary insisted that the determination of a cause which had obtained such gen|eral attention, ought to be a verdict of guilt or inno|cence; and with agonized earnestness she still pressed to be heard; nor can her unyielding, intrepid, and proper remonstrances, be understood in any other view than as corroborating proofs of her integrity.

Elizabeth's final determination not to admit the pleadings of Mary, is agreeable to the whole tenor of her behaviour to her royal prisoner; and having ban|ished all compunction from her bosom, she dreaded to appear before that innocence she had consigned to de|struction.

She was sensible of the eloquence, the high spirit, and the address of Mary; and while she trembled to oppose herself to these, she apprehended, as more terrible in so illustrious an assembly, the in|terest

of distress, the dignity of unmerited misfor|tunes, and the pride of injured integrity. She was alarmed with guilty terrors; the image of a hated rival in the moment of victory haunted her; and her disturbed imagination painted the lofty de|meanour of the Queen of Scots—her indignant emo|tions, and the lightning of her eye. She could not think of consenting to a measure, where she had ev|ery thing to lose, and nothing to gain; and she was too wise to exhibit herself an open and detestable monument of spleen, disappointment, perfidiousness, rivalship, jealousy and anger.

Thus did Elizabeth sacrifice true glory to her pas|sions. Had the Queen of Scots been less beautiful, less accomplished, and less meritorious, she had not become the victim of hatred and perfidy. When it is remembered that the ingrates who appeared to ac|cuse their sovereign, absolutely stood charged by the Earls Huntley and Argyle, as the abettors of the king's death, and that the expectation of the formal presentment of the protestation of the two Lords, ac|celerated the dismission of the murderers from the court of Elizabeth, it will excite equally our astonish|ment and our indignation; and humanity will blush at a transaction, which perhaps has not a parallel in the annals of history!

In the midst of those dark clouds in which Eliza|beth was seeking to envelope the Scottish princess, her beauty and various accomplishments made upon the duke of Norfolk an indelible impression; and, con|vinced of her innocence and her integrity, he sought with impassioned ardour to obtain her hand in mar|riage; but to indulge Mary with the soothings of am|ity, would have been a mitigation of her fate, that came not within the plans of Elizabeth; and at the moment when the mutual esteem of this illustrious and amiable pair had ameliorated into the tenderest love, the attachment of the duke of Norfolk proved his ruin, and he lost his life upon the scaffold, while the innocent object of his preference was subjected to

fresh indignities! At this period, to pronounce in the presence of Elizabeth, the name of the Queen of Scots, was sufficient to distort her countenance by all the fren|zy of passion; and the Earl of Huntington, interested in procuring the death of Mary, was associated with her more humane keeper! he was ferocious, and un|feeling, and his commission authorized his inhuman severities! her distresses were to Huntington matter of exultation—her favourite domestics were torn from her—the number of her servants were curtailed—the most scrutinizing watch was set upon her conduct—or|ders were issued for intercepting and conveying to the queen of England, letters written in the confidence of tender friendship; and if her prison should be surround|ed with a force adequate to her rescue, Huntington had directions to assassinate her!!

The Earl of Murray renewed and continued his traitorous practices. He had covenanted with Eliza|beth to surrender to her the son of Mary, whom she was solicitous to involve in the ruin of his mother, and to receive from her the Queen of Scots, with full lib|erty to inflict upon her whatever indignities might suit his wishes—when he was arrested by the dart of death. Nor do I wonder that my Margaretta shed no tears at his exit. His talents, though exercised in the most criminal practices, were great; and these, with a prepossessing exterior, opened his way to that dignity, of which he was eminently unworthy. Yet a•• his death, Mary, pious and affectionate, lamented a brother, whom she considered as launched into eternity under the pressure of unparalleled guilt.

The enormities of which the English queen had been guilty to the Scottish princess, enkindled in the bosoms of foreign princes the deepest resentments; but their remonstrances served only to call into action the ad|dress and perfidious dissimulation of Elizabeth! The death of Mary was only wanting to fill up the measure of her wrongs; and although even her enemies, who witnessed her behaviour, declared that the

candour, sincerity, and moderation, which she displayed, were

full assurances to them that on her part there was no occasion to apprehend any improper policy or art;

yet pretences to effectuate her ruin were industriously sought and embraced. Mary, in the midst of her mis|fortunes, still remembered that she was a queen; no im|proper concessions escaped her; the severities exercised toward her, produced no undue humiliation; her mind retained its native magnanimity;

and she pitied the ty|rant who could add contumely to oppression, and deny her even the comforts of a prison.

Elizabeth, and her courtiers were daily affecting to discover plots, and machinations; every nefarious purpose was imputed to Mary; and the English queen was indefatigable in her endeavours, to impress upon the public mind, a per|suasion that her existence, and the prosperity of the realm, were incompatible with the emancipation of the Queen of Scots. Mary had flattered herself that when years should permit her son to assume the reins of government, and to act decisively, her sorrows, through his intervention, would know a period; and this maternal hope operated upon her grief worn mind, as the sweetest solace. But Elizabeth had been careful to implant in the mind of the prince the seeds of distrust and animosity against his royal parent; and while she excited and countenanced the rebellion of his subjects, she directed and awed his councils, and through her influence the embroidered garment which his moth|er, in the dreary solitude of her prison had finished for him, together with the jewels which she had intend|ed as a memento of her affection, were returned, with indecent marks of disrespect!!

Elizabeth was pursuing with the son the same track which had produced the ruin of the mother; and forged letters were employed by her ambassador, Ran|dolph, for the purpose of depriving him of the confi|dant whom he loved. Under such accumulated evils it is not matter of astonishment that the health of the captive queen was rapidly declining; yet, although the most pressing representations on this subject were made to Elizabeth, they were ineffectual to procure her the

smallest abatement of the rigours of her confinement! She was unfeelingly denied the presence of the friends who would have soothed her sorrows! and she was even refused the means of taking that air and exer|cise, on which her existence seemed to depend!

My next will conclude my remarks on this illustri|ous victim of jealousy; and that you may, from every delineation, deduce a salutary lesson, is the ardent wish of your affectionate

MARY VIGILLIUS.

N^o. L.

Bitter the chalice ruthless fate prepar'd—

To MARGARETTA.

THE intelligence of the seizure and imprisonment of her son to which the intrigues of Elizabeth had largely contributed, was a fresh stab to the unfor|tunate queen; and from her letter to Elizabeth, produ|ced by this event, I cannot forbear a few extracts.

I am informed from undoubted authority, that my son has been surprised by rebels; and I am tortured with apprehension, lest he should be reduced to the peculiar infelicities of that situation under which I have suffered so long.

After some expressions de|scriptive of her just indignation, she adds—

since equi|ty and right must stoop to the tyranny of your scep|tre, I shall carry my appeal to the eternal God, whose dominion is over all the princes of the earth. To him with whom there is no craft or fraud, I lift up my voice, beseeching him to deal with us both at the last judgment according to our deserts. Secure in my innocence, I fear not to rest solemnly my fate upon this impartial trial.

Her enumeration of the injuries which she had received from Elizabeth is pointed by truth; and the succeeding questions which she puts to that princess with her subsequent recital, must have been barbed by conviction.

After that I had escap|ed

from Lochlevin, and was about to give battle to my rebellious subjects, I dispatched to you, by ex|press, the diamond which you sent me, as a token of your love; and I craved your aid. I thought that what I had received as a pledge of your affections, would awaken them; and, when you bestowed it, I was not only flattered with large promises of your assistance, but you even bound yourself by your royal word, that if I should betake myself to your domin|ions, you would advance to your frontiers and meet me in person. I fondly relied upon your honour; and, in my adversity, I took the resolution to throw myself into your arms, and to commit to your pro|tection my diadem and my person. But I was rude|ly stopped upon my journey, encompassed with guards, and confined in strong places; and, from the first moment of my captivity, to the present hour, I have endured afflic|tions more bitter and grievous than death itself. Twelve tedious months have passed since all communication between my son and me, either by letter or messengers, has been in|terrupted. You are studious to tear asunder the nearest and the kindliest ties of nature, and to separate and di|vide a mother and a son! Is it fair or reasonable that I, who am a mother, should be restrained not only from giving council to my son, but that the distresses of his condition should be artfully concealed from me? Let me beseech you by the cross and the passion of Christ our Redeemer, that you will bind to yourself him and me, in everlasting gratitude, by permitting me to re|fresh my decayed body somewhere out of England, after the languors of so long and painful, a confinement. For me, this world has lost its greatness; and if a prison is still to be my lot, if I am to know no joy on earth, do not interrupt and oppose me in my hopes of heav|en. Let me have a Catholic priest to direct me in the road to another life, and to perform to me the offices of that religion in which, I have lived, and in which I am to die. Reassume the natural kindness of your disposition; soften your displeasure to a princess who is so nearly related to you in blood; attend at length to

my just complaints; let a tender reconciliation take place between us; let not the groans and sighs of my afflicted soul ascend any longer unto God; and let me depart in peace from this scene of sorrow.

James would gladly have associated with his mother in the government of Scotland; but Elizabeth nefari|ously opposed plans for the establishment of Mary, which she herself, to answer a then present purpose, had originated. The rebels of Scotland boldly urged their claims upon Elizabeth, by affirming that they had lost the confidence of their sovereign, and their patrimonial inheritance in consequence of their combinations in her favour! That Mary was eager to emancipate her|self from the tyranny and cruelty of Elizabeth, is be|yond a doubt. A queen, detained in prison, and bar|barously treated, while her virulent adversaries are permitted to ravage her native realm—A mother, sep|arated, during twenty revolving years, from a son, whose opening mind she had wished to form, embraces with ardour, every proposition by which she may hope to return to her dominions, be restored to the exercise of her royal prerogatives and to her maternal duties—These were the crimes of which Mary, during her cap|tivity, was assuredly guilty; and upon this foundation was raised the superstructure of that process, which, procuring her death, terminated gloriously for herself, and blasted with eternal infamy her malignant adver|sary. The cruelties exercised towards Mary in her prison, is an outrage to humanity; any instance of be|nevolence or pity, exhibited to the Scottish queen, was construed into a breach of fidelity to Elizabeth, and her flatterers became emulous in acts of cruelty; while a hope was entertained that the aggravated calamities to which the royal prisoner was subjected, would pre|cipitate her upon some rash action, by which she would become in reality a criminal. But her integrity re|mained inflexible; and her upright mind, nerved by conscious innocence, engaged with ardour in the habits of piety; and, supported by the consolatory truths of religion, continued greatly superior to the detestable

plots fabricated for her destruction. Her adversaries were enraged at the inefficacy of their diabolical ar|rangements; and, frustrated in their most sanguine purposes, Leicester, prime minion to Elizabeth, dis|patched assassins to seize, in the gloomy recesses of the prison, that life which had been subjected to such a se|ries of calamities!

But here, even the virtues of those hard-hearted sav|ages, Paulet and Drury, made a stand! They spurned the emissaries of Leicester, and felt the degradation to which they were subjected. Yet, notwithstanding they stopped short of death, they were in the exercise of the utmost rigour. Her apartments, but two in number, were poorly furnished; neither were they sufficient to shield her from the inclemencies of the weather; and, that they might inflict on her every species of indigni|ty, they rendered her prison a receptacle for common offenders; confining in her view, a young man, whom, after much persecution, they deprived of life, without judge or jury! They were industrious in cutting off every avenue, which could possibly become an inlet of pleasure to the unoffending victim of their rigour. Through the medium of a servant, she had indulged the benevolence of her nature, by a regular distribu|tion of charity among the sons and daughters of want, who abode in the vicinity of Tutbury Castle! And who but must execrate that unequalled inhumanity, which, having discovered, sternly denied even this soothing, alleviation of her unparalleled woes?

But Elizabeth had not yet attained the summit of her wishes; and, persevering in her atrocious career, her obsequious parliament gratified her by an un|precedented statute, which made

a sovereign and in|dependent princess answerable for her conduct to the sub|jects of another potentate!

Thus was the way open for the accomplishment of that tragical catastrophe, at which the sanguinary views of the English queen had so long pointed; and it only remained to involve the Scottish princess in real or suppositious guilt. To ensnare and betray the injured sufferer, arts the most

exquisitely iniquitous were employed; nor was any temptation left unessayed, which might allure her in|to practices against the dignity and life of Elizabeth. Babington's conspiracy presented a favourable occa|sion, and every probable measure was embraced to engage her therein; but her virtue and her discretion remaining inaccessible, was proof against every as|sault; and forgery became once more the dernier resort of her implacable foes! Letters were written for her, to which she was an utter stranger; and upon those letters were founded her trial and subsequent execu|tion!! Her closet was rudely broken open, without her previous expectation of such an event, and her cabinets, borne to Elizabeth, were examined in her presence; yet, amid the multiplicity of papers they contained, to the no small regret of her enemies, a criminating syllable was not to be found! The magna|nimity and genuine dignity, with which Mary replied to the commissioners appointed to proceed against her, astonished and confounded even her most deter|mined foes. "It is," said she, with admirable com|posure,

a matter altogether uncommon, that Eliza|beth should command me to submit to a trial, as if I were her subject. I am an independent sovereign, and will not tarnish, by any meanness, my high birth, the princes my predecessors, and my son. To speak to me of commissioners, is a vain mockery of my rank. Kings alone can be my peers. The laws of England are unknown to me, and I have no coun|sellors, to whose wisdom I can apply for instruction. My papers and commentaries have been taken from me; and no person can have the perilous courage to ap|pear as my advocate.

The desolate captive persisted in denying the au|thority of the commissioners, yet she was aware that they would, notwithstanding, proceed to her trial; and a sweet hope of obtaining that triumph, to which her integrity entitled her, induced this truly interesting sufferer to wave for a moment her hereditary queen|ship, and to appear before the tribunal of those usurp|ers,

who were predetermined to condemn her. Dig|nity, modesty, majesty and innocence, were strongly pourtrayed in the matter and manner of her defence; and an attention thereto must wring sympathy from the coldest heart that ever beat in a human bosom. "The accusation," said she,

preferred to my preju|dice, is a most detestable calumny. I was not en|gaged with Babington in his conspiracy; and I am altogether innocent of having plotted the death of Elizabeth.

After having produced irrefragable proofs of her integrity, she adds—

I will confess that I have yielded to the strong impulses of nature; and that like a human creature, encompassed with dan|gers, I have exerted myself to recover my greatness and my liberty. The efforts I have made can ex|cite no blushes in me, for the voice of mankind must applaud them. Religion, in her sternest moments of severity, cannot look to them with reproach; and to consider them as crimes, is to despise the sanctimonious reverence of humanity, and to give way to the suspicious wretchedness of despotism. But the attainment of my kingdom, the recovering of my liberty, and the advancement of that religion which I love, could not induce me to stain myself with the crimes which are objected to me. I would disdain to purchase a crown by the assassination of the meanest of the human race. To accuse me of scheming the death of the queen, my sister, is to brand me with the infamy which I abhor most. It is my nature to employ the devotion of Esther, and not the sword of Judith. But amidst the inclement and unprincipled pretensions, which my adversaries are pleased to invent, to overwhelm me with ca|lamities and anguish, I can trace and discover the real cause of their hostility and prosecution. My crimes are, my birth, the injuries I have been compelled to endure, and my religion. I am proud of the first, I can forgive the second, and the third is a source to me of such comfort and hope, that for its glory I will be con|tented that my blood shall flow upon the scaffold.

The soul-affecting pleader evinced her exquisite sen|sibility and deep sense of gratitude, when, during her trial, reference being made to the Earl of Arundel, with streaming eyes she pathetically uttered the mem|orable exclamation, which has been so often cited:

Alas! alas! how much has the illustrious house of Howard endured for me!

Beauteous and deeply wronged mourner! never was calamity more dignifi|ed, never was sorrow more ennobled! In vain did she solicit permission to justify herself before the Brit|ish parliament, or Elizabeth and her privy council. Her enemies continued deaf to her solicitations, and with unprincipled effrontery, under the sanction of a legal process, in which the greatest outrage was done to justice, sentence of death was passed upon the Queen of Scots! nor was the execution of this unprecedented sentence long delayed!!

Measures were taken to procure the consent of James to this violation of hospitality, decency, and nature! But the proposal filled him with astonishment, grief, indignation and remorse. He spurned, with filial de|testation, every suggestion upon this head, and hasten|ed to dispatch to Elizabeth the most spirited and re|sentful representations, upon the enormous violence of her proceedings. Foreign princes also, struck with the utmost consternation, and infinitely shocked at the im|perious presumption of Elizabeth, presented her, upon this melancholy occasion, the most pressing remonstran|ces; but nothing short of the death of Mary could sat|isfy those baleful passions, which had obtained a tre|mendous ascendency in her bosom. Mary received her sentence with uncommon satisfaction, and even triumph! She however regretted, that she could not obtain the attendance of a clergyman of her own per|suasion! But submitting to necessity, she still preserved her equanimity; and when her keepers poorly deprived her of those tokens and insignia of royalty, by which she had till then been distinguished, she calmly said,

In despite of your sovereign, I will die a queen—my royal character is indel••••le; and I will surrender it with my

spirit, to the Almighty God from whom I received it, and to whom my honour and my innocence are fully known.

She disdained to supplicate for life; and her last let|ter to Elizabeth is descriptive of piety, resignation, he|roism, and the utmost elevation of mind.

I am happy, Madam, that I am arrived at the last stage of my long and lamentable pilgrimage. My fate, though altogether unmerited, I shall encounter with cheerfulness. There are now a few circumstances only which at|tract my attention; and for those it is proper that I apply directly to yourself. In England, which has de|parted from the true religion, I cannot hope to be interred with the kings, our progenitors, according to the ceremonies of the Catholic church. In Scot|land, the sepulchres of my ancestors have been pro|faned and violated. When my enemies, therefore, have glutted themselves with my blood, I entreat, that my remains may be carried by my domestics to France, where the bones of my mother are deposited. There, my body, which never knew any quiet while my soul was united to it, will rest in peace. As my second request, I beg that I may not be abandoned to the secret tyranny of my adversaries. They may consume me with lingering torments; or, what I dread more, they may sully my fame with foul slan|ders. Let my execution be public, that there may be undoubted witnesses, who may bear testimony to my firmness in my religion, and make an honest re|port of my dying agonies. It is my third request, that my servants may depart out of your dominions without molestation, and that you will permit them to enjoy the legacies which I am to bequeath them in my testament. These favours I implore you to grant, in the name of Jesus Christ; by our consanguin|ity; by the soul of Henry VII. our common progenitor; by our royal dignity; and, by the respect which you bear to our sex! It will please me to receive an answer from you: Nor accuse me of presumption, that, while I am leaving this scene of things, I take the lib|erty to remind you, that you are not to live forever;

and that there is a tribunal, before which you must ap|pear, to render an account of your proceedings against me.

The silence of Elizabeth to these requests, and the comfortless and alarming suspense in which that silence involved Mary, would, had the unprecedented cruelty of the English queen admitted an aggravation, have given the finishing touches to her system of barbarity! Mary, however, continued to possess an astonishing measure of internal tranquillity; and her firm affiance in Jehovah remained a never failing source of consola|tion. Elizabeth, with an air of levity, signed the death-warrant of the Queen of Scots; yet, fearful of the consequences, she sought, by renewed application to the dagger of the assassin, to remove from herself the public odium. Through the instrumentality of Davidson and Walsingham, she recommended it to the keepers of Mary,

to shed privately the blood of their royal prisoner! Though a sovereign princess, and entrusted with the cares of a great nation, she blushed not to give it in charge 〈◊〉〈◊〉 her ministers, to enjoin a murder! and this murder was connected with every circumstance that could make it most frightful and horrid. The victim for whose blood she thirsted, was a woman, a queen, a relation! who was splendid with beauty, eminent in abil|ities, magnanimous under misfortunes, and smiling with innocence!

The manner in which Mary, on her bed of languish|ment, received the annunciation, that the ensuing morn|ing was appointed for her execution—her characteristic remark thereon—her dignified composure amid the rude and unfeeling insults to which she was subjected—the elevated strains in which she assayed to comfort her weeping domestics!—her serenity at supper!—the ten|der leave which she took of her servants!—her amia|ble condescension and pious counsel—her letters to her friends—her adjustment of her testament—her solemn devotions—her peaceful and saint-like slumbers—the serenity of her morning preparation—her distribution of her wardrobe and jewels—her reception of the eu|charist

—the fervour of her kneeling devotions—her raised eyes, clasped hands, and soul-affecting attitude—the holy confidence with which she poured into the ear of Deity, her sufferings and her wishes—the heavenly serenity with which she presented herself to the high sheriff—her address, when coming forth, to Melvin, who had for many days been prohibited her presence;

Lament not, honest Melvin; but rather exult that thou shalt see Mary Stuart delivered from all her woes. The world, my good Melvin, is but vanity; and an ocean of tears would not suffice to bewail its sorrows.

—The en|viable composure and self-command with which she deported herself, while subjected to the shocking inso|lence of the Earl of Kent—the graceful dignity with which she advanced to the scaffold!—her majestic car|riage—the mingling emotions of commiseration, rev|erence and admiration, which pervaded the bosoms of the attending spectators—the fortitude with which she ascended the scaffold, surveying, with inimitable benig|nity and heart-piercing tranquillity, the block, the axe, and the executioners!—the streaming eyes of surround|ing witnesses, exhibiting a contrast to her unexampled heroism—her gentle mildness, amid the shameful indig|nities and unbecoming insults, which were heaped up|on her by the Dean of Petersborough—the augment|ing lamentations of her men and women servants, and the impressive manner in which she urged their silent submission—her recommendation of queen Elizabeth to the protection of the Almighty!—her maternal rec|ollection of her son—her energetic address to the Re|deemer of the world!—her last adieu—the astonishing serenity with which she placed her neck upon the block!—All, and every of these circumstances, form a climax, which is greatly worthy of the life to which they constitute so magnanimous a close!

Elizabeth, ere she struck a blow so fatal to her own reputation, should have recollected, that the atrocious deed could not be consigned to oblivion; that it would descend to posterity in all its horrors! that, at the tri|bunal of succeeding generations, her exquisite dissimu|lation

would avail her little; and that, stript of the false colours, in which she attempted to evade the pub|lic odium of this black transaction, the murder which she contrived to perpetrate, would be considered in all its deformity! The perturbed sensations, sighs, groans, and deep anguish, which marked the concluding hours of Elizabeth, and which operated so forcibly as to ex|tend her, for the ten succeeding days and nights imme|diately preceding her exit, upon the floor of her apart|ment, exhibit a striking contrast to that serenity which illumined the parting moments of the Queen of Scots, and forcibly point the difference between the sensations of that mind, which, stained with guilt, becomes the abode of remorse, and the calm reflections of the bosom which hath cherished the propensities of integrity, and in which white-robed innocence hath delighted to dwell.

It is worthy of remark, that Elizabeth resigned with her life, all pretensions to that crown, of the titles and succession of which she was so tenacious; that the son of Mary mounted the English throne; that a princess, lineally descended from her, in the fourth generation, had the glory of uniting and consol|idating the realms of England and Scotland, under one general government; and that, if we except the usurpation of Oliver Cromwell, the British sceptre hath, from the death of Elizabeth, been continually swayed by the posterity of the Queen of Scots.

Desirous, my dear Margaretta, to delineate to you my sentiments, together with the reasons on which they are grounded, I have engaged in a more copi|ous detail than I had designed; yet it may lead you to an accurate study of an interesting piece of history; and I shall not dilate so largely upon our remaining subjects. I am charmed with the elegance of your translation from Madame Dacier. Your Achilles seems to weep his Patroclus dead, in all the dignity of grief; and your improvements give complete satisfaction to the bosom of your truly affectionate mother,

MARY VIGILLIUS.

N^o. LI.

When valour in the patriot's bosom glows, And virtue all her energies bestows— The intrepid chief becomes his country's boast, His plans consistent, and his arm an host.

To MARGARETTA.

AS it is of importance to form just ideas of per|sons and things, I advise you, my dear, to give Sully's Memoirs a second perusal; and, that you may do this both with profit and pleasure, I proceed in my cursory remarks.

You ought, my love, to consider that the Duke of Sully was, comparatively, a private man. Henry was born for a nation, and the duke was born for the king. Henry undoubtedly possessed the talents of a great warrior and a great monarch—Sully was an able minister of incorruptible fidelity and uncommon dis|interestedness. But while we do justice to this illus|trious statesman, we cannot, however, regard him as a faultless character; we think the treachery and dissim|ulation by which he obtained from the Count of Sois|sons, and the Princess Catharine, their marriage con|tract, was highly reprehensible; nor are we quite satis|fied with the duke of Sully for so frequently holding up to public view the dissensions of the royal pair. He too often unveils his hero; he dwells too circumstantial|ly upon that part of his character in which alone he was vulnerable. It is true the importance of the minis|ter is thus augmented, but this does not diminish our disgust at the recital; and when he relates so much, and with an affectation of delicacy, pretends to conceal a great deal, lest it should obscure the lustre of his master's glory, the imposition becomes grossly palpa|ble; we lose sight of the uniformly faithful servant, and behold only the ungenerous and absurd egotist.

Sully, it must be confessed was always at hand to extricate, but he is not therefore invested with a general

superiority of character. The mind impassioned, and debilitated by any particular circumstance, becomes, in the moment of imbecility, unequal to cool deliberation; and, amid the hurricane of the passions, it is incum|bent upon the man of reason to point the better way, If Henry's displeasure at his minister was frequently without a cause, his resentments appeared to him just; and when investigation discovered his error, his frank acknowledgments were worthy his character; and the noble condescension with which he invariably sought a reconciliation, was an abundant compensation for any vehemence of passion to which his ardent na|ture subjected him. Constantly the first to condemn himself for every intemperate act or expression, he delayed not the reparation, which was always as am|ple and explicit as language could render it; and he declared that consequent on every amicable eclaircisse|ment his slumbers were more sweet, and he esteem|ed the adjustment of these grievances as an addition to his felicity. We cannot deny, that if the value and importance of the minister was thus demonstrated, a most enchanting idea of the frankness and candour of the monarch is also given. Henry was aware of the natural vehemence of his disposition, and his good sense was constantly arming him against the inroads of passion. He was fully sensible of the errors into which the angry man is often precipitated; but virtue nerved his bosom, and he successfully opposed the as|saults of impetuous rage. A series of calamities, to|gether with his innate sensibility, invested him with self command. Reason took the lead, and every resentful impression submitted to her dictates; he became mild by habit, and reflection rendered him uniformly just.

Generosity was inherent in his soul; and his innate consciousness of superiority, while it was far removed from the debasing effects of self partiality, invariably taught him to disdain a malicious or ignoble action. Sully observes, that Henry

never forgot to reward any additional trouble by some new instance of his bounty, and that every proof of kindness made upon his mind an

indelible impression;

and indeed his liberality was on all occasions truly princely.

No, my dear—Sully was not the principal artificer of Henry's glory; nature had early marked upon the mind of the youthful prince the features of heroism; his face was an index of his mind, and an elevation of expression and a prepossessing frankness formed its general contour. His manners were insinuating and full of vivacity; and even in the commencement of his career, his virtues and his talents extorted the approbation of all who knew him; while his bravery and his military abilities rendered him the soul of his party. Henry cannot be justly charged with a want of tenderness, because Sully's memoirs preserve no record of his regrets on account of the death of his mother. It should be remembered that at the demise of the queen of Navarre, Rosny did not occupy that place in the king's bosom, to which his merit after|wards introduced him. Catharine de Medicis was ••••stress of sufficient address to garb her treacherous and bloody politics in the alluring habiliments of respectful kindness; the Queen of Navarre, her family and adherents, were effectually deceived; nor did the wisdom, experience and remarkable penetration of the Admiral de Coliquy, escape the snares which had been laid with such exquisite dissimulation.

The massacre of St. Bartholomew, which may be principally charged to Catharine de Medicis, will al|ways stand prominent in the list of bloody transac|tions. Neither high birth, riches, virtue nor talents, were a protection from the fury of those licensed mur|derers, who were inhumanly let loose upon an unsus|pecting multitude! Peaceable and unarmed, the de|fenceless inhabitants imagined themselves in the utmost security, when, in one tremendous moment, the horri|ble destruction commenced. More than ten thousand persons, with circumstances of aggravated and unpar|alleled cruelty, were barbarously butchered! and so comprehensive was the infernal mandate which au|thorized this shocking carnage, that it extended even

to infants at the breast. The streets ran with blood; and, "kill, kill, massacre, the Huguenots," was the watch-word of the furiously zealous Catholics! That Henry, in a catastrophe so deeply tragical, should feel his individual griefs absorbed in the national infamy, in the national calamity, is a circumstance which evinces the patriotism of his character; and it became him also to oppose, to the unprincipled and insidious designs of Catharine de Medicis, a plan which might serve as a barrier to those mischiefs she still contem|plated. Henry was in no instance deficient in sensi|bility. His sister had made an unworthy choice, and it became him, as her sovereign and her brother, to di|rect and point her confidence; nor can his fraternal attachment with propriety be questioned.

Henry's first reception of Rosny does honour to his feelings, to his gratitude, and to his liberality; and if he was blest with an able minister, his minister also was amply recompensed. The confidence which the king reposed in Sully, was a proof of his wisdom and penetration; for it was the regularity and economy of the youthful candidate for his favour, which first ad|vanced him in the esteem of his sovereign; and this election, in a monarch, young, brave, impassioned, and in some instances devoted to pleasure, fully evinced the solidity of his understanding. But a fondness for order seemed inherent in the bosom of Henry—

He was born with the virtues and method of economy, and therefore practised them without constraint.

He dis|tinguished judiciously; and, discriminating characters with the utmost precision, while he divested falsehood of its glare, he seemed to possess a kind of intuitive knowledge of truth.

His martial genius, intrepid bravery, and full pos|session of military talents, in all their splendid variety, was evinced by his remarks, while yet a child, upon the terrors of the veteran soldier; by the ardour which the relation of battles enkindled in his youthful bo|som; by his undaunted heroism and just observations at the battle of Moncontour, when he had hardly attained

his sixteenth year; by his address and bravery, in quelling the mutineers in the city of Eause, while his remission of their offences gave those indications of his clemency, which his succeeding life abundantly con|firmed; by his admirable conduct at Nerac, extricat|ing himself by his valour from imminent danger; by the order of his march to, and his attack of, Cahors; by the hardships which, for five succeeding days and nights, he endured before that city; and by his un|daunted and memorable reply to those who counselled a retreat—

'Tis Heaven which dictates what I ought to do upon this occasion. Remember then, that my retreat out of this city, shall be the retreat of my soul from my body. My honour requires this of me; speak therefore to me of nothing but fighting, conquest, or death.

Henry's resources in the midst of difficulties, and the splendor with which he emerged from the most desperate cir|cumstances, with the facility with which he accommo|dated himself to the most laborious occupations in the military department, conducting the miners in person, and animating the workmen by every proper exertion, together with his capability of enduring fatigue, can|not but excite our astonishment! His victory at Con|tras—his commiseration for the children of adversity, and the veneration in which he held the meritorious soldier—his generous aid of Henry III.—his arrange|ments upon the death of that prince—the invincible resolution with which he surmounted difficulties suffi|ciently powerful to overcome a host of warriors—his astonishing intrepidity in opposing himself, with only three thousand followers, to an army of thirty thousand men, alternately keeping guard in person, directing the trenches, snatching his hasty sustenance in the ditch, and denying himself a moment's respite from his un|paralleled fatigues—are so many splendid claims upon our admiration! His success, in a combat so unequal in point of numbers, as was the battle of Argues, as|sumes a miraculous aspect; nor can we withhold our veneration, while listening to his reply to the Count de Belin, who expressed his surprise at the inadequate

number of his troops—

You see not all, my friend; for you reckon not God and my claim, who fight for me.

The action of Argues would singly have secured the immortality of Henry; but his arduous struggles and uniform bravery multiplied his exploits, and gave them a brilliancy worthy of the finished chief which nature had designed.

The military hero unites conduct with courage; he coolly deliberates; and, what he theoretically resolves, he practically pursues. Henry IV. exhibited this com|pletion of character in a very eminent degree; and Sully observes, that

he never suffered his ardour in bat|tle to hinder him from following t••e calmer dictates of wisdom.

At the battle of Ivry the Gallic hero gathered fresh laurels: The excellent disposition of the several divisions, the valour with which he fought, and the victory obtained over numbers so greatly dis|proportioned to his own, covered him with glory. On the evening preceding this action, and in his subsequent conduct, he gave striking proofs of a virtuous as well as a great mind; and his tenderness for Sully, who had been wounded in the battle, is strongly evincive of that sensibility, in which you suppose him deficient. Henry, considered as a warrior, in pursuit of glory and of a crown, (his right to which was incontestible) gave a remarkable proof of the transcendent goodness and ex|quisite compassion of his heart, by raising the siege of Paris, at a moment when its conquest was within his grasp, merely to prevent that carnage which he had discovered his soldiers meditated, in revenge for the massacre of St. Bartholomew; and his permitting the besieged those supplies which it was in his power to cut off, was a fresh triumph of humanity.

I am not sur|prised,

said Henry,

that the Spaniards and the chiefs of the league have no compassion upon these poor people; they are only tyrants: For me, I am their father and their king, and cannot bear the recital of their calami|ties, without being pierced to the soul, and ardently desir|ing to bring them relief.

The enemies of Henry bore testimony to his rare qualities, particularly to his intrepid bravery.

By heavens,

said they,

this prince deserves a thousand crowns for his valour!

The ardour with which the king exposed his person on many occasions, and the vehemence with which he yielded to his insatiable thirst for glory, triumphed, in some instances, over that pru|dence which was generally a balance to his undaunted courage. Among those daring exploits, which were strongly tinctured with rashness, may be reckoned the action of Aumale; where he opposed himself, at the head of one hundred soldiers, to the Prince of Parma, whose army consisted of thirty thousand effective men! But the valour and conduct of his retreat is perhaps unrivalled in history. The reply of Henry to the re|monstrances of his friend, is the best apology which can be given for these deviations from his generally wise and prudent movements—

I cannot do otherwise; and, since it is for my glory and crown that I fight, my life and every thing else ought to be of no consideration with me.

An instance of the king's humanity occurs at Dreux; where, in the moment of victory, arresting the progress of death, he distributed sums, proportioned to their ne|cessities, among those who, thus doubly conquered by his prowess and by his munificent clemency, could hardly help taking rank among the most faithful of his subjects.

Victory attached itself to the person of Henry where-ever he commanded; and it was universally acknowl|edged, that to his own bravery and excellent arrange|ments, he was indebted for the splendor of his arms. At the campaign in Burgundy, and the battle of Fon|taine Francois, he even surpassed himself. The enemy with whom he fought were two-thirds superior in num|ber; but the Gallic hero was abundantly adequate to the most arduous achievements; and his exploits dur|ing that action appear almost miraculous: Every thing, he was sensible, depended upon his own exer|tions; and, at the head of one hundred and fifty horse,

he arrested the flight of that division of his army which had been routed; he opposed himself bare-headed to the impetuosity of the victors; and, completely defeat|ing the enemy, snatched from them a triumph of which they seemed already secure; and this admirable and well-timed exertion of valour, happily saved his followers from that general carnage which would in|evitably have ensued. But I do not aim at enumerat|ing all the battles and sieges in which this monarch was engaged. I only glance cursorily over the ac|tions of a hero, who was neither elated by prosperity, nor depressed by adversity. He communicated a por|tion of his ardour to those among his followers who were the least ambitious of glory. He was equal to every military duty; and his invincible bravery and indefatigable application excited that noble emulation, which is the parent of great actions.

But it is not as a military hero, EXCLUSIVELY, that Henry is entitled to applause—he was a patriot king. His subjects shared equally his regards, while merit was sure to obtain his patronage. His entrance into Paris strongly marked his benignity, and his paternal attachment to his people. His soldiers, exactly disci|plined, exhibited a degree of regularity that would have done honour to a well ordered family; and, tak|ing possession of the squares and streets, in military ar|ray, the populace sustained not the smallest injury. His enemies experienced his clemency; and in that triumphant moment when he might have taken ample vengeance, a general amnesty was proclaimed, and all those who had borne arms against him were fully and freely pardoned. On the petition of the injured towns and villages, which, from the tremendous devastation made by the overflowing of the Loire, were stripped of all their possessions, Henry thus directs his minister:

God has given me subjects that I may preserve them as my children: Let them meet with tenderness and charity from my council. Alms are always highly acceptable to God, and in cases of public misery more especially so. It would be heavy on my conscience, if I neglected to do every

thing I can for their relief.

Thus, in word and in deed, did Henry consult the public weal. He consid|ered himself as placed at the head of a numerous fam|ily, whose happiness it was his duty to consult; nor did he hesitate in relinquishing his most favourite pur|suits, if he might thereby contribute to the felicity or emolument of his kingdom.

Henry's clemency to delinquents was descriptive of the utmost lenity and tenderness of disposition. He preserved his serenity and cheerfulness, even when suf|fering from the stroke of the assassin, who had aimed an ineffectual blow at his life. He laboured to preserve Mareschal Byron and other conspirators; and he mag|nanimously passed by every offence, as far as was con|sistent with the safety of his person and kingdom. The noble frankness with which he received all those, who, from whatever motive, had joined the league against him, greatly augments the splendor of his renown. His way to the throne of France had been strewed with difficulties and misfortunes, of a nature which required all his bravery and fortitude to surmount; but, having attained his hereditary right, he proved himself greatly worthy the royal authority with which he was cloathed. His reception of Admiral Villars, who had thrown himself at his feet, whom he hastily raised, observing, that such submission was due only to God—of the Duke of Maienne, whom he tenderly embraced, and of many others, was truly magnani|mous, and serves to evince the inborn grandeur of his soul. The cheerfulness of his disposition endeared him to his friends and the nation at large.

The lineaments of his face, says Sully, had that agreea|ble liveliness which forms a sweet and happy physiognomy, and perfectly suited that engaging easiness of manners, which, though sometimes mixed with majesty, never lost the graceful affability and easy gaiety, so natural to him.

The veracity of Henry was numbered among his prominent virtues. He pronounced an inviolable ad|herence to truth, the first requisite in a man of genuine bravery and worth; and, when dictating the articles

of capitulation at a siege, the sacred regard he was known to pay to his word, rendered it to the besieged as acceptable a pledge, as the strongest bonds which suspicion could invent. Henry's feelings, as a father, hath not been surpassed: As a husband, if he was not ••uxorious, he was at least manly and polite; and when it is remembered, that his matrimonial connexion was only the superstructure of policy, candour will confess, that this was the utmost which ought to have been ex|pected from a prince superior to dissimulation. If Mary de Medicis had been blest with discretion, and possessed of those attractions, address, and feminine del|icacy, which have distinguished some ladies, she might, perhaps, have rendered Henry affectionate. It is to be lamented, that Margaret of Valois was not to his taste. I have always been particularly affected by the history of this princess; her merit appears to me incontestible: Her dignified resignation of the king; her unremitted attention to the person who succeeded her, and the rational attachment she continued to evince for the royal pair, are circumstances which announce her truly noble, and place her, in my opinion, with the first of women.

Henry evinced his love of literature, by his patron|age of learned men; and it is with regret we proceed to say, that virtue must deplore the deep shade, too often thrown over the shining qualities of the Gallic hero. His illicit attachments frequently enveloped in clouds the noble endowments of a mind, capable of exhibiting a finished model of transcendent excellence. Yet, while we lament a deviation so capital, it is with pleasure we repeat a fact, which must be considered as an essential palliation of this single error. Henry never suffered a pursuit of pleasure, of whatever description, to arrest those valuable purposes which marked the magnanim|ity and heroism of his soul.

But, you observe, that Henry was an apostate, while the Duke of Sully preserved his religion. I am, my dear, pleased with your warmth upon this occasion; and yet it is true, that actions, proper and becoming to

an individual, are not always suitable to the head and representative of a numerous and enlightened people. From a monarch, youthful, ardent, and devoted to mil|itary fame, we are not to expect an unyielding system of divinity. Henry was bred a Calvinist; and per|haps this is the only reason which produced him, in the commencement of his career, a Protestant. The in|terests of humanity loudly demanded a sacrifice of his particular mode of worship; and it is surely highly derogatory to our holy religion, to suppose it calls up|on us to immolate the lives of thousands, merely for the establishment of a tenet, which cannot rationally be regarded as affecting the present interest or future feli|city of the creature. Perhaps the zeal of religion has betrayed many upright minds, and it may have enkin|dled false fires in the bosom of the persecuted, as well as the persecutor.

France bled at every pore; she was torn by intestine divisions; and her extensive provinces were on the eve of being deluged in blood!—Ought Henry to have perpetuated the misery of millions, merely for the sake of ideas, which, strictly speaking, cannot be said to consti|tute the fundamental articles of religion? Henry was a patriot king—Must he exhaust those talents which were calculated to establish the happiness of a nation, in destroying a people he was born to protect? Henry was a meritorious prince; he was entitled to felicity—Must he devote himself to the calamities attendant up|on endless hostilities? If the king embraced the Cath|olic faith, he thereby became a minister of peace; he might lull to sleep, or utterly exterminate the fiery zeal of persecution; the gentle spirit of tolerance might be cherished and invigorated; it would be in his power to arrest and remedy the progress of those disorders which had desolated France; and a happy or tragical catastrophe was apparently involved in his decision. The beneficent influence of a philanthropic example, recommended by, and originating from, the throne, would disseminate the mild principles of peace, love, and general fraternity. France demanded of.

Henry a restoration of her internal quiet. Tranquil|lity, affluence and safety were in his gift. Lacerated, and almost expiring, while she well near despaired of relief, she yet forcibly and energetically pronounced, that Henry's abjuration of Calvinism would be a balm for every wound; that hostilities would then cease; and peace, with its attendant train of felicities, would once more bless her wide domain! And what was the concession which Henry was required to make? Not a dereliction of his God, either in the character of Creator, Redeemer, or Preserver; and the liberality of his sen|timents induced a persuasion, that the Architect of all worlds was equally served by the sincere Catholic as by the Protestant. The observation of a few ceremonies was the supernumerary he was called upon to embrace; and, considering the forfeiture embosomed in his rejec|tion, reason will candidly acquit him. Besides, the king being a Protestant only in name, had never investigated the peculiar tenets of his sect; and the Catholic priests, called upon at this juncture to defend their sentiments, produced in the royal presence their most specious ar|guments; while their Calvinistic opponents, convinced of the necessity of the king's conversion, veiled before them; either declining to defend themselves, or purposely employing weapons which they knew to be unequal to the combat! Sully insists, that internal conviction was thus, in fact, forced upon the mind of the monarch; and, as the inmost recesses of Henry's heart were ever open to Sully, the above representation extorts our full assent to the opin|ion of that minister.

"But Sully preserved his religion inviolate." It appears, my dear, that the Duke of Sully had thor|oughly examined his faith, and that it had become the deliberate election of his riper years. Neither was he involved in the same necessity with his master; his individual aggrandizement would have been his only in|ducement to the relinquishment of his religious senti|ments; and a motive so decidedly interested ought never to gain the ascendency in a noble mind. It should also be remembered, that Henry's abjuration

was strongly enforced and accelerated by the advice of Sully.

The truth is, Henry was a philanthropist; and those beneficent plans which, at an early period, occupied his mind, not confined to France, included the whole Christian world. Indeed it is from those general ar|rangements, which, calculated upon a large scale, em|braced all Europe, that he is more particularly enti|tled to the appellation great; and, the probability is, that had he accomplished his vast purposes, his wishes would only have been bounded by the universe. Hen|ry was well qualified for the completion of his mag|nanimous design; he possessed an accurate knowledge of the state and various interests of all those countries, the general emolument of which he contemplated; and his intrepidity, profound wisdom, and rare abilities, had become a universal theme. If I understand the vast project which Henry had conceived, its object was to fashion all christendom into one great family, or extensive republic, which republic was to be equitably parcelled out into hereditary and elective monarchies and sovereign republics; amenable, however, in some leading arrangements to a general council; and the division was to be made in such a manner as to remove every occasion of jealousy or apprehension; thus ar|resting the progress of the devouring sword, and put|ting a stop to that effusion of blood, and those perpet|ual hostilities, which are an outrage to humanity. The members of this august union were to be regulated and governed by one general plan; their presiding head, or chief magistrate, was to be elected from the several potentates by the free suffrages of the whole; and the affairs of this complex commonwealth, were to be ad|justed by general and inferior assemblies, consisting of deputies from the individual States of this Christian republic; men were to be protected in the free exercise of their religion; toleration was to be established, and the rights of conscience held inviolate.

Henry, in the contemplation of this splendid achieve|ment, magnanimously determined to reject all com|pensation

for the expense and hazard of the enterprize. The boundaries which he affixed to the several powers, effectually barred France from all acquisition of territory; and he only reserved to himself the glory of dissemina|ting over the face of Europe the rich blessings of har|mony and peace. That Henry should have been ca|pable of conceiving this plan, at a period when France was reduced by intestine divisions to the verge of de|struction, and when he himself was nearly overwhelm|ed by misfortunes, is truly astonishing! and that when thus struggling with calamity, he was able to originate and organize the most ardent and beneficial under|taking that could occupy the mind of man, is a cir|cumstance which must remain an incontestible proof of the grandeur of his intellect. This prodigious and stupendous design, was, at first, utterly rejected by Sully; and he ingenuously confesses that his rejection proceeded from a temper naturally cold, cautious and unenterprizing. But upon examining the project in all its parts, he ardently adopted it; and, as delineated in his memoirs, it appears not only practicable, but highly rational.

It is remarkable that Queen Elizabeth had projected an enterprize, which answered in all its parts, feature by feature, to that of the Gallic hero, and this previous to the commencement of their correspondence upon this grand subject, and long before it had a being in the mind of Henry. It is to the honour of Elizabeth that she was solicitous to effectuate a revolution so import|antly beneficial, without having recourse to arms. Sul|ly suggests an idea, that Henry, after the conference at Dover, was indebted to the English Queen for the per|fecting of some parts of his scheme. But the Gallic mon|arch, and his minister, were enthusiastic admirers of Elizabeth; they were filled with astonishment at her po|litical abilities; they declare they cannot bestow praises upon her adequate to her merit; they conceive that in

respect of wisdom, penetration, and all the other per|fections of the mind, she was not inferior to any king, the must truly deserving of that title.

Henry conceived

she merited immortal praise; and he lamented for her, at her death, "as for a second self;" and indeed Eliza|beth's capability of conceiving, adjusting and cherishing a plan so magnanimous, together with her whole con|nexion with Henry, reflects a lustre on her character, that greatly adds to the fervor of those wishes, which would endow her with consistent magnanimity; it cannot but redeem for her a moiety of our esteem; and we would gladly impute her whole transactions with the Queen of Scots to the influence of some infernal in|stigator, who, throwing a veil over her better genius, impelled her to deeds truly diabolical.

At length, every thing was prepared for the com|mencement of those operations which were to termi|nate in the establishment of peace and equality, throughout the christian territory. The treasury of Henry was amply replenished, his resources were pro|digious, his army was embodied, his arrangements were made, allies were engaged, and contingencies were provided for, when the death of the Duke of Cleves, with the consequent disputes relative to the suc|cession to his dignities and possessions, opened the way to, and gave the signal of, onset.

But alas! the days of Henry were numbered! and this august prince became the victim of that dark and inhuman zeal, whose bigotted policy hath frequently been stained by the blood of the most excellent among mankind. It was, indeed, a fearful moment, and muffled in clouds, dark and portentous—the superin|tending genius of France, and of Europe, relinquished its guardianship—the fiends of murder assumed the regency—and, when we reflect upon the sudden disso|lution of the splendid prospects, which rose so fair, and promised such vast emolument, around the dagger of the fell assassin, ten thousand augmenting horrors gather?

Voltaire's Henriade I have never seen. I am told it is translated into English; but I intend purchasing the original, and giving it to you, as an exercise for your talents as a translator. This employment will, I conceive, be calculated to polish both your French

and English. Your geographical description of Scot|land, is, I think, accurate; but you have made a little mistake in the relative situation of France. Your continued improvement in every useful and ornament|al branch of study, is the ardent wish of your affection|ate mother,

MARY VIGILLIUS.

N^o. LII.

Soft tears of pity trickling from the eye, The cheek of youth, with added charms supply; The pearly dew the yielding heart refines, While every thought, benevolence entwines.

To MARGARETTA.

I DO not, my dear, regret the tears you shed over the meritorious sufferer—Compassion ameliorates the bosom; rouses the virtues, and prepares us for the exercise of all those kindly offices, which our relative or social duties may require.

In the history of Charles I. of England, the im|partialist will lament a virtuous and amiable prince, misled by education, rendered unhappy by a combina|tion of causes, and finally betrayed to death by a treacherous and hypocritical miscreant, who, in effect, usurped his offices and dignity. The endearing be|nignity and sweetness of disposition, which Charles so eminently possessed, had, previous to his accession to the regal dignity, enthroned him in the hearts of the people. Nature had implanted in his bosom all the qualities which go to the composition of a patriot king—but strong impressions of the sacred, irrevocable, and heaven descended prerogative of majesty, had been deeply made upon his infant mind. His father had spared no effort to endow his son with sentiments, which he himself had been unable to defend in any other way than by his pen; and Charles, conceiving himself under obligations to transmit, undiminished, to

posterity, those divine rights, delegated to him as a sacred deposit, esteemed every encroachment as a crim|inal invasion of those privileges, for which he had be|come responsible.

With plans, originating in views receiving from pa|ternal influence and authority the stamp of rectitude, he mounted the English throne; and his measures were by consequence very inclement to that ardent love of liberty, which then began to animate the pub|lic mind, and to induce a conviction that the descend|ants of one common Parent must have inherited, from nature, an inherent and equal right to the transcend|ent felicities, attendant upon rational FREEDOM. Yet Charles, taught by experience, would have become the father of his people; but the unbending spirit of the times, once roused to action, and aided by unprinci|pled, interested, and hell-born ambition, laid low a monarch, who, however widely he had mistaken the path, was, nevertheless, anxiously solicitous to promote the happiness of his people.

The marriage of Charles with a princess of the Roman Catholic persuasion; his attachment to the Duke of Buckingham; the war, in which he engaged, in consequence of that attachment; the unconstitu|tional demands which his necessities impelled; his unwarrantable extension of authority, in levying ship money; the frequent dissolution of parliament; ille|gal taxes; arbitrary imprisonment; billeting soldiers; martial laws; the severe and ill-judged zeal of Laud; the attempt to establish Episcopacy in Scotland; the prosecution of the citizens of London, in the star cham|ber; the despotic proceedings of that court, and the repetition of extorted loans—were among the leading causes, which procured the ruin of a prince, calculated to give dignity to, and reflect honour on, any situation in life, in which he might have been placed. The noble stand, made by the people of England in defence of civil liberty, and their arduous struggles for those rights and privileges, which ought, indeed, to be con|sidered as unalienable, can never be too much admired;

they are entitled to the esteem and veneration of man|kind; and the manly and undaunted firmness, with which the Hampdens of that eventful day, opposed themselves to the encroachments of arbitrary power, will continue, to the latest posterity, to command the esteem, and excite the emulation of every bosom, ca|pable of that fervid and animating glow, which a love of freedom will invariably inspire. But, when the amiable monarch, convicted of those errors, which, originating in education, had been cherished and con|firmed by intemperate councils, acceded to every de|mand which freedom, organized by reason, and sub|mitting to the necessary regulations of government, could suggest—when his rebellious subjects, in defiance of every amicable overture, audaciously continued their practices against the dignity, the government, the peace, and even the life of their sovereign—every indignant feeling takes the alarm, and we hesitate not in pronouncing their proceedings truly unwarrantable, and highly atrocious. A combination in favour of the Magna Charta of Nature must ever ensure appro|bation; but an attempt to seize those prescriptive rights of the executive, which the experience of all ages has pronounced requisite to the due administration of or|der, and the support of that subordination, which em|bosoms the general weal, is a crime, the fearful conse|quences of which, no human foresight can calculate.

Charles, mild and peaceable, and attached with even paternal tenderness to his subjects, entered with the utmost reluctance into those sanguinary measures that were deemed necessary to the preservation of re|gal authority. Vigorous exertions, at the commence|ment of the civil war, might have arrested that torrent of misfortunes by which he was afterwards over|whelmed. But the clemency of the monarch suffered the moment to pass, in which, by proper and decisive movements, he might have obtained his own terms.

It does not appear that the design was simply to remove obstructions, nor to repair a decaying fabric; a project abundantly more comprehensive than that of

curtailing the obnoxious privileges of the crown, while its beneficial powers were extended, was formed. Every baleful passion was abroad—misrepresentations and malignant aggravations were countenanced. Ani|mosities obtained, with every passing moment, an as|tonishing augmentation of inveteracy; and the daring purpose was conceived and systematized, of utterly de|stroying the venerable structure of government, and of abolishing forever that power, which had been, for a succession of ages, regarded as the foundation or chief pillar in the English constitution!

Deplorable was the state of the monarch! Sur|rounded by difficulties beyond the reach of human wisdom to surmount, or even to control! And as if these were not sufficient, an attempt was made to fas|ten upon him the odium of those very calamities which pierced his bosom with the deepest sorrow! nor did the finger of malevolence fail of pointing him out as the author of that horrible massacre in Ireland, of the rise and conduct of which he was entirely ignorant, and which every principle of his soul detested. In the struggle between the king and the parliament, many brave men lost their lives. Upon the virtues of the Falklands and the Hampdens of that distressful period, every reader will pronounce a panegyric. Their magnanimity, patriotism, undaunted bravery, and va|rious accomplishments, although opposed in arms, will ensure them the undivided admiration of every succeeding generation. In the chalice prepared for the king, every bitter ingredient was to be infused; and the parliament, apprized of his conjugal tenderness and fidelity, contrived to stab him in the tenderest part, by preferring an impeachment against the queen! Nor indeed was any species of contumely spared; the private papers of the royal pair were seized and

pub|lished by the command of parliament, who took a vulgar and brutal satisfaction in ridiculing all those tender effusions which were never drawn up for the public eye!

It is impossible to attend, without the extreme of grief and indignation, to the supplicating monarch! to the con|temptuous

silence of parliament! to the several stages of his degradation! to that surrender which his impe|rious necessities impelled! to the subsequent ingrat|itude of the Scots! to the rude and barbarous zeal of the clergy! to the indecent transfer of the king's person, and the variety of indignities which he suffered in the various stages of his imprisonment! to his seizure by Joyce! to his being led about at the pleas|ure of the prevailing party! now a prisoner with the army, and anon with the parliament, while he is on all sides the victim of perfidy and unwarrantable am|bition!—These accumulated calamities, I say, wound the soul of sensibility, and are an outrage upon every sense of humanity and propriety.

Imagination presents the interesting and highly in|jured prince. We behold his venerable head, prema|turely bleached by misfortune! his beard is neglected, and even his apparel, worn and decaying, evinces his desolate situation! one decrepit servant only attends him! he is forsaken and solitary! he exhibits an af|fecting example of the instability of human grandeur! Over this melancholy figure of a deeply oppressed sove|reign, we cannot but weep—every sentiment of com|miseration is embodied—and we spontaneously rever|ence the royal captive!

In the fate of Charles, and Mary, Queen of Scots, who was his immediate grand-parent, there is, in many instances, a striking resemblance. Like her's, his troubles in a great measure originated in religious dis|sensions. The same spirit, which in the days of Mary persecuted Popery, now manifested equal acrimony against Episcopacy; and the same vehemence was in ex|ercise against the use of the liturgy, as had been hereto|fore opposed to the mass. Both those sovereigns had the grief to meet in hostile fields their rebellious sub|jects, and both were compelled to fly for shelter to an implacable foe; both were betrayed, and in both in|stances a special edict was procured, on which to ground the process that aimed at the lives of those illustrious sufferers! They were alike stripped of the externals

of royalty, and they ineffectually preferred their ardent solicitations to be heard in their own defence in the presence of the two houses of parliament! while, by a usurpation of authority, and under the regency of di|abolical passions, they were alike produced upon the scaffold. The fortitude and noble serenity of Charles was as exemplary as that of his royal ancestor; but although his own misfortunes wrung no tears from his eyes, or degrading complaints from his lips, his very soul was pierced for the calamities of his friends! Yes, it consists with the testimony of history to assert, that no consideration of his sufferings, as an individu|al, could destroy his equanimity of temper; and al|though separated from the beloved companion of his bosom, and dethroned by those rebellious subjects who were hourly aggravating their crimes, by heaping up|on degraded majesty every species of indignity! Al|though cruelly maligned, and bitterly inveighed against, imprisoned by his most obdurate foes, and infamously treated! yet, strange to tell, the benignity of his countenance, and the equality of his deportment continued uniform and unbroken, while every move|ment seemed to say—In defiance of those accumulated evils, which have combined for my destruction, I am still a sovereign; and, supported by conscious rectitude, the sub|limity of virtue confers upon me that kind of elevation of which no earthly power can despoil me.

The soul-affecting meetings between Charles and his children, having moistened with the temporary tear of remorse and commiseration, even the eye of the obdurate Cromwell, must in truth be beyond the power of description! Charles supported, through his mock trial, an admirable presence of mind; and his intrepid fortitude and heroic firmness, while encoun|tering those various and brutal indignities to which he was subjected, evinced that true magnanimity, which could only have belonged to a mind radically virtuous. The noble independence of lady Fairfax, and that un|daunted heroism with which she bore her personal tes|timony, even in the presence of the murderers of the

king, against those sanguinary proceedings avowedly aimed at the life of her sovereign, will reflect eternal honour upon her memory!

To arrest the progress of measures so atrocious, it was in vain that foreign princes interposed their good offices; the pressing remonstrances of the relenting Scots were disregarded, and the pathetic supplications of the weeping Henrietta were ineffectual! The Falk|lands and the Hampdens of that day, were, alas! no more! The affrighted virtues had either fled the Al|bion shore, or were sequestered in the bosom of a few upright persons, whom the turpitude of the times had deprived of all power! Yet amid this general derelic|tion of humanity, and prevalence of profligacy, we hail, with glowing admiration, the names of the Duke of Richmond, the Earls of Hertford, Southhamp|ton, and Lindsay, who greatly solicited permission to relinquish their lives, if they might thereby redeem from death their highly injured and virtuous sovereign! Nor can even the frozen bosom of apathy refuse, to this attempt to extricate the unfortunate prince, those unequivocal expressions of applause, that transcendent worth must ever extort! The manly demeanour and heavenly composure, which Charles exhibited, during the interval between his sentence and his martyrdom, his exemplary piety, the ardour of his devotion, the cheerfulness with which he marked the approaching hour of emancipation, adverting to the closing scene as a "great and joyful solemnity," and his address to the sorrowful clergyman who attended him in his last moments, are so many finishing strokes of a character in which we involuntarily take an interest, and to which we feel ourselves unalterably attached. What must have been the rectitude of that life, a retrospect of which could furnish no other subject of remorse, than that extorted consent which he yielded to the death of the virtuous Strafford! Especially when it is remembered, that the Earl himself nobly insisted on being made the sacrifice of a reconciliation between the king and the people, and that the withholding the

royal sanction would not, upon that occasion, have pre|served the generous nobleman. This transaction, however, pressed hard upon the mind of the monarch, and he mentioned it with regret upon the scaffold.

Charles possessed the virtues of the heart in an un|common degree, and his talents were undoubtedly great. Historians delineate him as a man of superior worth, and uniform probity. They describe him as the most finished gentleman, the most ardent and faithful friend, the most humane and compassionate master, the tenderest parent, the most affectionate husband, and exemplary Christian, that the times in which he lived produced. Nor can we wonder at the sighs, tears, and lamentations, which we are told marked his exit!!

Peter the Great is our next subject; and this mon|arch, in regard to many circumstances, stands, as far as I have known, upon the page of history without a parallel. A cloud gathered round the morning of his days, and his education was little attended to; but genius surmounts every difficulty; rich in native splendors, it is self illumined; it is superior to every envelopement, and no barriers can confine its progress. The youthful Czar early discovered an insatiable thirst for knowledge; his first arrangements were de|scriptive of military ardor and talents; and enlisting in the lowest grade, in those regiments which he in|stituted, organized and established, he became a can|didate for preferment; nor would he accept promo|tion, until his abilities had rendered his right thereto incontestible. When we behold the Czar of Russia engaged as a labourer in the ship-yards of Holland and England, we hesitate not in conferring upon him the sirname of Great! And we are at a loss which to admire most, the singularity or the independence of that mind, which, in defiance of custom, and those enervating indulgencies in the gift of royalty, em|braced such unparalleled measures for the benefit of a community, which his predecessors had been accus|tomed

to consider as created for their individual emolument.

Peter was laudably ambitious of acquiring every useful attainment, and his information was various and respectable. With an eye of the closest investigation he visited the artificer, and his knowledge in the mechanism of those arts, to which he attended, was proportioned to his indefatigable diligence. In Istia, and in the academy of sciences in Petersburg, they still exhibit those bars of iron, which Peter himself, without the aid of an assistant, shaped at the forge of Muller, affixing thereon his own mark. He demand|ed of Muller the wages which he allowed to other workmen, and he purchased therewith a pair of shoes, which he was particularly fond of displaying, always observing,

I have earned them well by the sweat of my brow, with hammer and anvil.

Peter drew from every circumstance all possible information; and, fond of considering himself as the pupil of contingencies, he was solicitous to make the greatest proficiency. His talents as a soldier were far above a mediocrity; and although he was sometimes unsuccessful, yet being taught the art of war by Charles XII. of Sweden, his military fame became considerable.

The Swedish monarch ascended the throne of his ancestors, at a period when the nation, (whose sceptre he swayed) had attained the summit of prosperity; but, seized with a kind of military frenzy, he aban|doned his native dominions, fought with prodigious intrepidity a number of battles, and achieved such astonishing exploits, as plunged his subjects into a train of evils, which well near accomplished their ruin!

It was from this hero that Peter learned the art of war; yet the better genius of the Czar finally prevail|ed over his master; and, after obtaining some impor|tant advantages, the decisive victory of Pultowa estab|lished his celebrity, and he had the glory of reinstating the deposed Augustus upon the throne of Poland.

The Czarina Catharine, ranks among the most ex|traordinary women of whom history records an ac|count.

The child of misfortune, she was reared by the beneficent interposition of pious charity; but, elevated by her beauty and her talents, to the throne of Russia, she proved herself abundantly worthy of the confidence reposed in her. She was the constant companion of the Czar in all those enterprises which he undertook both by land and sea; and she was, it is said, both an able counsellor, and a brave general. By her wisdom and her presence of mind, Peter was repeatedly ex|tricated from the verge of destruction, particularly when he was encompassed on every side at the battle of Pruth, and in the naval engagement with the Swedes, in the gulf of Finland. The order of St. Catharine was instituted by Peter, in honour of this Empress; and the investiture of the candidates were in her gift. Peter appointed this illustrious woman to succeed him in the empire; and her arrangements up|on his death were descriptive of consummate prudence. The academy of sciences, at Petersburg, was establish|ed by her; she augmented the navy, and prosecuted the project of discovering a north-east passage to China.

Russia is indebted to Peter the Great for her civili|zation; he endowed her with power, respectability and dignity. He distributed her ennobled citizens in sev|eral parts of Europe, that they might thus acquire and bring home those improvements so necessary for the public weal; and large gratuities were tendered to foreigners of ability, who should consent to become denizens of Russia. His institutions and establish|ments, were numerous; his armies were organized and disciplined after the most approved models; his fleets thronged those seas which wash the Russian shores; he erected fortresses, and multiplied commo|dious harbours; and, allured by a patronage so pow|erful, the arts and sciences, in the reign of Peter the Great, first sound an asylum in Russia. As a legisla|tor, he was respectable. Petersburg hails him as its founder; and many other cities which he reared, and canals which he trained, bear witness to his industry,

and to the wisdom of his administration. He is said to have been a munificent prince; and his punishments are described as the superstructure of justice. He is characterized as upright, assiduous and modest; and we are also informed that he had sufficient self-com|mand to deny himself the intemperate use of ardent spirits, of which he was immoderately fond.

Yet many vices are attributed to Peter, who certain|ly, in some instances, was not great; and even my Margaretta complains of his rigour to his son. But, my love, Alexei was stained with many crimes, be|side that of rebellion; and you will recollect that much praise has been ascribed to the rigid virtue of the elder Brutus, who unrelentingly consented to the death of his of|fending children.

It is now, my dear, late at night; you are fast lock|ed in the arms of sleep; and may your slumbers be peaceful. This letter, which I am to place on your toilette, will meet your early attention in the morning; and if you arise in perfect health, and in the full exer|cise of all your sweet and amiable virtues, tranquillity will be continued to your affectionate mother,

MARY VIGILLIUS.

N^o. LIII.

The rights of conscience to enjoy secure, Truth, liberty and honour to insure— To plant religion on a foreign shore, Mid nature's wilds a refuge to explore— For this our father's cross'd the billowy main, While many a virtue mingled in their train.

To MARGARETTA.

I REPEAT, my dear, that I am charmed with the glowing energy and sympathetic ardour of your youthful bosom. The earnestness with which you per|sonate the identical character traced by the historian,

(which so completely divests you of every other con|sciousness, producing a temporary oblivion of yourself, and giving you eagerly to embrace the joys and sor|rows of the virtuous hero or heroine) is my security for your improvement; and I think it can scarcely happen, that the studies you pursue should not endow you with a fund of useful information.

In your selection from the worthies who first plant|ed the virtues of civilization in this younger world, you have evinced much judgment. The private and political character of Governor Winthrop is perhaps without a blemish—his civism was the growth of reason—and he entertained principles which, as I conceive, are the essence of all those governments that are the super|structure of rectitude, or, in other words, that comprise the well-being of both the governor and the governed. If there was a tinge of error in the sentiments or ad|ministration of this time honoured sage, it resulted from that spirit of religious intolerance, which in his parting moments he feelingly regretted.

In tracing the eventful life of William Penn, the celebrated founder of Pennsylvania, my mind is im|pressed with an uncommon glow of admiration. It has been observed, that the persecuted man becomes, in his turn, an inexorable persecutor: But Penn is an illustrious exception to this general rule. He seems to have possessed, from nature, a mind firm and dignified, and it was apparently imbued with every virtue that can sublime or adorn humanity. His uniform adher|ence to the religion of his election; the patient firm|ness with which he endured the displeasure of a belov|ed and revered parent; his close conformity to the dictates of conscience; and the noble independence with which he surrendered himself to observances that subjected him to the censure of the grave and the ridi|cule of the gay, are unquestionable instances of the superiority of his mind, and commandingly demon|strate a genius rendered luminous by its own inborn splendors, and cultivated by studious application. Even his enthusiastic zeal, as it was never tinctured by

cruelty, is amiable and endearing; and we bless the fervid imagination, which, however pertinacious in its tenets, in no moment yields to the dark and murderous hues of prejudice.

Penn's religious sentiments early involved him in many inconveniences; we find him while a student at the university of Oxford, subjected to the penalties an|nexed to non-conformity; the resentments of his father were grievous and durable! He was frequently im|prisoned; but he appeared equal to every calamity; and the elevation of his spirit was not to be subdued! He disdained, with honest warmth, that emancipation from his bonds which was to be the purchase of an abjuration of his principles; and his captivity was em|ployed in literary pursuits. It appears that he exhib|ited a complete example of rectitude; and had he been long held in durance, it would have confirmed the odium of those measures by which he had been so arbitrarily detained: But, acquitted by the verdict of a legal process, his prison doors were thrown open; and the indignation of his father giving place to the splen|did virtues of a son, who reflected the highest honour upon his name and lineage, an act of amnesty suc|ceeded, and the demise of the old gentleman put him in possession of a handsome patrimonial inheritance. His opulence, however, in no degree diminishing his devout and unalterable attachment to Quakerism, he still continued obnoxious to an intolerant government. He was again imprisoned in the tower of London, whence he was transferred to Newgate, from which place, (after malice and tyranny had made an inef|fectual discovery of their malignant inveteracy) he was at length released.

Penn visited many parts of Europe, and he was al|ways industriously employed, both by preaching and writing, in disseminating those sentiments which he re|garded as the offspring of truth: He conferred the high|est lustre upon the sect to which he adhered; indeed his probity, philanthropy, mildness of disposition, talents, literature, and great goodness of heart, must be con|sidered

as conferring respectability upon human nature at large; and it was a most beneficent arrangement in the economy of paternal Providence, which made Penn a proprietor in this new world. His abilities as a leg|islator have been extensively celebrated; and many of his regulations have been adopted by the wisdom and experience of later days. We bless the propitious events and favourable gales which wafted him across the broad Atlantic; and we mark with complacent veneration his judicious system of government, and the mildness of his administration. His upright con|duct relative to the aborigines of this country, so cal|culated to secure their affectionate confidence, was de|scriptive even of parental kindness, and was attended with the most beneficial effects. His sacred regard to the rights of conscience, induced him to establish, with|out reserve, that kind of toleration which admits the free exercise of all those religious sentiments that orig|inate in an acknowledgment of the great First Cause, and produce the individual amenable to the laws of society: And thus was Pennsylvania rendered an asy|lum for the persecuted of every persuasion; while this circumstance, says an elegant and judicious writer, "contributed more than any thing else to its prosperity," Penn, in fact, effectuated his philanthropic purpose—

He supported power in reverence with the people; and he secured the people from the abuse of power;

and we are almost ready to pronounce the term of his admin|istration, a renovation of the lapsed nature. Indian ferocity was ameliorated by the uniform exercise of probity and tenderness: Mild equality assumed her most captivating aspect; and the colony is said to have exhibited a striking resemblance to a

father and his family; the latter united by interest and affection; the former revered for the wisdom of his institutions, and the indulgent use of his authority. Those who were am|bitious of repose found it in Pennsylvania. The commu|nity were the same equal face—no one aspired, no one was oppressed: Industry was sure of profit, knowledge of esteem, and virtue of veneration.

But the patriot

legislator, stimulated by the strongest incentives, de|parted for his native land, and clouds gathered round the infant government. Yet humanity cannot consider the philanthropic chief as in any degree reprehensible. The English prisons were filled with his persecuted and suffering brethren; and his powerful interposition, on his return to the Albion shore, procured the en|largement of no less than thirteen hundred of his friends, who were held in durance.

The plan of the city of Philadelphia, which is de|cidedly the metropolis of America, and which at|tracts the attention and extorts the admiration of strangers of every description, was completed under the auspices of Penn; and it may be a question, whether, in proportion as succeeding proprietors have departed therefrom, they have not diminished the beauty, elegance and convenience of the city.

A superficial observer may be ready to ask—Since Penn was so nearly exempted from the depravity which adheres to the individuals of humanity, how are we to account for the calamities which encompassed him, for his frequent imprisonments, and for the misfortunes which seemed to attend the evening of his days? But reflection will suggest the ineffable consolations attend|ant upon a course of virtue; and reason will not fail to point to that refulgent day, which, dawning in worlds beyond the sky, will assuredly succeed the long, dark and heavy night of mortality.

The volume of manuscripts, so lately put into your hands, which contains many letters upon history, ren|ders it unnecessary to continue my remarks in this line. My future subjects will be circumscribed within more narrow bounds; and I have, perhaps, said enough to stimulate your researches. I break off abruptly, to inclose the landscape which you have so accurately pencilled, to our good friend, Mrs. W—. The post sets off in less than an hour; and I only add, that you are, at this moment, every thing I wish. I am your affectionate mother,

MARY VIGILLIUS.

POSSIBLY, the number of letters, which my solic|itude to comply with the wishes of Mrs. Aimwell hath engaged me to furnish, may not have been in unison with the feelings of the generality of my readers. I am aware, that when a husband and a father sit in judgment upon the productions of a beloved wife and daughter, an impartial decision can hardly be expect|ed. If, however, I am considered as reprehensible, apologies will but augment my error; and therefore, after addressing a few lines to my young friend, Miss Aimwell, I put a period to those efforts, which have had their origin in a tender anxiety for the improve|ment and felicity of the young proficient.

To Miss SOPNIA AIMWELL.

MY GOOD YOUNG LADY,

BLUSH not at receiving a letter from an old man, who is a sincere admirer of your sex, and who cannot see an amiable and deserving young girl, but he imme|diately becomes interested in her movements, and anx|ious relative to her destination. Borne on the wings of imagination, he pierces the envelopement of futurity, he contemplates her, established a useful and important member of society, at the head of a well regulated family, or performing a subordinate part with that pro|priety, in which consists the prime excellence and val|ue of existence. If he reverses these agreeable expecta|tions, he beholds her adding to the circle of frivolity, seeking to fill up time by pursuits unworthy the atten|tion of a rational being, and turning with disdain from those qualifications, which are justly reckoned among the first acquirements in female life. Surely, the af|fected idler, who boasts an utter detestation of family at|tentions, and a total ignorance of domestic duties; who, absorbed in the multifarious enchantments of cards, scandal and fashion, becomes ardently ambitious of being considered as elevated to the very summit of insig|nificancy, is truly and disgustingly ridiculous.

I will own to you, young lady, that in proportion as I conceive the charming maid is about, by her blameless and praise-worthy conduct, to add to the respectability and dignity of human nature, or to in|crease the number of useless triflers, who wear away their hours without plan, object, or even motive, I feel inclined to bestow my benediction, or otherwise, to yield to the impulse of contempt; and I will further confess, that I generally make my admeasurement of the destined progress of the interesting adventurer, by the commencement of her career.

Your mamma intimates that you love my Marga|retta, and that you will be influenced by the Gleaner. This information points the ardour of my wishes as they relate to you, and renders me doubly solicitous respecting those occurrences, the effects of which, in a great measure, depend upon the use you make of your present hours. A young lady has taken a capital step, and obtained an admirable basis for the super|structure of improvement, when she learns properly to appreciate the value of time. Those important moments in which you may secure a fund, that will serve as the resource of revolving years, are rapidly passing off; and it should be your care, to mark them by such attainments as may endear you to your friends, and render you acceptable to society at large.

Your predilection for me will induce you to read attentively the letters of Margaretta and her mother, which have been produced to public view principally for your emolument: But do not, my dear, accept their sketches of persons, writings and events, merely upon trust. With the best intentions in the world they may have erred; and I recommend it to you, to turn to the several authors they have occasionally mentioned, and after a careful perusal of the volumes from whence they deduce their conclusions, compare your ideas with their's; let me know the result; and thus give me an opportunity of tracing the coinci|dence, which I persuade myself will appear in the sen|timents of elegant and informed minds. If Miss

Aimwell accommodates herself to my wishes, deter|mining to grant a request, which is made with even paternal fervour, I am mistaken if her mamma will again have reason to complain of her want of attach|ment to her book.

But, trust me, dear Miss Sophia, it is hardly possible to possess any thing valuable, without a due attention to method. If you slumber away a large proportion of the twenty-four hours, and apply yourself to the pursuits of the day as chance or necessity directs, your life is a scene of confusion; what may be the work of any hour, is too often the work of no hour; and in the mean time you are squandering that which the wealth of both the Indies can never redeem. Summon, my lovely young friend, that resolution which is now, it may be, dormant in your bosom; indecision and in|dolence are alike enemies to the proficiency of indus|trious virtue. Resolve to appropriate your hours, and let their regular return present your needle, your book, your pen, or your pencil. Happily, yours is the age of flexibility, and a little perseverance will establish those habits, which will transform your ex|ercises into the most essential requisites of your felicity. I can hardly conceive it possible to insist too frequent|ly or too importunately upon the incalculable value of order. It seems to me to be the stamen of every important attainment; it may be denominated the central orb of virtue; and it influences, invigorates and beautifies, both the aggregate and the minutiae of life.

Reflect a little—You are summoned to make one in a party of pleasure; music, dancing, and all those so|cial enjoyments that distinguish the convivial circle, it is expected will constitute the amusement of a scene, at which discretion is to preside. But as the occasion will require a more than ordinary attention to your dress, as alterations are to be made, and ornaments are to be procured, much time must be devoted to preparation; and as these particulars naturally come under the direction of your mamma, she engages to

devote herself to the business. But the question is, when will she commence her employment? ten days are to elapse previous to the promised period, and there is surely time enough. To-morrow the robe shall be made; the next day the head dress—and so on. To-morrow arrives, and the appropriated hours are still deferred; day after day revolves, and the necessary arrangements are yet at a stand! Mamma busies her|self as chance directs, and she is occupied by her mis|cellaneous avocations agreeably to the caprice of the moment. The important day at length presents, and nothing is done; what a scene of bustle and confusion succeeds; you must absolutely either tarry at home, or make your appearance very ill drest.

Should your house-maid be suffered to neglect or to perform the business of her station without a due respect to order, your apartments would exhibit a scene of anarchy, and you might chance to repose upon a bed badly prepared, or perhaps not made at all. Your cook, thrown from her accustomed routine of duty, would serve your table with spoiled viands; and you are to congratulate yourself that your mam|ma possesses that spirit of government, which assigns to proper persons and hours the business of the day; thus producing that uniform regularity so essential to domestic tranquillity. But you are not only to admire, but also to imitate. If industry and method are so essential in the inferior occupations of life, they are more indispensably requisite in the important business of forming and maturing the talents, pointing the virtues, and educating that intellect, upon which depends the future conduct of the youthful voyager.

Excuse, my good young lady, these hints, and con|tinue to cherish in your gentle bosom that flattering prepossession, which you have hitherto acknowledged for your sincerely attached friend,

THE GLEANER.

N^o. LIV.

Rich is the fragrance well-earn'd praise bestows; Its spicy gales with genial fervour blows; T•••• ••••••d of worth immortal verdure wears; E'en blighting time its vivid colouring spares.

PERHAPS there is not, in the gift of art, a more prevailing incentive to propriety of conduct, than the hope of reward. To look for a recompense, is very consistent with the dependent state of humanity; and it belongeth only to the Father of Intelligence, to move essentially and independently upon the great square of rectitude.

Reason no sooner begins to bud, than the child is stimulated to act rightly, by the hope of a sugar-plum, a gingerbread toy, or that more honourable inducement, a mother's approbating smile. The student calleth into action every effort, allured by the prospect of a new book, the eulogy of the preceptor, or an accelerated holi|day; and the man of letters, while he indulgeth con|templations congenial with his nature, is rendered more indefatigable in his researches, by the honest hope of a splendid name. As the love of fame is more or less influential on every mind, it may be properly charac|terized a universal passion; and we conceive, that the expectation of an honorary, if not of a lucrative compensation, frequently bestoweth the motive, and furnisheth the prevalent excitement, to good and proper actions.

Under this persuasion we are induced to wish, that in every commonwealth, town and village, some par|ticular guerdon was assigned, to be annually bestowed on such persons as had attained, in pursuits confessedly useful, a superior degree of excellence. I recollect, some years since, perusing a volume written by Mad|ame de Genlis, which contained a circumstantial ac|count of an institution, that would, if I mistake not, could I transcribe it accurately, exactly illustrate my

meaning. Unfortunately, Madame de Genlis is not in my library; and a sketch, drawn from a memory not remarkable for its tenacity, will be necessarily im|perfect. However, without aiming at the method or language of this admired lady, it may be sufficient for my present purpose, if I am able to preserve the most prominent features of a narration that gave me much pleasure at the time, and indelibly impressed on my mind a high sense of the utility of an expressly specified public recompense for eminent or singular virtue.

The institution, which is beautifully and elegantly commemorated in the pages referred to, received its establishment at a very early period after the com|mencement of the Christian era; It was the growth of Salency, a village in Piccardy, and owed its being to a St. Medard, who was a native of that peaceful hamlet, and sole proprietor of the territory. Surely, the mind of this St. Medard must have been chaste, elegant, and highly susceptible of every virtue. But those amateurs of excellence, who have not traced the Festival of the Rose in the highly embellished writings of the French authoress, are here presented with an op|portunity of judging for themselves.

The institution is called, the Festival of the Rose: The prize contended for, is annually furnished—this prize is a hat, fancifully decorated with roses—and the elevation it confers, enhances its value far beyond all price. The candidates for this expressive emblem are females—it is always the reward of indisputable supe|riority—all claims but those of virtue, are inadmissi|ble—the distinctions which originate in the gifts of fortune, beauty of person, or grandeur of descent, in|volve not the smallest pretensions to this honorary meed—and it is invariably adjudged by the voice of impartiality. The ceremonies attendant on the inves|titure, are said to be the most ancient which are now extant. Many centuries have witnessed its influence, and have reaped from its excitements the most substan|tial benefits. Three village maidens are proclaimed candidates for the ensuing year; and the ancestors of

these girls must be, for many preceding generations, persons of irreproachable lives and unimpeached man|ners. What an irresistible motive is thus furnished for the observance of every rule of right! The desire of descending with honour to posterity, and of surviv|ing even the icy darts of death in our offspring, is, I presume, inherent in every mind; and the knowledge, that a scrutinizing investigation of our actions would annually succeed, even after we had ceased to be visi|ble upon this globe, would indubitably insure a more general and exact circumspection of conduct.

The claims of the three lovely competitors, when established by meritorious ancestry and personal worth, are formally presented to the Lord of Salency, whose office it is, to elect from this trio, the candidate whose conduct, on a strict investigation, he shall regard as the most faultless. Every considerable action is brought to view; the best possible information is sought; wit|nesses are heard; circumstances are compared; the most upright conclusions are formed; and the Lord of Salency proceeds to proclaim the beauteous para|gon, queen of the approaching year. Nor is his task invidious; for emulation, in the bosom of females, whose minds are properly turned, and who are edu|cated with such splendid expectations, never degene|rates into envy—they are sensible that an election must be made—they are within the circle of excellence—it is glorious to be considered as a candidate—to make one of such a trio, they have stood upon the verge of perfection—another year may witness a confirmation of their claim—they have only to commence anew their efforts—those efforts which the corrosive murmurs of discontent would forever blast—and they hesitate not to join the acclamations, which responsive hail the lovely competitor. Many days previous to the ceremo|ny attendant on a bestowment of the prize, the name of the successful candidate is publickly announced, and the sacred aisles reverberate her praises; a certain day in the year is appropriated to the celebration of this festival; its revolution is rendered important, by the

reward it confers on virtue, and it is graced, by every effort of rural taste. It is selected from the vernal season—its pleasures are long anticipated, and its dawn is marked by all the fervour of youthful expec|tancy, sanctioned by the matured complacency of lengthening years. To the sequestered haunts of vir|tue, the Lord of Salency shapes his path, and he en|ters, with a kind of veneration, a cottage which has reared to maturity such transcendent excellence; he receives the hand of the daughter of worth, and he conducts her, who is arrayed in all the charms of tri|umphant modesty, to receive the reward, deliberately and righteously adjudged to merit.

The rays of royalty have sought to cast over this institution, additional lustre. A monarch of France, persuaded of its beneficial effects, and charmed with its simplicity, dispatched a favourite nobleman, who was commissioned to present to the matchless maid a ring of value, with a ribbon of expressive blue; and from this epoch the crown of roses is adorned by a blue ribbon, which flows therefrom in graceful stream|ers; while amid the time honoured wreath, a ring obtains a conspicuous situation; and the chosen maid|ens, who are selected to make up the train of the queen, wear on their shoulders a blue ribbon in the manner of a scarf; thus carefully preserving the memory of an attention, which they naturally regard as truly dignifying. The queen, on the day of her coronation, is distinguished by every possible mark of elevation; the procession is interestingly and pleasing|ly affecting; the new elected sovereign is attended by twelve young girls, arrayed in white garments, and decorated by blue ribbons fancifully disposed; twelve youths, who likewise wear the uniform peculiar to the day, form her escort. She is preceded by bands of vocal and instrumental music; and the commencement of the procession is announced by the martial, deep toned, and animating sound of the drum. The streets of the happy village are lined by long and thick ranges of admiring spectators, who are collected for

the purpose of rendering to merit the voluntary hom|age of the heart. Through these ranks the dignified maiden passes along—every tongue joins to applaud, and spontaneous benedictions mark her footsteps. On the lips of the surrounding matrons dwells the eulogy of discretion—assembled fathers hail the auspicious era; they recount the meritorious maidens whom they have seen thus triumphantly conducted to the fane of virtue, they compare the present with the past, and, divested of every particle of misanthropic rancour, they mingle in the mirthful train.

In the centre of the temple, a consecrated seat is converted into a kind of temporary throne, which, adorned with more than regal splendor, receives the elevated nymph. Religious rites succeed, which having performed, the venerable clergy lead the van, and the Lord of Salency, taking the hand of the elect|ed lady, is joined by her appropriated train, and fol|lowed by the populace, who in goodly numbers throng the streets, while loud and continued acclamations are heard, until they reach the chapel of St. Medard, when a sudden and affecting silence pervades the whole of this promiscuous multitude. The officiating clergyman then holding in his hand the emblematical|ly decorated hat, with a solemn and affecting tone of voice, pronounces thereon a blessing. He expatiates with devout energy on the ways of wisdom, they are indeed strewed with flowers. Behold how bending thousands prostrate at the shrine of virtue; see how well, even in this life, her votaries are rewarded; ob|serve how lovely is her appearance; she is captivating as the morning of life, beautiful as heaven, and grace|ful as the daughters of paradise. Thus proceeds the man of God, still holding the crown of roses, while the enchanting maiden kneels at his feet. What an ele|vating and truly interesting scene! how deep must be the impressions of such a moment! what noble incen|tives to rectitude are hereby furnished 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the spectators are universally affected; the humid drop glitters in every eye; while not a heart but melted by the sweet

and persuasive voice of truth, seemeth to experience on the spot, the intuitive glow of virtue. Religion appears enrobed in loveliness; a kind of pious awe is conspicuous in every countenance; while the priest, having in a dignified, animated, and solemn tone of voice, completed his pathetic eulogium, places upon the meritorious head, that crown which in the estima|tion of reason, is of more intrinsic value than all those splendid gems that ever yet encircled the brow of royal|ty. The solemn act of coronation thus decently and properly performed, a Te Deum commences, in the course of which, the procession is again formed; and the blooming sovereign, attended as at the first, and dis|tinguished by her well earned crown, enters once more the church; and, proceeding to the middle of the choir, takes her stand as before, exhibiting, until the conclusion of the service, an example of modest and genuine devotion.

The rites of public worship being concluded, our young queen hath next to receive the renewed homage of an affectionately attached and crowded audience, who attend her to a consecrated spot, fitted up by the hand of rural elegance, in which beautiful recess, this daughter of excellence, and queen of innocence, is met by duteous and expecting subjects, who approach her with those simple gifts that make up the riches of the village swain, and which she receives as the volun|tary tribute of well disposed loyalty. She is then es|corted with the same demonstrations of respect, to her usual place of residence, where it is at her option to spread for her noble conductor and his retinue, the feast of innocence. This feast consists of all those ru|ral delicacies which are in the gift of elegant simplic|ity; and the healthful viands, disposed by the hand of taste, constitutes a•• repast, becoming the hilarity of virtue, and well suited to the guests, who are sum|moned to partake thereof. If I mistake not, Madame de Genlis informs us, that there have been instances, where the crown of roses has been, for many succes|sive years, decreed to the same individual candidate,

until, perhaps, (for the diminution of virtue so illustri|ous, could not but be marked with exquisite regret) the lovely model had sunk the claims of maidenhood, in those more complicated duties, which are involved in the dignified character of a matron.

If it should be imagined that our fair authoress in the recital, from which the foregoing particulars are rec|ollected, is leading us over the enchanting grounds of fiction, it is still capable of improvement; and the scheme, although the offspring of imagination, may, nevertheless, when made the subject of legislative con|sideration, suggest hints, and be productive of plans, friendly to the cause of every species of excellence. From conspicuous rewards of merit, the female world seem injudiciously excluded. To man, the road of preferment is thrown open—glory crowns the military hero—the bar, the pulpit, the medical career, the hus|bandman, the merchant, the statesman, these all have their points of eminence; and virtue, blended with first rate abilities, may conduct their possessor even to the Presi|dential Chair of the United States. But the sex, agree|ably to existing regulations, can enjoy but secondary or reflected fame; and he, who shall be happy enough to add a new motive, to those virtues which are natal in the female bosom, will, undoubtedly, deserve well of mankind.

On this subject I am reminded of an observation I lately heard from the lips of one of the most valuable of our countrymen. In our hostile fields he contin|ued a long tried and well approved veteran; and his victorious arm, since the completion of the revolution, hath been employed in quelling an audacious insurrection. In the bosom of peace he is a respectable and illustrious citizen, actively engaged for the promotion of the general weal; his leisure hours are, nevertheless, devoted to literary pursuits; and his well written manuscripts, will, I pleasingly believe, enrich this younger world with a number of truly elegant and useful productions. This Christianized sage observed,—He had often thought that in proportion as the

female proficient advanced in the career of excellence, in exact such proportion she regained her superiority in the scale of being. "It is evident," said he, "that the woman was originally the head of the man, for thus the sacred text pronounceth—The consequence of thy trans|gression shall be, that thy husband shall rule over thee," from whence he inferred, that, previous to her declension, she was invested with sovereignty; otherwise, her supposed punishment must have been considered as an unmean|ing parade of words.

Perhaps the desire of sway attributed to females, may invest this idea with a powerful stimulus to pro|priety of conduct; and yet I should question the sta|bility of a superstructure erected upon such a founda|tion. But I am, nevertheless, free to own, that if I cannot implant intrinsic worth, I have imagined, that even the semblance thereof bestows upon society a fairer polish, and is attended by more salutary consequences, than a total neglect of appearances. For if the conduct, from whatever motive, is irreproachable, and the tur|pitude of the heart is confined therein; it is the indi|vidual alone who can be considered as the sufferer.

N^o. LV.

Fortune to arduous efforts sometimes yields, And in her arms the bold adventurer shields; An enterprising genius fond to bless, Her gilded domes she gives it to possess.

HAD indulgent Heaven entrusted me with the care of a young family, I should have been solicitous to have implanted in their opening minds, as early as possible, a fervid wish for as great a share of independ|ence, as might have consisted with that subordination, in which they were designed to move. He, whose prin|cipal funds of enjoyment are securely laid up in his own breast, can draw his bills without the incumbrance of formalities; and, as he will be in little danger of

making false calculations, he will rarely ever find them protested. A spirit of independence naturally involves an attempt to call into action those efforts, from which the respectable establishment at which we aim, must generally result; and he, who possesses ability to shape his own fortune, provided integrity is the main spring of his movements, will assuredly find the justice of his claims upon the esteem of mankind fully acknowl|edged.

I should not be so anxious respecting the particular employments of my children, if their avocations were reputable, as that their talents and qualifications might be such, as would give them to fill their stations with advantage to those with whom they were con|nected, and with honour to themselves. An attempt to bias the mind of a child, can hardly be justified by reason: Nature should make her choice; and the parent, with all those aids he may be able to command, should implicitly follow her direction. Yet, while I acknowledge the propriety of such a procedure, I am free to own, that ambition, irresistibly operating in my bosom, would spontaneously point my views to the learned professions; and was the suffrage of my wishes decisive, I should certainly qualify my son to take upon him the duties of an able lawyer. I am aware that it is commonly supposed such an election is un|friendly to the morality of the individual thus appro|priated; but, I am very far from adopting this prej|udice; it is unquestionably rational to conclude that he who is constantly occupied in the contemplation of right and wrong, in weighing the merits of the various pretensions which may come under his observation, will find his understanding enlarged and informed—will learn properly to appreciate; and if his mind is rightly turned, he will naturally become enamoured with the beauties of virtue, and evince an utter dere|liction of vice. Some of the first characters which America has to boast, are selected from the bar; and at the head of those distinguished luminaries who have deserved the eternal gratitude of their country, figures

that truly illustrious patriot,* 25.1 John Adams, Esq. Vice-President of the Union; a man who is not only the pride and ornament of Columbia, but who is also rendered, by his rare abilities, highly eminent amid those celebrated nations of the elder world, where science, virtue and patriotism invariably command the meed of well-earned applause.

I once knew a lawyer, (but he is now dead to me) nature had stamped upon his breast her most exquisite sensibilities. Integrity, too, was the prime source of his actions; he would never accept an exorbitant fee; he uniformly refused to cloud the pure atmosphere of his understanding, by those pleas which are condensed in defence of a bad action; and as he was constantly the advocate of virtue, if he ever lost a cause, the odium rested either with the jury, or with those hon|ourable Judges, to whose special verdict the decision was referred. About the skirts of his heart no chica|nery ever hung; and while he possessed an infinitude of ready wit, in the most intricate pleadings which he was ever necessitated to deliver, he uttered no sentence which originated in sophism, or which would not bear the closest investigation of reason.

Quickness of perception, brilliancy of imagination, fluency of expression, and pointed wit—these are among the qualifications which he ought to possess, who would assume this important profession; nor can the young novitiate attain to any considerable degree of eminence, however fervid his pleadings may be, if those requisites are not, in some measure, inherent in his nature. But when these are all embodied, led on by judgment, and retained in defence of truth, what can resist their prog|ress? An action may be sometimes so intricate, as to require the best informed judgment to develope its complexure; and yet it is true that a sudden thought may turn the whole course of the pleadings, which, from apparent necessity, had almost extorted a mani|festly cruel, or, perhaps, in effect, unrighteous verdict.

Doubtless, my readers have frequently admired the pleadings of the ingenious Portia, in the Merchant of Venice. Suffering the terrors of apprehension for the worthy Antonia, we are ready, in his favour, to break the staff of justice, and to violate those laws by which the sacred bands of government are closely bound, and all its salutary and essential rights protected. We listen with eagerness to the newly announced advocate; and we experience a degree of horror while we hear him pronounce, that the Venetian law cannot deny the forfeit: that there is no power in Venice can alter a decree, &c. &c. Yet we are soothed by his beautiful expostulation—

The quality of mercy is not strained; it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed; it blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

But the sentence is passed!—Antonia must prepare his bosom for the knife! and we are ready to wish ourselves possessed of the power of the basilisk, that so we might dash from ex|istence the inhuman Shylock, who stuns us by his vociferations.

A Daniel come to judgment; yea, a Daniel. O wise young judge, how I do honour thee,

&c. But if our indignant feelings are wrought up to the highest pitch, how exquisitely gratifying is the instan|taneous transition; and how do we echo those applau|ses bestowed on the disguised Portia, when she emphat|ically proceeds to say,

Take thou thy pound of flesh; but in the cutting, if thou dost shed one drop of Christian blood, thy lands and good, are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate,

&c. Thus, upon a single thought, obvi|ous when conceived, the scene of death is changed; justice preserves her sacred rights, and mercy beams triumphant.

Every reflecting mind must have remarked how frequently the concatenation of ideas associates remote resemblances, and under this influence, the develope|ment produced by Portia, brings to my recollection a little narrative that I received from a person of intel|ligence and observation. It is not, either in its process or object, so sanguinary as the tale arranged by Shake|spear;

yet, as in lieu of the enchantments of fiction, it connects the credentials of truth, it may, in that view, as well as from the circumstances it involves, arrest the attention of the reader.

A gentleman residing in one of the small towns in the neighbourhood of the city of Dublin, and possessing a genteel competency, not only supported the reputa|tion of an ancient family, but even added additional lustre to those claims his ancestors had possessed upon the esteem of mankind. He knew the full value of the independence he enjoyed; and, although genuine hospitality, that true Hibernian trait, sustained no diminution in his individual character (his style of living being in fact munificent) he was yet well aware that the observation of a regular system of economy was the surest foundation for the continued exercise of that liberality which was inherent in his nature. Having no offspring of his own, he had taken into his house a favourite nephew, who naturally be|came the object of all those tender feelings and various emotions that succeed each other in the bosom of a parent. His education was on the most liberal plan; and every incitement to improvement was generously furnished. The judicious arrangements which had been adopted, were crowned by success, and the young gentleman attaining his twenty-first year, pos|sessed a mind well informed, admirably intelligent, and extensively accomplished. It was a received opinion that he would succeed to his uncle's estates, and the youth himself had imbibed, as a matter of course, these reversionary expectations. The old gentleman was sensible of this consequence of his indulgent pat|ronage, and it became to him a source of anxiety. He saw it probable that his nephew, entertaining an idea that a respectable establishment was already secured to him, would aim at no meritorious achievement—that he would devote himself to a life of imbecile inactivity, supinely passing those hours which should be marked by application, diligence and usefulness; and, solicitous to teach him properly to estimate his own value; to

rouse to action the energies of his soul, and to open his views to those resources which depended entirely upon himself—he deliberated long, fondly struggling with that ardent affection which nature had authorized, and habit confirmed. At length, however, he had recourse to an expedient that was, perhaps, as singular as it proved propitious; and on the evening of a se|rene day, devoted to literary ease, our good old gen|tleman summoned his nephew to his closet, address|ing him to this effect:

"I think, Sir, it is now some months since you have written Man, and from your first dawn of being, I have still supported you. Nature hath furnished you with solidity of understanding, and she hath connected therewith great brilliancy of imagination; nor have the aids of education been wanting. Perhaps my plans have been too extensive; but the event will either furnish my acquittal, or fasten upon my mind a con|viction of error. I have hitherto discharged to you, Sir, the part of a parent; you have been in all respects distinguished as though you had been in fact my son; yet you are not my son; you are only my brother's son. You possessed no legal claims upon me, but I have qualified you to shape your own fortune, and that too in a reputable and genteel line of life: You know, Sir, that the necessary steps have been taken to furnish you with credentials for your appearance at the bar—those credentials you now possess; and your future eminence rests wholly on your own efforts. But you are yet to learn that from this night you are to look for no fur|ther aid from me! I have provided two excellent horses, and an honest man to attend you in quality of a servant. With to-morrow's sun you must depart for Dublin, there to take such steps for your reputable establishment as your deliberate and best informed judgment shall dictate. Here are twenty guineas—they will serve you till you come to some decision. I sincerely wish you success; but whatever may be your circumstances or exigencies, expect no further favour from me, nor ever reckon on another shilling of my

fortune. This is the last time I will ever meet you until you are invested with that property and respec|tability which shall give you a right to the independ|ence that abilities like yours ought ever to command. Neither will I, until that period shall arrive, hold with you the smallest intercourse. This hour I draw the separating veil; and I am, with regard to you, to all intents and purposes, as if I had ceased to exist! Farewel, young man! May God go with you, and may the blessings of virtuous industry rest upon your head."

The careful, the paternal friend, having thus uttered himself, (to conceal emotions which he had till that moment governed) rushed instantly from the closet, and sought shelter in the retirement of his bed-cham|ber; while the young man, sinking under a thousand mingling sensations, and almost petrified by astonish|ment, passed the night in a manner which may be better imagined than delineated. He, however, knew his uncle too well to remonstrate; and, actuated by disappointment, tender regret, and perhaps a tinge of resentment, with the early dawn he bid adieu to that native village, and to those sweetly rural haunts, which, from his infantile days, had been to him an Eden of delight; where he had imaged all that he conceived of bliss, and sketched such years of happi|ness, as never yet revolved since paradise was forfeited by man's transgression.

The reader who is sufficiently interested to pass on to the next Essay, may attend to the sequel.

N^o. LVI.

Fortune may flutter on a ready thought, And be, by one attempt, forever caught.

DEJECTED, forlorn, and almost despairing, our young adventurer reached Dublin. A spacious inn afforded him shelter; but, ah! how dissimilar to that paternal mansion he had perforce relinquished!

He wished for a retired apartment, and he requested to see the landlord. The host entered; and the eye of our sorrowful youth immediately marked a fixed melancholy which seemed to brood in every feature of his face. Softened by what he then conceived the most dreadful of misfortunes, his sympathetic feelings were easily arrested, and he spontaneously questioned—"What is the matter, landlord?" The landlord, unlike to other landlords, was not disposed to be com|municative; he returned an ungracious answer, and as if to avoid further interrogation, abruptly quitted the apartment. "This poor man," said our young proficient in the school of adversity—"this poor man is afflicted; affliction is fond of society; I will court his confidence, nor will I yield the pursuit until I have extorted the secret of his sufferings." Again he rang, and again summoned the landlord, who, with the sam•• wo-begone countenance, made his second appearance. "Suffer me, Sir, to repeat my inquiries; I am not actuated by idle curiosity, but calamity seeks compan|ionship; I, too, am a son of sorrow, and we may possibly aid each other." "No, Sir," returned the landlord, "aid is out of the question; but my story is easily told, and it is too notorious for me either to expect or with concealment.

"This inn, Sir, with all that it contains, was once mine. The traveller, each day, contributed to aug|ment my honest gains, and I deemed myself beyond the reach of indigence. But, alas! on one fatal evening, three gentlemen, apparently possessing integ|rity, and abounding in affluence, took apartments under this roof: They were engaged in a law-suit, and they had claims to establish, which required time to investigate. They deposited in my hands a large bag of gold, to an immense amount, obtaining my promise that I would not deliver it, except the where party united to demand it. Some weeks had succeeded this transaction, when, going abroad in the morning, as I imagined to prosecute their business, one of the associates returned in great agitation, conjuring me to

produce the gold, affirming that their cause was brought on, that they should obtain a verdict on that day, and, if they were not possessed of the immediate means of gratifying their advocates, it would be lost for want of the necessary efforts in their favour. In a moment of weak credulity, I yielded up the deposit, nor was apprized by a single foreboding of the ruinous consequences, until the return of evening brought the other two coadjutors. I met them with a face of con|gratulation, concluding they had obtained a fortunate decision; but judge of my surprise when I learned that many days would probably elapse, before they could be gratified by a hearing, and that they had not yet made their arrangements. My astonishment was beyond expression; yet I was not apprehensive of the conse|quences to myself. Conscious of my own integrity, I simply related the truth, and asked them what steps they would take? With abundance of sang-froid, they replied, they had no steps to take—they had deliv|ered a sum of money to my care, obtaining my prom|ise that it should continue as a deposit, not to be relin|quished but at the united demand of the parties con|cerned; and that, of course, they should assuredly require it at my hands! Nothing could exceed my consternation; they delayed not to make their requi|sition, and they took care it should be attended by the legal formalities. Neither my abilities nor my incli|nation admitted of a reimbursement so unjust. I made application to council, and was flattered by a certainty of a favourable issue. An action was speedily com|menced. Pleadings have been heard, and lawyers' fees, together with many etceteras have exhausted my resources. I have been barbarously pillaged—to-mor|row is the day appointed for a final hearing—ruin stares me in the face; and if I escape imprisonment for life, both myself and family must be turned out houseless wanderers, commencing in the evening of our days, the sad progress of indigence and beggary!"

"You are then positive that judgment will go against you," replied the young novitiate. "O, most un|doubtedly,"

cried the landlord, "the law, I am told, cannot be wrested in my favour." "Permit me," returned our adventurer, "to obtain your confidence; you behold, in me, a person qualified to take upon him the part of an advocate for the oppressed; and, if you will join me to your council, I feel assured that your affair will terminate happily." "What, Sir," exclaimed the landlord, "are you seeking the glean|ings of those hard earned gains, which your wealthy brethren have so rapaciously plundered? No, Sir, I have no more pieces to squander; and I should not be sorry, if I knew I should never more behold the face of one of your mercenary profession."

The young man, allowing for the petulancy of a person, who apprehended himself on the eve of becom|ing the victim of misfortune, pointed by injustice, mildly returned—"It is necessary, landlord, in order to your being considered as my client, that I receive a retaining fee. I have, in my own mind, no doubt of obtaining a successful issue to your business; one guinea, however, will be sufficient; and if I do not procure a verdict in your favour, I pledge my honour that I will return it." The landlord drew up a heavy sigh—"You look like an honest man—you may be an honest man—God forbid that I should ever suspect an honest man. Here, take it—'tis my last piece, and may it redeem its master's property."

Matters thus adjusted, the eventful morning at length dawned; the court was assembled, and the ad|vocates for the plaintiffs and defendant prepared to call into action their most energetic abilities; while a respectable jury, arranged in due form, stood fixed in mute and solemn attention. The council for the plaintiffs urged, that the deposit had absolutely been made, and a promise obtained that it should remain as a sacred trust—they expatiated eloquently and learnedly on these facts; and they concluded with a solemn appeal to the jury, praying for a grant of that restitution, which they so justly demanded. The council for the defendant endeavoured to invalidate

those affirmations, insisting on the expediency of strong|er proofs. It was their plan to perplex, by cross ex|amination, and at any rate, to procure a suspension of the final determination. In short, it became evident that law, and apparent justice, were for once constrain|ed to appear in opposition to a decision, which the un|biassed equity of every mind would have unhesitating|ly pronounced; and no hope for the poor, despoiled, and betrayed landlord seemed to remain.

Just at this juncture our young gentleman produced himself at the bar. It was his first pleading, and his mien and gestures were marked by a graceful and prepossessing diffidence. His diploma was unques|tionable, and he was announced as an advocate for the defendant. A confused murmur pervaded the court; and the council, on both sides, betrayed une|quivocal marks of disapprobation. It being, however, beyond their power to contest his credentials, he was permitted to proceed; and, with a modest assurance, he concisely delivered his sentiments.

"My lords, and gentlemen of the jury—I stand up as council for the defendant; and to avoid giving this honourable court, and this respectable jury, any further trouble, we divest ourselves of every subterfuge—we acknowledge the justice of the pleadings of the council for the plaintiffs—we freely acknowledge the deposit, and the conditions on which said deposit was made; which conditions were, that no part of the property should be returned, without the presence of the parties severally interested; and whenever the three individuals, from whom we received the trust, shall all unite to make the demand, precisely conformable to the letter of the obliga|tion, into which we entered, we are ready to deliver up the whole of the deposit, with which we were charged."

Astonishment immediately moulded the features of the court; the extricating expedient was so simple, so obvious, so exactly conformable to the letter, as well as spirit of equity, and in the same moment so replete with protection to the upright but too credulous landlord, that it was wonderful it had not before oc|curred.

But it is hardly possible to give an idea of the unbounded joy of an Irish populace, assembled upon such an occasion. Their sympathetic feelings had irresistibly engaged them on the side of the suffer|ing host, who it seems had uniformly sustained the character of an honest man. Loud and affecting ap|plauses reverberated from every quarter—they embrac|ed the young advocate in their arms—they would have borne him to his lodging upon their shoulders, and they could hardly be prevailed on to remit these clamorous testimonials of their approbation. The landlord—but agreeably to my usual custom, on every of these occasions, I very freely bequeath the delineation of his transports, and his gratitude, as an exercise for the imagination of the susceptible reader.

To our young adventurer, the high road to fame and fortune was now thrown open; handsome grati|fications were poured in from every quarter—he as|cended with rapid steps the hill of eminence, and he soon became enriched beyond his most sanguine expec|tations. The whole of the judicious plan, laid by his venerable, his paternal friend, now became obvious to his understanding; he sighed to embrace once more the hand of him, who, having endowed him with ca|pability, had compelled him to those movements, from which originated his splendid fortunes; and or|dering, upon a remarkable fine morning, a superb equipage, he took his way to his native village, at|tended by every vestige of that independence, which his uncle had made the condition of their future inter|course. The shades of evening brought him to those well known haunts, where he found the good old man, reclining in an arbour, which formed a fit recess for age and contemplation. With expressions of grate|ful, duteous and unbounded affection, he instantly prostrated himself at the feet of this venerable parent, (whom he properly and pathetically hailed as his guar|dian genius) and his reception exceeded his fondest hopes.

The old gentleman evinced his wonted firmness and dignity of character; but these prominent traits

were, however, blended with all a father's tenderness. Having raised his nephew, he clasped him to his bos|om—"You are welcome, my son—right welcome to these aged arms, and to this, your rightful heritage—Think not you have any information to give me—the faithful being, whom I bestowed on you as a servant, has been my constant correspondent; and, in conse|quence of my instructions, he has proved a close ob|server of your actions. No movement has been con|cealed from me: and my emotions almost deny me utterance, while I pronounce that I know, and I approve."

This respectably venerable sage continued, to life's extreme, a complacent witness of the elevation and confirmed celebrity of his nephew; and ere he closed the scene of mortality, his last rational act pronounc|ed this son of his adoption the sole heir of all his pos|sessions. Those of my readers who are acquainted with the private history of the celebrated Mr. Delany, one of the most able and eminent law practitioners in the city of Dublin, will readily recognize these outlines.

N^o. LVII.

Perhaps he never saw the kindred line—

I PITY, from my soul, every candidate for literary fame! If they are warm in the pursuit, and en|gaged with ardour in the profession of their election—if they are industrious in their application, and unof|fending in their subjects, diligently labouring to endow them with every valuable property, of which they are susceptible—if the precepts they inculcate are enforced by the example of their own lives—if they do and are all this, they certainly have much merit, and are entitled to no stinted share of that applause, for which they are probably solicitous. But alas! how are their steps environed with peril! their family, their education, their persons, their characters—these all become stand|ing subjects of conversation! while their matter, and

their manner, are regarded as free plunder, and the invidious critic is deaf to the voice of candour!

What author but trembles at the critic's lash! and how many are deterred from the eventful path, by the ap|prehension of the lion in the way! And was real merit soothed and encouraged, were faults detected and pointed out with mildness, was strict impartiality observ|ed, and justice always the aim, I, for my part, should bid the lion roar on, wishing, very sincerely, that his terrors might become properly influential.

It is the opinion of some persons of sound judgment and great abilities, that nothing more is left for a modern writer, than to give a new dress to old ideas; but great men are not infallible, and possibly this con|clusion may be rather hastily drawn. Solomon said "there was nothing new under the sun;" but since the days of Solomon, what profound discoveries have been made; how momentous, how honorary, and how useful! How have the arts and sciences improved, and how has knowledge increased in the world. The use of the loadstone—printing, that capital vehicle of in|formation—the art of war, meliorated by the composi|tion and use of gun-powder, &c. &c. while hardly a day passes, on the which novelty peeps not out.

It is, perhaps, true, that the heaviest charge prefer|red against literary adventurers, is that of plagiarism: After an original thought, a hue and cry is raised—it is traced from author to author—the cheek of inno|cence is tinged with the indignant blush, excited by suspicions of fraud; and a group of respectable char|acters are supposed to stand convicted of the high crime of knowingly and wittingly purloining their neigh|bours' goods.

To condemn, upon presumptive evidence, is both treacherous and cruel, and it is a procedure which finds no place in the decisions of equity. I do not contend that plagiarism is never practised—far from it; I be|lieve it constitutes the essence of many a volume, and that it is a kind of depredation, which is too often the dernier resort of the scribbler; but I insist, and I can

produce proof positive of my assertion, that the charge of plagiarism is frequently unfounded, and consequent|ly unjust. Originality is undoubtedly rare, and it is probable it will become still more so. A writer finds many subjects touched, and retouched, if not wholly ex|hausted; and, should his abilities embrace a new ob|ject, or even a novel arangement, he is condemned, ere he can establish his hypothesis, however self evident it may be, to combat the giant prejudice, to wage war with a host of cavillers, to oppose himself to the bur|nished shafts of criticism, and to withstand the secret machinations of envy. But, every discouragement notwithstanding, I humbly conceive there is much more originality in the world, at this present time, than is commonly imagined.

What, I would ask, constitutes originality? or, in other words, cannot an original thought be twice con|ceived? Let not the critic sneer, before he permits me to explain myself. An idea is expressed in conver|sation, and a stander-by declares—"I had this moment the same thought, Sir." Query: In whose bosom was the idea original? Suppose, that in the days of Ho|mer, there had arisen, in the wilds of America, or in any other remote part of the globe, a genius, who had delineated every idea of that immortal bard, who had painted the charms of another Helen, arming monarchs and heroes in the licentious cause of a per|fidious woman! whose fertile brain had teemed with other Hectors, skilfully opposing them to that Achil|lean arm, which was nerved for their destruction; suppose his sentiments, his similies and expressions had been nearly similar; and, (since nature, liberal in her operations, might have produced a second prodigy, the suggestion cannot be justly said to wear the fea|tures of impossibility) suppose proof irrefragable had been furnished, that not the smallest intercourse had subsisted between these children of indulgent munifi|cence, and that they had not even a knowledge of each other's existence; should we not, in such an ar|rangement, have characterized both bards, as possessing original excellence?

For my own part, I am so far from regarding it as wonderful, that a similarity of talents should exhibit a similarity of ideas, and even of expressions, that I am really astonished such similarity is not more frequently demonstra|ble. Let us reflect for a moment—Two beings, en|dowed with strong understandings and clear percep|tions, are educated in different and far distant parts of our world; but their language, their government, and particularly their religion is the same; from the same decalogue their precepts are drawn; virtue is the goal to which they are pointed, and from one source every excitement to virtue is educed. Matu|rity is at length attained; and, setting down to con|template a given subject, ought they to be accused of plagiarism, although their productions receive a kin|dred stamp?

The good divine, whose mind hath been early im|bued from that identical fount at which his cotempo|raries have quaffed, receives a like education, and like academical honours; and with religious sentiments exactly corresponding with his brethren, he mounts the pulpit, and opens the sacred book, ordained at once a standard of his testimony, and the origin from whence he is to deduce those momentous truths, on which he is to expatiate. His text cannot vary, and he may be a stranger to the flagitious crime of stealing, although the branches growing upon one root, should resemble each other.

A writer may, without being a just subject of repre|hension, enrich his page with the most brilliant thoughts of another; he may himself be deceived; from extensive and miscellaneous reading, scattered ideas, sentiments, and sometimes sentences, are collected. The volume of memory containeth many pages; and from child|hood to ripening and declining years, what multifa|rious images are inscribed thereon. From this reserv|atory we naturally draw, and, it may sometimes happen, that ideas deduced from thence, may be mistaken for original productions of the mind.

I once had a friend—were I at liberty to name him, every individual, acquainted with his uncommon worth, would bow to his superior merit: Ah! how have his fine qualities and gigantic talents been ob|scured by a train of adverse circumstances, all pointed and brought home to his bosom, by a natural propensity to melancholy. Unfortunate son of genius! I drop a tear over thy present misfortunes, while I recollect, with unabating admiration, the radiant commencement of thy career. I know it, dear Sir, this apostrophe is nothing to the present purpose; and I sit corrected.

This poet (for a genuine poet he verily was) possessed a strong understanding, with a correct judgment, and a glowing fancy; and, what is not commonly an appen|dage to these advantages, his memory, also, was aston|ishingly retentive; and he was as far removed from the practice as he was from the necessity of plagiarism. Our bard, thus highly qualified, employed himself one morning in penning a poetical epistle to a friend, whose abilities were respectable. The epistle finished, forwarded and received, was perused with much sur|prize; for, strange to tell, it contained a number of lines that were found verbatim in a favourite author, with whose productions the person addressed had recently furnished his library! and said lines bore on their margin no quotation marks! It is the part of a sincere friend to point out a fault, and our poet was questioned on the subject; he detested plagiarism, and positively 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his entire property in the problematic essay; but, 〈…〉〈…〉 and to 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉—the book was pro|duced, and the poet eagerly seizing it, cast his eyes on the title page, which he no sooner traced, than instantly recognizing, he clasped it to his bosom with all that strong enthusiasm and 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 which ever marked his character. The volume proved an old acquaintance, which had been the delight of his boyish days, and of which he had long been in pursuit; and it appeared, that writing in a similar manner, and on the same topic, he had drawn those lines from the store-house of memory, where they had been many years safely lodged, un|conscious

that the well adapted fugitives were not the true born offspring of his own brain. Now this, gentle reader, is a kind of plagiarism, if such it can be called, which cannot come under the description of fraud; and whatever may be the effect of its operation, it is in|disputably guiltless in its source.

But, while I pledge my veracity for the authenticity of the foregoing anecdote, I readily grant that circum|stances seldom concur to produce events of this com|plexion; and, conceding thus far, I expect that every person accustomed to reflection, will unhesitatingly ac|knowledge the propriety of what I have advanced, (viz.) that similarity of ideas and expressions, when the subject is the same, may often originate in different minds, evidently obtaining in those bosoms, where inborn integ|rity and conscious propriety had implanted so strong a sense of right and wrong, as to create a just and spontane|ous abhorrence to whatever could, in the remotest degree, be denominated plagiarism. I had lately an opportunity of conversing on this subject, with a female, to whom I am naturally attached—she has for many years been a scribbler, and she feelingly lamented that she had re|peatedly seen ideas, and complete sentences, issue from the press, which had long been contained in her manu|scripts, and which she had flattered herself with the privilege of presenting, as original thoughts! This, however, happened more frequent in her prosaic, than in her poetical productions; yet, even in the last, she adduced some instances of considerable similarity; from which, by way of illustration, and for the amuse|ment of the reader, I take the liberty to select two. On the 28th of January, 1784, this penwoman wrote some lines on a particularly interesting occasion, which lines contain the following simile:

As the fond matron, while the flame ascends, Which her whole int'rest in one ruin blends, Wildly exclaims—Give me my infant train; Possess'd of them, the strokes of fate were vain: 'Scap'd from the wreck, she sees her girls and boys, And one short moment perfect peace enjoys.

Early in the year 1784, copies of the whole of this poem were put into the hands of several gentlemen, who may perhaps recollect it; but still it is only a manuscript; and it is not until within a few months, that she has met with that beautiful production, enti|tled, the Botanic Garden, the offspring of an elegant European pen, first published in the year 1793; in which she observed, in the following highly finished lines, the same thought.

" Th' illumin'd mother seeks with footsteps fleet, " Where hangs the safe balcony o'er the street; " Wrapt in her sheet, her youngest hope suspends, " And panting, lowers it to her tip-toe friends: " Again she hurries on affliction's wings, " And now a third, and now a fourth she brings; " Safe all her babes, she smooths her horrent brow, " And bursts thro' bickering flames, unscorch'd, below."

Now it is demonstrably certain, that neither of these writers borrowed, or, more plainly speaking, purloined from each other. Producing, therefore, the foregoing lines as a proof in point, I proceed to the second in|stance. Previous to her perusal of the Botanic Gar|den, she had been requested to write an ode on a very affecting occasion: This ode was to be publickly chaunted, for the benefit of a worthy young man; and it was an address to the benevolence of the audi|ence. It is not my design to give the ode entire; I on|ly transcribe the part which is necessary to introduce the lines that she imagined similar—thus they are expressed:

YE spirits bland, from heav'n descend, Around this hallow'd temple bend, With aspect all benign: Philanthropy, first-born of truth, Of paradise the fairest growth, Replete with powers divine.

Hov'ring around, we feel you press, This consecrated fane to bless, Its pious rites to guard: Benevolence, religion twines With blest munificence designs, And is its own reward.

Benevolence, whose genial sway Commission'd hath the new-born day, And burst the pris'ner's chains— Its progress can arrest despair, Can smooth the furrow'd brow of care, While mild compassion reigns.

Thus, when enwrapt in Howard's guise, To mortals lent from yonder skies, And borne on mercy's wing; The depth of human woe he sought, With lenient balm assuaging fraught, Returning light to bring—&c. &c.

The ode was published; and the writer was some time afterwards attracted by a resemblance in the fol|lowing energetic lines, found also in the Botanic Garden:

The spirits of the good, who bend from high Wide o'er these earthly scenes their partial eye, When first array'd in virtue's purest robe, They saw her Howard traversing the globe; Saw on his brow her sun-like glory blaze, In arrowy circles of unwearied rays.

Many are the instances, which, from my own indi|vidual experience, I could record; and my volumes of manuscripts, that I was positive were enriched with many original thoughts, from my delay to publish, have now, alas! been generally forestalled. My plans, my ideas, my metaphors, ah, well-a-day! in almost ev|ery thing I have been anticipated; and whenever my lucubrations are presented, innocent as I am, the prob|ability is, that I shall find myself indicted in the high court of literature for the debasing crime of plagia|rism! Yet these Essays, although the offspring of many a careful hour, deducing very possibly their highest charm from novelty, have now lost, even in my own estimation, much of their power to interest and to please; and I do not, I am free to own, very deeply lament their fate.

But a recent discovery having stripped of originality this my youngest born, my pet, that I have cherished

with such unremitted tenderness, culling for it the fairest flowers, gleaning every sweet, and adorning it up to my best abilities; and now to find, that after all, I have been rearing the bantling of another! It is really almost too much for my philosophy to bear; nor can my atmost equanimity prevent the hag vexa|tion from adding another score to those furrows, which time and disappointment have already so deeply indented!!!

No, I can never part with it—still it is the child of my adoption, and I must ever remain its protecting father. Sympathizing reader, I will tell thee the sto|ry. Thou knowest how much I have prided myself upon the title of these numbers: It was ample enough for my purpose; it was unassuming; yea, as humble as the smallest particles which fall from the granary of the opulent dealer; and yet by the wonderful force of its elastic power, it could extend itself over the vast fields of science, wandering upon the superficies of the grounds, and snatching those gems which are some|times the reward of industrious mediocrity.

It was, I have a thousand times said, a complete shield from every accusation of literary theft. It was—in short, it was abundantly commensurate with my most sanguine wishes; and what, in my estimation, inexpressibly enhanced its value, was, that I imagined it had never before been thus appropriated. Judge then, what were my sensations, when, two days since, turn|ing over a volume written by Voltaire, I observed, among his account of literary publications, the follow|ing paragraph, which, by way of exciting thy com|miseration, I shall transcribe, verbatim.

Miserable pamphlets!—the Gleaner!— the Fault|finder, &c.—Wretched productions! inspired by hun|ger, and dictated by stupidity and a disposition to lying! &c. &c.

To find my boasted title thus unexpectedly flashed in my face; and to meet it, too, coupled with infamy!!!—But my feelings may be better imagined than described;

and the candid reader, while he acquits me of an in|stance of plagiarism, so impolitic and so absurd, will not fail to sympathize with, and to vindicate

The mortified GLEANER.

N^o. LVIII.

'Tis not in wealth, or grandeur—these have wings— Earth's garish scenes no solid pleasure brings; The giddy whirl, where dissipation treads, Its magic spells around the flutterer spreads; But sorrow waits, its victims sure to seize, When mirth cannot assuage, nor folly please.

MANKIND are too prone to consider opulence and grandeur as synonimous with the first en|joyments this world has to bestow; and every effort is made for the purpose of assuming that style of living, which may produce us candidates for a rank in assem|blies that are frequented by persons who are pro|nounced the first people in a village, a town, or a city. Alas! alas! how erroneous is this calculation! Under the smiling countenance, which, to the super|ficial observer, appears the seat of contentment, what woes, what clustering evils may rankle! The broad laugh, descriptive of such extravagant marks of glee, why it may be the frantic expression of despair; while those contemplative features, where pensive re|flection sits enthroned, may be the index of a mind attaining tranquillity by viewing persons and things precisely in that arrangement which ensureth compla|cency. Appearances, it is undeniably true, are not to be trusted; and the experience of every day evinceth, that a superb house, rich furniture, and splendid equipages, are not always infallible marks of the af|fluence of their possessor.

My friend, Pelatiah Carewell, was returning home|ward, after a wearisome journey, taken for the dispo|sal of some articles of traffic, for which his frugality

induced him to imagine he could not afford to pay the commissions consequent on committing their sale to other hands. Nearly exhausted by fatigue, he had hardly strength sufficient to urge forward his horse, who seemed equally as dispirited as his master. He was in an open sleigh, on a very rough road; it was in the inclement month of January, and the rude winds buffetted those locks which time had plentifully sprinkled with venerable grey. Thus was Carewell circumstanced, when a superb carriage, finished in the highest taste, passed rapidly by him; the horses, richly caparisoned, were in a foam; the curtains in the front of the carriage were closely drawn; it was attended by two servants, whose livery was perfectly well known to Carewell; and by a glance catched at the side glasses, he discovered a gentleman who was the companion of his boyish years. They were natives of the same little hamlet, were bred at one school, and began business with similar prospects. But Claudius had left the rural seat of his ancestors, and for many years had figured on a very large scale in the metrop|olis. He had been a noted speculator, had dipped deeply in navigation, and had accounts open with ev|ery capital house in and about the city. Carewell imagined the present expedition of Claudius had for its object a visit of state to his aged parents, who still continued at the village; and he reflected on the ele|vated situation to which fortune had raised his quon|dam school-fellow, with sensations tinged with the deepening hues of envy.

How partial, thought he, are the dispositions of what we term Providence; from the hour in which I could write man, I have observed a uniform system of economy; the beloved woman, who did me the hon|our to accept my hand at the altar, hath exemplified, through her whole life, a perfect model of discretion. Frugality has been the order of our house: every un|necessary expense has been absolutely precluded, and yet my circumstances are very moderate; and if I would not leave pennyless those whom I have intro|duced

into being, I am, in advanced life, necessitated to continue those exertions, and that rigid observance, which has attended me through my commercial career.

Claudius, on the contrary, entered on the privileges of manhood with marked avidity; he plunged head|long into the stream of pleasure; he has never been known to deny himself a single indulgence; his build|ings are magnificent, his furniture is in the highest style, his town and country houses are crowded with servants, his dress is that of a nobleman, his equipages are multiplied and splendid, and both himself and fam|ily are in the first line at every place of public and private amusement. What, in the name of wonder, is the source of his prosperity? and to what cause am I to trace my own comparative depression?

Such were the murmurings of Carewell; he drew up a heavy sigh, and gloomy discontent pervaded his bosom. It was just at this juncture that the high sheriff of the county passed him, as it seemed, in full chace! This was a phenomenon that arrested the whole attention of Carewell; for an officer of justice had never before been known to visit the peaceful hamlet of B—. His curiosity urged him forward, and he had no sooner reached his own dwelling, than he learned that Claudius had been taken into custody, just as he was entering the door of that cottage in which he drew his first breath! that his fine estates were all attached, and that it was supposed, upon an equi|table distribution of those possessions which Claudius had so nefariously obtained, his numerous creditors would not receive a single shilling on the pound!!

Carewell dropped a tear over the errors and the misfortunes of Claudius. He entered his little par|lour—neatness presided, the blazing hearth had receiv|ed the polish of industry, the kettle boiled for tea, the elbow chair was placed in order, and Amanda, with open arms, and a smile of rapture, welcomed his re|turn. His children, too, crowded around him; and a little spruce waiting maid, under pretence of ar|ranging

the tea apparatus, catched a peep; while a domestic, who had grown grey in his service, took the opportunity of replenishing the fire, to hail once more the benign countenance of his master. Carewell seat|ed himself—his eyes and hands were raised to heaven, and exclamations the most extatic burst spontaneously from his lips.

"This decent and completely finished tenement is my own; my income, combined with my regular ex|ertions, bestows on me the blessings of competency; every thing about me is elegant: Amanda is the most amiable and tender of women: my children come forward with dispositions that authorize the most pleasing expectations; no man can advance a demand which I cannot immediately discharge. What is show, pomp, and all the retinue of fashionable pleasures? real happiness dwells not with them. Gau|dy apparel, cards, plays, assemblies—henceforth I spend no sigh on such frivolities. Contentment shall meet me in the bosom of my family, and gratitude, eternal gratitude, shall raise her altars in my breast."

Carewell and Claudius are contrasts which are strongly marked; but the intervening shades are many, and from their example more than one useful lesson may be dedu|ced; the fallacy of appearances are strikingly exempli|fied, and we learn to estimate the value of economy. We have said that profusion is not generosity; and the propriety of this observation must be sufficiently ob|vious. Many a time has the humane and well design|ing Eugenio been called to lament that his extrava|gant benefactions to prostitutes, vagabonds, and par|asites, have prevented his bestowing small sums, that would have furnished honest industry with the means of obtaining a livelihood. Society is not benefited by the shilling I squander on him, who, depositing it in the next whisky or rum shop, will issue thence a dis|grace to his species, and probably in a state of inebri|ety, which, rendering him incapable of attending to himself, may produce him, with dislocated or broken limbs, a burden on the next parish. But how clear

are his claims on my property, who sues for the means of equipping himself with the implements of agricul|ture, manufacture, commerce or navigation. The truth is, the necessity of discriminating, must be appar|ent to every sober observer. Principle, plan, regularity, economy, charity—a wise man will embody every of these requisites, and to their combined administration he will constantly submit his movements.

Stories seem naturally to produce or grow out of each other; and a little narration, although perhaps not exactly analagous to the foregoing observations, floats, notwithstanding, amid the visions selected by fancy.

Flauntinetta was educated by the hand of discre|tion; but it is not always that education can overstep nature, and Flauntinetta continued vain, silly, and consequently devoted to all the vagaries of folly. She lost her father in her infancy, who, reposing per|fect confidence in the good understanding, integrity, and tenderness of her mother, had left the whole of a very decent property at her absolute and sole disposal; and committing also her daughter to her direction, he had resigned into her hands the authority with which nature had invested him. Flauntinetta was soon capable of calculating her mother's income; she knew she was in easy circumstances, and her warm imagination represented her funds as sufficient for ev|ery thing, which vanity and ambition had taught her to consider but as reasonable appendages to a young lady of her figure and rank, and who was, besides, an only child. Honoria had educated her daughter on the most liberal plan; and, labouring to implant in her opening mind a persuasion that the mere exteriors of pomp were beneath her attention, no day past, in which she was not solicitous to instil some elevating principle or meliorating truth. Flauntinetta, how|ever, continued refractory; she sickened for the haunts of dissipation; was never happy but when visit|ing or receiving visits; and those public entertain|ments, which she was not permitted to partake, were

viewed with the deepest regret. Silks of the richest kind, laces of the highest price, jewels, &c. &c. these all made a part of her reprehensible wishes; and ev|ery maternal check produced an altercation, during which she tacitly accused Honoria of mercenary mo|tives, of undue severity, and want of affection.

Honoria, while she assiduously endeavoured to tu•••• her views into a right channel, and to erect those cau|tionary guards, which her tenderness and her anxiety convinced her were necessary, firmly persevered in prohibiting every improper indulgence. She was a discreet as well as a fond mother; and her affection was chastened by judgment. The circles in which she permitted her daughter to mingle, passed individ|ually under her judicious inspection; and instead of the richly covered brocade or golden tissue, the gen|teel person of Flauntinetta was habited in a neat, plain lutestring; her laces were chiefly English rather than Brussels; and whenever her muslins were wrought, the flowers were the result of her own in|dustry. She was sometimes seen at a public assem|bly, but more frequently at a play; and these amuse|ments, with private dancing parties, occasional visit|ing, and some rural excursions, during the fine weath|er, constituted the routine of her diversions.

But these economical regulations were a constant source of vexation to Flauntinetta. "See, mamma," she would exclaim, "how richly yonder lady is habited; she looks divinely enchanting, and absolutely moves a goddess." "And see, my dear," returned Honoria, "yon beauteous nymph, how exactly that plain mus|lin is fitted to her elegant form; she is a lovely young woman; her countenance is an index of serenity, and I could almost venture to pronounce, that friend|ship, truth and honour, with every feminine virtue, are the residents of her bosom." Still, however, Flauntinetta entirely disapproved her mother's con|duct; and she determined, whenever fortune should put it in her power, to make herself large amends for

the penurious discipline to which she was, for the present, constrained to submit.

Thus rolled on the hours and days, which at length ushered in the destined morn, equally dreaded by Honoria, and wished by Flauntinetta. It was the morning that was to witness her espousals to a man of merit, and of handsome property. The beauty of Flauntinetta had procured her an establishment, that, had her mind corresponded with her person, would have been fully commensurate with those fine qualities she would then have possessed. And Honoria, ere she resigned that power over her daughter, with which nature and the confirming arrangements of her hus|band had invested her, enforced with increasing ardour all those excellent precepts she had so often inculcated; but Flauntinetta heard her with alarming coldness, secretly resolving to disobey her in every particular! and she was no sooner a house-keeper, than, rushing into the stream of dissipation, she mingled with the most inconsiderate of its votaries, freely indulging in amusements which reason and discretion refused to warrant. Over the mind of her husband she obtained an entire ascendency, who was ready to exclaim with Milton's Adam,

That what she wills to do or say, seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best; all other knowl|edge in her presence falls degraded.

Honoria still hovered round her, and like the mat|ron bird would have pointed out the danger; but the prudent regency of Honoria was no more; and Flaun|tinetta, who had ever regarded her mother in a false point of view, now triumphed in her liberty, constant|ly receiving the admonitions of her anxious parent with an averted face, and such freezing expressions as would have thrown the icy darts of death at any affec|tion less than maternal. A period of five years, how|ever, terminated the career of vanity, and the catastro|phe was truly deplorable! Sickness followed in the train of poverty, and a melancholy and premature death brought up the rear!

Flauntinetta, the long incorrigible Flauntinetta, became a widow; and both herself and children were totally destitute!! It was in the moment of her ca|lamity, that the eyes of her understanding being open|ed, she consequently beheld the revered guardian of her youth, adorned with every virtue which can digni|fy humanity; and, once more sheltered under the ma|ternal wing, she hath, at length, learned to estimate the value of rational tranquillity.

To Honoria she feels the weight of her obligations; but even delicacy hesitates not to cherish and to avow the most unbounded gratitude to the source from whence existence is derived; and she is frequent and fervid in her acknowledgments, that she is indebted to the discretion and economy, which she so often and so madly profaned; that her children have yet a paren|tal dwelling; that they are indulged with the means of education, and of making decent figures in those cir|cles, in which their birth and their expectations give them a right to mingle.

N^o. LIX.

Virtue, howe'er obscur'd, dwells in the mind; The latent gem the richest polish takes; When skilful hands the hidden treasure find, On the glad eye its native splendor breaks, Events as lapidaries often prove, Displacing the extraneous earthy crust; The blazing furnace can the dross remove, While from the flames the stealing ingots burst.

TO develop the various avenues to the human mind, extensive knowledge of men, as well as books, is necessary. Virtuous principles are sometimes so completely muffled by vice, as not to emit even the most attenuated ray by which to ascertain their exist|ence; and it should be the business of those who are skilled in the complicated windings of the heart, to make every effort to reclaim its wanderings. Mild persuasion often procures the best effect; and malig|nant

passions are frequently mollified and duly attem|pered by acts of kindness: Yet it is a melancholy truth, that there are individuals who are proof against the interference of tenderness; and it is beyond a doubt, that in such instances coercive measures become absolutely indispensable. Adversity sometimes proves a powerful operator; it throws down the barriers reared by the impious hand of atrocity; it breaks in pieces the nefarious purpose; it assuages the tumult, and smooths the asperities of the soul; and it brings to light and establishes those sentiments of virtue, which were prostrate in the bosom. A well authenti|cated illustration of this truth is strikingly presented in the records of a family, who have long been respectable dwellers in the State of New-Hampshire.

Mercator, an opulent gentleman, in the interior part of that division of our country, beheld the wealth he possessed, and all the independence it conferred, as the fruits of his own industry; and having in early life ate the bread of carefulness, he knew how to appreciate the harvest, consequent on his laudable exertions. He had laid in her grave the affectionate companion of his youth; but he continued wedded to her memory, and two boys, the only surviving pledges of their mu|tual love, shared equally the affections of his bosom. Their education was precisely the same; but nature, true to herself, asserted her own prerogative; and, in defiance of every rule of art, produced them perfect contrasts to each other.

Acetus, the eldest, was a prodigy of vice! Deprav|ed, to the utmost degree of which humanity is capable, he seemed to know no joy but in the most daring acts of atrocity; and it was wonderful that he stopped short of an ignominious death. Yet, although highly criminal, he, however, possessed the most insinuating address; and having the art to throw over his enormi|ties the transient veil of concealment, he had obtained, while on an excursion at a distance from his native village, the heart of a truly amiable woman, whom he wedded; and it was hoped that a virtuous connexion

would produce his reformation. But ill habits are not easily corrected. The libertine too soon threw off the mask; and the misfortunes of the ill-fated Matilda, with her two beautiful children, were pronounced ir|remediable!

Adrastus, the younger son of Mercator, was indus|trious, frugal and discreet; and with the exercise of generosity and every ennobling virtue, he was familiar. To Acetus, as his eldest born, Mercator had appropri|ated the better half of his possessions; and he pursued every method which involved the least probability of rendering him worthy his name and family: Alter|nately he remonstrated, soothed and threatened; but Acetus was inaccessible to every mode of attack; and large sums, conferred by the indulgence of his father, instead of being converted to the aid of an injured wife and her helpless innocents, were devoted to the bottle, squandered at a gaming table, or lavished on prostitutes! Mercator had but one step more to take: He assured Acetus, that his succeeding to any part of his estates rested wholly on his total change of conduct. Acetus smiled at the unmeaning threat. That Mer|cator should disinherit him, he conceived, an event not contained in the chapter of possibilities; and, confid|ing in the severely tried affection of his father, he disre|garded this, as he had every other previous measure, and persevered in the path of ruin!

Months rolled on. Mercator drew near the close of life; and, being in the full exercise of his reason, he deliberately proceeded, in the most solemn manner, to the constituting that testament, which, bequeathing to Adrastus, his youngest son, his vast possessions, pro|claimed that young man his sole heir, and legally cut off all the prior pretensions and natural expectations of Acetus! A few succeeding weeks placed Mercator upon his death-bed; and his dissolution, accelerated, possibly, by the atrocious irregularities of his enor|mously offending son, was speedy and unexpected!

The hopes of Acetus now utterly extinguished, all the energies of his soul took the alarm; and despair,

in his bosom, became the parent of the most astonish|ing exertions! With a kind of sullen indignation, he strode from the mansion of his late father, and making sale of the few moveables which remained to him, in a tenement constituting a part of the paternal estate, and now devolving to his brother, he pathetically addressed the innocent victim of his unwarrantable irregulari|ties: "Go, my Matilda," in a tone of despondency he exclaimed, "go—return to the scene of thy better days—I bless God that thou hast yet a father to shelter 〈◊〉〈◊〉—Take these cherub children; bear them to the author of thy being—he will receive them—he is in|deed a father—Acetus has no more a dwelling—I dis|dain the little moment that I breathe under this roof! Leave me, my Matilda, sole object of my love and of my commiseration—leave, to his unparalleled mise|ries, thy wretched husband. Acetus has not now the ability to provide for Matilda, or to succour her infants." Through all the devious paths of vice, in which Ace|tus had so daringly strayed, Matilda had never wholly lost that ascendency, which a mildly virtuous woman so naturally maintains, even in the bosom of culpabil|ity; yet, on this occasion, her tears and her remon|strances were ineffectual! On her bended knees she supplicated him still to continue her the partner of the woe-fraught scene—but she supplicated in vain; and, well near sinking under the mighty pressure of her calamities, she returned to that abode, which had wit|nessed her early hopes and fears, and from whence, on the wings of high-plumed expectation, she had so late|ly flown. But, to receive the hapless wanderer and her lovely children, a father's wide extended arms, and still more ample heart, were tenderly expanded; and she continued with this revered and natural protector, a melancholy and beautiful model of sweet propriety.

Acetus, penetrating very far into the interior part of the country, laid out what he had raised from the sale of his goods in uncultivated lands, which he pur|chased at a low rate; and he immediately applied himself, with unremitted diligence, to the felling trees,

and all those preliminary arrangements, so necessary upon new grounds. To all his bad habits, in one de|cisive moment, he bid an eternal adieu; and suddenly he became that very Acetus, which the good Merca|tor had, through a long succession of years, laboured to produce. His efforts were prodigious; what man, industriously intent upon emolument, could accomplish, he assuredly did: But still he was alone; and having expended every shilling he could command in his orig|inal purchase, he had not the means of procuring la|bourers, nor could he obtain those additional grounds which were highly necessary to the completion of his estate. It was at this juncture, that the difficulties of his situation appeared to him in their most glaring colours, when a blank cover supplied him with bills to the amount of one thousand pounds! It was to no purpose that he diligently sought to investigate the source of this opportune relief; and, in a manner equally mysterious, sums, answerable to his real exigen|cies, were from time to time furnished.

At the expiration of a few years, Acetus saw him|self enriched beyond his most sanguine expectations. His grounds were extensive, remarkably productive, and uncommonly well stocked. His buildings were multiplied, many of them elegant, and all of them in excellent repair. Heaven smiled propitious on the re|claimed prodigal, and all his enterprizes were crown|ed by success.

In an elegant carriage, constructed for the occasion, Acetus appeared before the paternal dwelling which had sheltered his Matilda. The tender mourner had continued ignorant of the fate of her husband! Acetus was to be in all things eccentric! Mechanically she approached the window—she raised her humid eyes—Acetus issued from the carriage!—"Gracious Heav|en!" she exclaimed, "continue my reason—my Ace|tus approaches. My children, behold your father!" In a moment she was in the arms of her husband!—Acetus was restored to her—this circumstance was of itself calculated to render her, beyond expression, hap|py

—But he was restored to virtue too—and was be|come worthy, not only of the tenderness of an affec|tionate wife, but of the approbation of reason, and the esteem of every good person.

Acetus, accompanied by the father of Matilda, spee|dily removed his family to his own ample and commo|dious seat. Arrangements, prescribed by discretion, and sanctioned by reason, now took place. Matilda was the charming directress, and happiness became the order of their lives. It was just one month after Ma|tilda was reinstated in all those privileges and immuni|ties, to which she was in every view entitled, that Acetus received the subjoined letter from his brother.

ADRASTUS to ACETUS.

NEVER, my Acetus, did a mere mortal experience more extatic feelings than I, at this moment, luxuriant|ly enjoy. The night of mystery is passed, and the morning of elucidation breaks upon us—Acetus shall no more continue estranged from his Adrastus—I am emancipated from my bonds—events are fulfilled, and concealment is at an end. Inclosed, you have the last solemn act of our honoured father, with all those papers which should be its accompaniments. You will see it is written by his own hand—that it is duly witnessed and perfectly accurate. You will see, that conferring upon you a legal claim to one half of all his possessions, it indisputably confirms your natural right; and, you will also observe, that it is dated ten days later than the instrument, under which I inherit. Being a spectator of the strong emotions of his soul, while penning this last writing, a high sense of his paternal goodness, and of his unalterable attachment to his Acetus, is indelibly impressed on my bosom. Having completed the in|strument, he inclosed it in an address to me, which, with all imaginable solemnity, he put into my hands. I transcribe it for your perusal: When we meet, the original shall be subjected to your inspection.

"My son, my dear Adrastus, preserve this writing, and, as you value my blessing, let no eye trace its con|tents,

nor ear hear its purport, until the full time shall arrive, which I have assigned for its operation; and, Adrastus, observe me well, in proportion as you are faith|ful to me, and my poor unfortunate wanderer, may the benediction of our God rest upon you. I doubt you not, Adrastus; but a business of such importance demands all your integrity, and the strongest energies of filial and fraternal affection. On my demise, let the testa|ment first ordained, which constitutes you my sole heir, come into immediate operation—let it not be suspected that there exists any other disposition of my property; and, I charge you, Adrastus, be unto your brother as his guardian angel—observe, carefully, the effect which my supposed severity will produce; if, as I flatter my|self, it should rouse to action those energies now dor|mant in his soul—if it should blow to a flame the latent spark of virtuous industry, follow him with such assist|ance as his wants and his exigencies may require—Permit a momentary struggle, but O! let it not be unneces|sarily severe, nor too long continued; and, above all things, keep him in ignorance of the source, from whence he receives the benefits which you are to confer. Every thing, my Adrastus, is entrusted to your discretion—let it not fail you in this, the most arduous transac|tion of your life! When years have rolled on, and your brother shall be confirmed in habits of rectitude—(and, at this moment, a holy confidence in the common Fa|ther of our spirits, assures me that this period will even|tually succeed) when he shall learn to do justice to the virtuous Matilda—when he shall have passed one irre|proachable month with that lovely and incomparable woman—then—and, by the sacred authority of a father, I command you, not till then, let my last will be put into his hands; let it be accompanied with a regular ac|count of the interest, which may have accrued on those possessions, which, but for his continued irregularities, should have devolved to him at the period of my death; and, after reimbursing yourself for the sums you may, from time to time advance, let the full arrearages be de|livered up.

"Thus, my Adrastus, while the sigh of anxiety swells my bosom, I repeat that I have constituted you the guardian, during the continuance of his insanity, of your unfortunate brother. My sons are equally dear to me. Acetus has wandered in oblique paths; but Heaven will restore him, and the transporting event, even in the region of blessedness, shall augment the enjoy|ments of your tenderly attached father."

Well, my brother, you have read, and your feelings doubtless correspond with the occasion; the bounty of our honoured father has still followed you; his paternal goodness has been the continued source of your emolument; his revered memory is now exone|rated from every reproach; and I deliver up the trust reposed in me with more gladness of heart, than I should experience in the succession to a princely inher|itance. Adrastus shall no longer be banished from the dwelling of his Acetus. Family harmony will again triumph, and my utmost wishes will be fully gratified. With to-morrow's sun I will embrace my brother, and the ever lovely Matilda. Do me the favour to speak of me to your children; my introduction will be less formal, and I am impatient to clasp the youthful strangers to my bosom. Accept the fraternal saluta|tions of your unalterably attached

ADRASTUS.

N^o. LX.

Customs, time honour'd, let us still revere; Stampt by antiquity, they have their worth, When in the train of wisdom they appear, And are of truth and gratitude the growth.

IT is a common practice to arraign the despotism of custom; and, lovers of liberty, we revolt from every thing which would begirt us with the lines of necessity. The truth is, depraved nature spurns at government of every description; and since the fatal

era which engendered pride in heaven, and plunged a third part of its denizens into the abyss of guilty dis|obedience, a spirit of disorganization hath prevailed; and it is only in proportion as the disorders in the mental world are rectified, and the mind informed, that we become solicitous for the general good, and are confirmed proselytes to the beauty and propriety of order. It is undeniably true, that customs, inju|rious to the well being of society, have sometimes ob|tained undue influence; against these, to set ourselves in array, is laudable; but still, those rules which have obtained the sanction of revolving ages, should not, it appears to me, be discarded for trivial inconvenience.

My reflections have been thrown into this train by a little incident, and a simple tale, which perhaps I cannot do better than narrate, as the subject of this Essay. It was on the evening immediately preceding our last annual Thanksgiving Day, that a worthy tradesman, seated in my parlour in a contemplative at|titude, with folded arms, and eyes fixed on the cheer|ful hearth, as if he was preparing to pronounce a pane|gyric upon the beauties of my fire side, very gravely re|marked:

This Thanksgiving Day is really an im|position on the free citizens of this State. It hath absolutely swept away more of my running cash, than would have supported my family decent|ly for a full month. I declare I should rejoice greatly to see the observance of a period, which orig|inates so much extravagance, erased from our cata|logue of old fashion customs, and I would very readily sign its death-warrant.

There is some reason in your complaint, said I; and if it has noth|ing to recommend it but barely custom, I also would freely consign said day to oblivion. It is true, it may be urged, that it is rational and pious to devote a par|ticular day to offer up our joint praises, and to manifest our united gratitude to that omnipotent and all-gra|cious Being, who gives us so richly to enjoy; but to this it will be replied, that our orisons and thanksgiv|ing ought to ascend with every returning day, that

God is not now honoured by the blood of those inno|cents, which are the usual victims of a Thanksgiving Day; that luxury enervates both bodily and intellec|tual health; and, that my friend, the tradesman above cited, is not the only sufferer from the extravagant profusion of a Thanksgiving Day.

All this is pointed by conviction; but my mind, fond of investigating, doth not easily yield its assent to a disputed hypothesis; and in the course of the week which contained our last annual gala, I termi|nated a sentimental ramble, during which I had se|riously reflected on the subject, by a visit to a valuable woman, whom I have long known; and observing, that in her accustomed manner she had distinguished the era by distributing to the necessitous, I could not forbear remarking on that benevolence which was eminently prevalent in her bosom; while, on her part, that she might effectually arrest words which were issu|ing in a panegyric on her virtues, she immediately drew my attention to an unfortunate female, with whom she had just parted. This female was born in a rank of life generally exempted from servile depen|dence; for he who derives his support from the real or imaginary exigencies of the opulent, admitting he is industrious and frugal, almost necessarily commands respectability; and the young Ursula was cradled in the tranquil recesses of competency; she was nourish|ed, cultured, and reared to maturity by parental ten|derness; and the peaceful morning of her days was protected by a father's love. But Heaven deprived her of her maternal parent, whose place was soon fill|ed by a step-mother; and a train of those evils suc|ceeded, which too commonly result from second mar|riages, when children were the offspring of the first.

Ursula was marked the daughter of sufferance; but a short interval succeeded her father's ill judged connexion, ere she was reduced to the necessity of pro|viding for herself; various misfortunes have attended her solitary steps; and, mortified and dispirited by the prostration of her early hopes, the disposition of

her mind hath acquired a gloomy kind of acrimony; she hath passed through life without forming a par|ticular connexion, a prey to regret, dissatisfied with herself, and with a world to which she is so little in|debted. She is now far advanced in years, and she is struggling with infirmities. A scirrhus, from the progress of which she at times suffers exquisite pain, is gradually poisoning the springs of life; yet she may still live long; and although her exertions to obtain the means of living have been marked with unremitted industry, she hath, notwithstanding, been frequently reduced to the last extremity. Of pecuniary inconve|nience, however, she hath seldom been heard to com|plain. She hath almost invariably preserved a decent kind of pride, which hath imposed upon her lips, in this respect, the seal of silence.

But on the day immediately preceding our last Thanksgiving, comparing, doubtless, the aspect of this returning festival to those which had formerly met her view, her fortitude forsook her; and, pale, emaciated and desponding, she sought the parlour of my philanthropic friend. The children of misfortune know where to apply; and the road to the dwelling of the beneficent matron was pointed by a thousand good actions.

"What shall I do, Madam?" said Ursula, as she en|tered the apartment,

I fear, alas! I fear that I must at length submit to the rigour of my fate. To-morrow will be Thanksgiving Day, and I have not enough in the world to purchase a single basket of coal!

"Pray what is the price of a basket of coal?" Probably the fifth part of a dollar, more or less, ac|cording to the caprice or mercenary disposition of the vender.

Not enough to purchase you a basket of coal! Astonishing! but cheer up, Ursula, you shall spend your Thanksgiving Day with me; and I would advise you to recollect that He who commanded you into being, hath all hearts at his disposal; that he is the friend of the destitute; and that the calami|ties to which we are subjected, are the dispensations

of paternal wisdom, of paternal love.

Ursula bow|ed in silence; she was too full to speak; but an af|fecting kind of patient resignation seemed gradually to pervade her grief-worn countenance.

Just at this period, a gentleman entered the apart|ment: He had occasionally seen Ursula, and he was a man of humanity. Ursula, afflicted, and much op|pressed, would have modestly retired; but our philan|thropic gentleman detained her.

How are you, Ur|sula?

"Well, I thank you, Sir," returned the poor unfortunate. "You do not look well, Ursula—to-morrow will be Thanksgiving Day—I would have every heart glad on that day"—and he gave Ursula a handsome benefaction. Excellent memento! we will record this circumstance in favour of Thanksgiving Day; and, if it is found, that the custom of administering to the necessities of our fellow-mortals, is coeval with this festival, we will, without hesitation, pronounce its eu|logy.

Ursula courtesied, burst into tears, and withdrew. A ray of hope once more illumined the bosom of the cheerless traveller; she was animated to new exertions, and again resuming her plans of industry, she imme|diately sat out for the purpose of securing some work, which a fear she should not be able to accomplish, had induced her to relinquish. On her way, she looked in on a person, whom she had been regularly in the habit of assisting, for the reimbursement of a debt, incurred in order to provide herself with a small bed, on which to repose her weary limbs. Ursula possessed great rec|titude and integrity of soul; and the reflections occasion|ed by a recollection of engagements she might possibly never be able to fulfil, had frequently tortured her bo|som; but she now met her creditor with an invigor|ated prospect of being one day able to discharge the last farthing.

Lucinda was her creditor; she is a young and ami|able woman; she is an orphan too, and altogether dependent on her own efforts for her support: But, while ingenuity is her handmaid, competency hovers

round her; and those females, whom she so largely contributes to adorn, must experience genuine compla|cency, while they contemplate so fair a model for those of the sex, to whom niggard fortune hath been parsimonious of her favours. Admirable young wo|man! upon thy decent features, elegance and becom|ing modesty sits enthroned; propriety mingles in thy train; and, while I admire thy virtues, I will daily pray, that thy love of independence may be crowned by success.

"Ursula," said Lucinda,

you are indebted to me just fourteen shillings—to-morrow will be Thanksgiv|ing Day—Were it in my power, I would prepare for this day, by an action which should calm every per|turbed mind, wipe the tear from the cheek of sor|row, and hush to peace the sigh of anguish; but, however limited my abilities, what I can, I will—From henceforth, that is, from Thanksgiving Day, you are free; and remember, that for your future work you are entitled to full and prompt payment.

This was not the first time Lucinda had tasted the luxury of doing good; for never had she sent a bundle of work to Ursula, in which she did not convey a half-worn gown, cap, skirt, &c. &c. Yet, let me repeat, Lucinda cannot command a single penny, but what she receives as a compensation for her ingenious and persevering efforts at her needle. She is single and un|protected—but consistent virtue still remaineth an in|vulnerable shield! Do you wish to know what spot contains this wonderful paragon? Go then, and do homage to a little milliner, not a hundred miles from Cornhill!

Ursula blest her youthful benefactress, and return|ed to communicate her good fortune to my benevolent and sympathizing friend. It seemed, upon that day, that the genius of benignity had been busily employed in favour of Ursula. By a removal, to which she had been suddenly and unexpectedly necessitated, she was lost to some well disposed persons, who had frequently assisted her; neither was her place of refuge within the

knowledge of those officers of the church, with whom she communicated, who had been entrusted with the distribution of benefactions, collected for the use of the indigent children of sorrow; a kind hearted man had interposed in her behalf, and her proportion of the charitable appropriation awaited her, at her hum|ble abode.

Thanksgiving Day arrived—it was whispered that Ursula had said she had not sufficient in the world to purchase a basket of coal—one and another, on that day, contributed more or less liberally; and a cheering ray of competency, diffusing its genial influence over the declining life of poor Ursula, her heart was made glad.

Thanksgiving Day is, in our country, a munificent festival. It hath, in every view, its beauty and its propriety—all orders, and every description of peo|ple, assemble, to offer up their general acknowledg|ments, and devout orisons to the Parent of the uni|verse. The week, on which this jubilee is appointed, is devoted to the most benevolent purposes—to the recog|nition of the claims of the unfortunate, to the implant|ing, in the bosom of the orphan, the bud of hope, and to the making the widow's heart sing for joy. See the thronged streets—crowds of destitute persons assert their accustomed prerogative—they pass on to the dwell|ings of affluence—the season, habit, and the feelings, consequent thereon, conspire to render liberality still more liberal. Every present want is supplied, gene|rosity is constituted almoner, a face of hilarity displac|es that anxiety, which naturally clouds the brow of suf|fering poverty; they return to their now joyful retreats—they smile over the sudden plenty—their hearts overflow with gratitude—their spirits are attuned to praise—their dispositions are in unison with their fel|low-citizens—they chant the song of thanksgiving—they join in grateful prostrations to the God of their life; and, the expectation of this Thanksgiving Day fre|quently serves to mitigate the calamities, and to soften the penury, of the intervening year.

Let me, therefore, leaving my honest friend, the thrifty tradesman, to lament for his "running cash," frankly acknowledge myself a confirmed advocate for THANKSGIVING DAY. May the wisdom of our legisla|tors continue to recommend, and may our well dispos|ed and orderly citizens cheerfully obey—may they honour this festival in their accustomed manner—may it still be distinguished as the poor man's holiday—and may it be the coeval of this Columbian world. Yes, I will own, that I am enthusiastically fond of following, as far as may consist with rectitude, the example of my ancestors. I bow with reverence, to the holidays which they have consecrated as sacred; and, above all, I am extravagantly—yea, passionately, fond of Thanksgiving Day.

N^o. LXI.

Why is Patronius always in the right? Is he endow'd with supernatural light? Certainly not—but reason points his way, And in his breast her powerful dictates sway.

THE great secret of deciding with accuracy, abid|eth in the breast of deliberation; hasty conclu|sions must ever be hazardous, and a rational man will never submit that to chance, which patient and atten|tive investigation may reduce to certainty. I have for many years had the felicity of ranking Patronius among my intimate friends; we have lived in the most unreserved confidence; and I do not recollect a single instance, wherein he has ever been necessitated to re|tract an opinion which had received publicity from his adoption.

He is never assuming; his sentiments are always advanced with modesty, and by consequence the blush of error never tinges his cheek. I am aware that this is a high panegyric, but an analytical examination of the system of Patronius, will, if I mistake not, evince

the practicability of a wise man, whatever may be his internal perceptions, appearing to observers always in the right.

It is one of the first principles of Patronius, to listen to the sentiments of those with whom he associates, before he hazards even a conjecture of his own; and as he has an aversion from controversy, he never ven|tures upon a subject, except with a view of giving or receiving information. He is, on no occasion, the noisy disputant; he will not contradict peremptorily, nor assert dogmatically; he does not presume that a thing is, or is not, precisely as it happens on a cursory view to strike his perception. He is a close reasoner, but then he is a reasoner; his disquisitions are marked with calmness; and he would prefer remaining silently attentive during the most interesting conversation, to the uttering a single syllable in favour of an hypothesis which he conceived false and untenable. Hence, it will be concluded, that he is much more frequently a hearer than a speaker, and this, indeed, of necessity happens; yet persuasion dwells upon his lips, and his opinions are rarely ever ascertained, that they are not instantaneously adopted. His character is marked by firmness; he is known to be consistently virtuous; and his movements, rather than his language, are decisive. He is an accurate definer; and when he speaks, silence, in rapt attention, bends to hear. He proposes his subject at large; marks, with precision, its general contour; expresses those ideas suggested by an aggre|gate view thereof; and methodically proceeds to indi|vidual observations, from whence he deduces his com|prehensive and self-evident conclusions.

Truth is the great object of his pursuit; and his research after this inestimable gem is uniformly con|ducted with moderation. He is a pupil of the Socra|tic school; and, by a regular series of questions put to his opponent, the invidious task of refutation is soft|ened, and his tenets are established without involving those rancorous feelings which are too commonly the appendages of disputation. By this mild mode of

convincing, Patronius is sure never to offend. Persons are imperceptibly informed; they admire his under|standing, without envying its brilliancy; and I have frequently seen the brow of this accomplished victor adorned by the cheerful voices and ready hands of the grateful vanquished, with the fairest laurels that ever grew in the aromatic haunts of animating praise! From interrogatory arguments, Patronius derives an obvious, advantage; he is spared the arrogance of assertion; conviction is gradually produced; and ev|ery one is ready to join issue in opinions which become self-evident, which they have helped to elucidate, and which, with a pleasing persuasion of their authenticity, pervade the mind. Thus are the feelings of compla|cency invigorated; prejudice imperceptibly undermin|ed; and that pertinacious adherence to a favourite sentiment, so natural to human pride, when attacked with less judgment, skilfully divested of its imposing power. Patronius generally leaves it to his little au|dience, to furnish with the garb of words, the conclu|sion which he has irrefragably demonstrated; and hence, should his reasoning undesignedly have connect|ed a latent error, he is spared those unpleasant sensa|tions which would have attended the necessity of yield|ing his hypothesis, had he proposed or defended it with obstinacy: Thus he is a stranger to the culpability of error; and my eulogium is, strictly speaking, a sober fact—its conscious blushes never ting•• his cheek. I grant that Patronius has been rarely equalled; and that he is placed in our world, a luminary of the first magni|tude; and yet, I humbly conceive, I may propose him as a model for imitation; for although we may never reach the summit he hath attained, emulation may nevertheless produce its effect; and every advance we make toward the point of rectitude, will be honourable to ourselves, and beneficial to society.

Patronius has the felicity to combine those qualities which have been supposed heterogeneous; and, while his movements are the result of cool deliberation and noble firmness; while his conduct is under the guid|ance

of prudence and propriety, the fervour and con|stancy of his regards amount to the enchanting and amiable enthusiasm, inseparable from sublime and ho|ly friendship. Patronius evinceth that a strong and well regulated mind is susceptible of every excellence; and his actions may, in the same moment, be consid|ered as the spontaneous growth of nature, and the re|sult of educated wisdom—they are rich and abundant|ly productive; they are luxuriant as the wild and in|discriminating impulses of unsystematized liberality: But a nice investigator will observe them carefully pruned by reason, and circumscribed by the inclosure of discreet munificence.

I do homage to the active mind of Patronius. In|tellect, it is said, will always command respect; and, from full conviction, I receive this sentiment into my treasury of incontrovertible facts. Will a weight of years destroy the energy of talents so conspicuously em|inent? If it will, we could almost breathe a wish to arrest the progress of time; and with a little variation we apply and devoutly aspirate the Homeric petition in favour of Nestor; "What now thou art, Oh! ever mayst thou be; and age the lot of any sage but thee." But the uniform temperance of Patronius, will entitle him to an old age of health; while his mind will continue cheerful and active, pursuing un|interruptedly a course of usefulness to the latest period of his mortal existence; thus finishing his career with those meliorated splendors that in the morning of his days shining with strong effulgence, emitted the fairest hopes of meridian excellence. While he lives he will possess the applause of his fellow men; and posterity will learn to venerate his memory.

"The applause of his fellow men!" cries Apathy; "And pray, good Mr. Gleaner, of what use will this be to Patronius? Please to inform us to what the ap|plause of his fellow men will amount? Fame is a wind blown vagabond; she delighteth not in durable habi|tations. Virtue, in the person of WASHINGTON, hath en|deavoured to render her stationary; but the flood of light

with which she hath encompassed the hero, hath at length become insufferable; it hath struck blind a number of well meaning individuals; and it hath so far excited the rancour of the screech-owls of our day, that, if the guardian chief should not suddenly escape to his native skies, it will be wonderful if they do not for the time being; envelop him in that dense atmos|phere which circumscribes their own ideas; it will be astonishing, if, encircling him by the murky clouds of envy, they do not despoil him of the vagrant fame. Yet, lured by the charms of a conduct irreproachable, should fame continue to enwreath the honoured brows of Washington, as worth so rare is seldom the growth of mortality, pretensions more equivocal must submit to the veil of obscurity, or consent to become the sport of alternate censure and applause. Praise is an airy com|modity; a breath bestows it, and a breath retracts; it soothes for a moment, but it soon evaporates; it ener|vates the mind, insinuating a persuasion, that, having reached the ne plus ultra of intellectual attainments, every future effort is superfluous, and it renders us im|patient under the most gentle and necessary reproofs. For my part, although I may admire your Patronius, I nevertheless throw my gauntlet, and positively as|sert the inutility of every species of commendation; being fully able to prove its inability to confer happi|ness, and its inefficacy on the morals of mankind. He who expects his peace from the eulogizing voice of fame, is making his couch on the pointed thorns of ca|price—is building a superstructure on the fluctuating waves of opinion, than which nothing is more futile and unstable. I trust not then the treachery of senti|ment, the bubble fame is not an object of my pursuit; and I am regardless of the opinion of the world."

Stop, stop, Mr. Apathy—attend a moment, if you please. The world is a vast, an ample theatre, and its inhabitants are an audience to each other—we are alternately actors and spectators; and, if we hold in contempt the opinion of those who are assembled as our judges, the probability is, we shall soon view with

indifference those virtues, the attainment and practice of which, is the purchase of their esteem; and it is to be feared we shall ultimately become unworthy of the good we have learned to despise. I should trem|ble for a son or daughter who regarded with indiffer|ence the sacred interests of reputation. To what pur|pose are we diligently employed in embellishing our persons, or in polishing our manners? these adventi|tious graces make no essential part of inborn integrity, or of a solid understanding; yet, they are pleasing ex|teriors, which render us acceptable to those with whom we associate. But, was there no individual whom we wished to impress—was there no heart, on whose fair tablets we were anxious to stamp ideas of our merit, these external ornaments would, perhaps, be but little studied; nay, in defiance of custom itself, the probabili|ty is, they would gradually be totally laid aside.

Sir, I say again, I regard not the opinion of the world; my period of emancipation has arrived, and I, at length, feel myself superior to its censures or its applauses.

Alas! alas! Mr. Apathy, you have then lost an admirable incentive to consistent rectitude, and you have but one step further to go—you have only to throw off those feelings of restraint, which have hith|erto influenced you, in regard to that all-pervading Being, who created the world and those intelligencies whom you now so heroically despise—you have only to leap this barrier, and you rank with the four-footed tenants of the soil! your fears and your expectations are, like theirs, bounded by the gratification of the mo|ment. To the duration of communicable good, you are a stranger; for you cannot participate the enjoy|ments of those, whom you contemplate with such un|feigned and systematic contempt.

But, as I would hope this globe, in its extensive round, contains not the human being, who is, in his heart, at all times, and upon every occasion, an unwa|vering Atheist; so I pleasingly believe, that there exists not a rationally intelligent man, or woman, who is not

ambitious of that fair fame, which is, sooner or later, the accompaniment of virtuous deeds.

The Gleaner, solicitous to cultivate the good and amiable qualities of his readers, would endow them with that delicacy which trembles at the voice of ac|cusation, and which, enwrapping itself in the mantle of propriety, is sedulously careful to avoid even the shadow of suspicion. He would endow them with that kind of sensibility, or exquisite perception, which should produce them primarily desirous of rendering themselves well pleasing to Deity; and, thus insuring the approbation of their own hearts, he would next implant the ardent wish to conciliate the esteem, affec|tion, and judiciously distinguishing applause of wor|thy persons of every description; nor could he, it is humbly conceived, present his friends, the younger part of them particularly, with a more powerful stim|ulus to, or truly efficacious talisman of, CONSISTENT VIRTUE.

N^o. LXII.

I love to trace the independent mind; Her beamy path, and radiant way to find: I love to mark her where disrob'd she stands, While with new life each faculty expands: I love the reasoning which new proofs supplies, That I shall soar to worlds beyond the skies; The sage who tells me, spirit ever lives, New motives to a life of virtue gives.

Blest immortality!—ennobling thought! With reason, truth and honour, richly fraught— Rise to my view—thy sweet incentives bring, And round my haunts thy deathless perfumes fling; Glow in my breast—my purposes create, And to each proper action stimulate.

AS there is no idea, by which I am so exquisitely tortured, as that of annihilation, I naturally turn, with disgust and horror, from the reasonings of him, who, laying impious hands on that principle of

animation which originates in Deity, would confound it with the common mass of matter; and who, with grub like industry, having enveloped himself in his earthy cone, entertains as little expectation of breaking his sepulchral enclosure, as the reptile who thus me|chanically encrusts itself.

"Mamma," said my little grand-daughter to Mar|garetta, "Mamma, where do butterflies go?" I re|peat, that a child may ask a question which would puzzle a Sir Isaac Newton to resolve. But although neither the wise nor the untaught may be able to des|cant learnedly on the destination of butterflies, yet do we take inexpressible pleasure in tracing their various and surprising transmutations, and in dwelling with eager attention on their eventful career, until, borne on the gentle zephyr, they become tenants of the aërial world.

May not the butterfly be considered as a humble figure of the creature Man? In its reptile state it seems fastened to the earth; it is indefatigable in its attempts to obtain that subsistence it will need but a little while. At length it is evidently on the decay; it sets about preparing for its departure; it makes ready the filaments in which it enwrappeth itself; it enfolds and contracts them; gradually they become a sepulchral crust, in which securely enveloped, the de|ceased insect apparently bids a final adieu to the busy scenes in which it hath taken so laborious a part. But mark the astonishing change: These habiliments of death are thrown off—the hideously disgusting form is no more—its newly acquired wings are expanded—they assume a variety of hues, and look as if designed in the gayest moments of a fertile and brilliant imag|ination. Hardly will the little flutterer deign to rest on the bosom of that earth, to which it formerly so closely adhered; and, perched on some beauteously fragrant flower, and indulging in all the rich variety of ambrosial food, it sips the embosomed sweets. With what astonishing celerity its movements are per|formed—lightly it pursues its elevated path, and we

gaze with admiration upon its wonderful improve|ments. Was not the whole process submitted to our observation, we should call in question its reality; and cold philosophy would teach us, first, to reason—second|ly, to doubt—and, finally, to embrace the creed of infi|delity.

Man, in his present state of being, moves heavily on this opaque globe—he is principally solicitous, respect|ing matters which appertain wholly to this life—he is often anxiously oppressed, while every accession to that property he is carefully seeking to augment, does but increase his burdens. But whatever impediments may seem to bar his way, he, however, advances on|ward—he attains the period when his quick sense of earth-born joys is no more—he verges on the days on which he can say he hath no pleasure—for a little mo|ment he abides, and his open grave is prepared—he is inclosed in the narrow house, and the green turf clothes, with undistinguishing verdure, the hallowed spot where he reposes. Do we say that we have bid him an eternal adieu? we do not speak correctly; for, in the morning of the resurrection, he shall burst the bar|riers of the grave—he shall issue from the chambers of the tomb. Behold how mortality hath put on immor|tality—he is beautiful as the inhabitants of the celes|tial world—he hath become as a winged seraph—he mounts, he soars on high—he pursues his trackless way—he attains the heaven of heavens, and he min|gles with the angels who surround the throne of Deity.

Is my figure exceptionable?—I shall not contend—I did not expect it would answer in all its parts. I think, however, some of its features will be acknowl|edged striking; and I could as easily, had I not ocu|lar demonstration, believe the resurrection of the body, inclosed in yonder tomb, as I could lend my credence to the egg, the worm, the cone, the aurelia, and the butterfly.

Yet, I do not vehemently insist on the resuscitation of this time-worn tenement. In the bloom of youth, and vigour of my days, my reluctance to a final sepa|ration

from organs so incomparably well adapted to my exigencies, was extreme; but a length of years have revolved—the fine machine is going to decay—I begin to detect its inconveniences—it is a heavy clog upon my purposes—and, when I am bounding for|ward with all the celerity of thought, I am retarded and pulled back by its unwieldy properties. I natur|ally wish for a vehicle more agile; and imagination, darting into futurity, anticipates accommodations more consonant with my wishes. Hardly a day passes, in which I do not discover, in my present residence, new instances to prove that the building is greatly im|paired; nor is this a circumstance of regret. My glass informs me, that time hath furrowed my face; that my eyes no longer sparkle with the vivacity of youth; that the glossy ornaments of my head are rap|idly giving place; that my form is bent; that I hob|ble in my gait, &c. &c. No matter—my attachment to this earthly residence is also on the decline, and I will support, with fortitude, the sufferings which may be necessary to its dissolution. Whether my all-wise and omnific Father will raise it again on a nobler principle, is a question that cannot greatly agitate my mind, since I know that his paternal goodness will or|dain for me, precisely that habitation, which shall be the best calculated for the full enjoyment of all my faculties. If I—if my best self can escape from this wreck of nature, I am then sure to be as "blest as I can hear;" and, the superiority and inferred durability of spirit, is beyond a doubt.

"Certainly not," cries the opposer,

for the mental faculties decay with the corporeal; thus evincing the truth of the hypothesis, which describes them as both per|ishing together.

But against such a comfortless and derogatory sen|timent I enter my protest. The immortal principle of life, retaining, in this debilitated body, its pristine vig|our, glows indignant at the humiliating idea; and, notwithstanding the decaying organs by which it operates, it still asserts its own inherent fervours. Age cannot,

in reality, curtail the inborn powers of the soul; their elasticity, for want of use, may be abridged, but their native energies can never depreciate. From the mo|ment in which the immortal mind becomes a sojourner in mortality, certain organs, by which it is to operate, are assigned to the celestial resident, and these organs become the medium of its manifestations. In infancy the mental faculties are under a necessity of awaiting the acquirements of that progressing machine, in which they are enveloped; and the reason is obvious; the most skilful artist must be furnished with instruments proper to his occupation. In the vigour of manhood the soul still finds many a laudable wish ungratified—its habitation is not in every respect accommodated to its views—it would move with all the rapidity of mo|tion—it would take the wings of the morning, and compass the globe in a day—it would design and exe|cute in one and the same moment—and the restless anxiety it experienceth is a presumptive proof, that it is appointed to a higher and more perfect state. Old age arrives—and the bodily organs, ordained for dissolution, experienceth the imbecility that marked the state of child|hood—the imprisoned spirit assays to quicken the slug|gish stream—it endeavours to rouse the torpid pulse—it would render flexile the stiffening sinews—with tremulous anxiety it searches every compartment, throws its inquiring glance through each avenue, and would act upon the complicated machine as in those days when it appeared so much under its command—but it will not be—and it is in vain to struggle against a statute which hath passed the great seal of Heaven. The retiring immortal at length becomes conscious that it is on the eve of its departure; it collects its scattered faculties, and, submitting to that state which bears a strong resemblance to inactivity, and which is imposed by necessity, it awaits, with more or less resig|nation, the approaching moment of its final emanci|pation. But shall we for this expatiate on its dimin|ished lustre, strip it of its immortality, prepare its fu|neral dirge, and consign it to the gulph of oblivion?

Strange perversion of ideas! most illogical conclusion! and truly unworthy sacrifice of all those commanding incentives to virtue and splendid hopes, that originate in an expectation of future existence.

That it is highly irrational to characterize the im|mortal mind, from the demonstration it maketh of its faculties by the medium of decaying bodily organs, is apparent from a variety of considerations. An illus|trative figure this moment presents. I take my seat in the midst of a respectable company—a musician is introduced—I have heard much of this performer—he is very eminent, understands every branch of music, is unequalled in the line of his profession, and particu|larly excels upon the piano-forte—the instrument is opened, and he commences his efforts with a favourite piece of music. But what a futile attempt!—sounds the most discordant issue from the piano—not a single note is in unison—the flats and sharps are confounded—he is out of time—a child, practising his lesson, would have produced better tones. O horrid! I exclaim; surely, the artist is either grossly deficient, or he has lost those exquisite powers of execution, for which he has been so highly celebrated; his faculties, probably, are on the decay.

"Mistaken man," replies the master of the house, "your conjecture is erroneous; nothing can be fur|ther from the truth. The instrument, my good Sir, is out of tune; nay, more, an accident hath despoiled it of its principal keys; the complicated machinery is obstructed in its most capital parts; in short, it is worn out by time, disastrous removals, and unskilful usage." Ought I not to feel conscious of my injurious estimation of the mu|sician? Does not the circumstance of the decayed in|strument restore my high raised ideas of his abilities? and will it not be proper, that I henceforward render him the homage which must ever be due to superior acquirements?

I confess, I take a superior pleasure in tracing, im|proving and cherishing, every idea which establishes the pre-eminence, independence and immortality of the mind; and, in the multifarious reflections I have anxiously

made on this subject, I have derived much consolation, from recurring to the surprising activity the spirit of|ten evinces, when the bodily organs are fast locked in the embraces of the image of death. I have thought, that the action of the spirit is in no moment entirely suspended; and although I have passed many nights without a consciousness of having dreamed, yet it does not therefore follow, that the mental faculties have been unemployed. The most pleasing visions have sometimes gathered round my sleeping hours; meth|od and propriety have been in full exercise; but when the re-action of the corporeal organs has re-called the vagrant spirit, only disjointed images have remain|ed, and it has been beyond my power to recover a sin|gle connected idea. Again, I have only been able to recollect that I have dreamed, without the vestige of an impression, by which I could trace the nature of the vision. From these facts I gather, that I may dream without being at all conscious, after the shadows of the night have fled, that my mind has been thus occu|pied. It appears to me of consequence, to establish the constant activity of the soul; for, if it can, for a single moment, be divested of its consciousness and the appendages of animation; if it can slumber with the body, it may slumber for ages, it may lose its identity, it may sink into oblivion; and we are, by consequence, conducted to the comfortless verge of materialism! But having expressed myself freely on this subject in an Essay, which may in future be submitted to the public eye, I wave it for the present.

I know that dreams are whimsical, perplexing and fallacious; yet we do not always understand their ori|gin or tendency; and, I conceive, there may be anal|ogies in nature, of which we are entirely ignorant. One thing appears to me certain, that dreams furnish no inconsiderable evidence of that pre-eminence, inde|pendence and immortality, which I am solicitous to con|firm. A person far advanced in years, and entering on the winter of life, every day accumulates infirmi|ties. Suffering under a severe paroxysm of the gout,

after a succession of hours marked by anguish, nature, quite exhausted, forgets itself in the arms of sleep; to the couch of misery the pain-worn body is still con|fined; but the gladdened spirit, as if felicitating it|self on its momentary exemption, indulges the full ca|reer of fancy. The scene is instantly changed—a sur|prising revolution succeeds—youth again blooms on the cheek—the nerves are new strung—the sinews re|sume their wonted agility—the blood flows briskly through the veins—health braces the frame—hope glows in the bosom—the heart leaps for joy—all is enchantment, the enchantment of the morning of life—he contemplates the tenderest attachment—he forms new connexions—he becomes impassioned—and he feels over again the ardours of youth. But alas! the fleeting vision is on the wing—a creaking door—an impertinent footstep—the charm is broken—and the mind is again embodied by age, infirmity, and conse|quent suffering. Yet, I ask, has it not thus produced a proof of its pre-eminence and independence; and may not its immortality be fairly inferred?

But it is said, that we vainly deduce a proof of the immortality of the soul from dreams, since there are existing many strong reasons to suppose, that dogs and several other animals dream. And let them dream—they have my cheerful permission; nor have I any objection to those faithful creatures bearing me company in my native sky. I should be charmed with a treatise which should prove, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the future and immortal existence of every animated being. I should be right happy to witness the era predicted by the prophet Isaiah, who tells us, that the lion and the lamb shall lie down together; and should they be led by the hand of blooming innocence, the scene would be still more highly wrought. In one word, could I answer my little Margaretta's question, "Where do butterflies go?" it would become to me a new source of pleasure.

N^o. LXIII.

When Genius, rich in intellectual stores, With inborn force the path of light explores, Nature pursuing with untutor'd gaze, Refulgent, shining in unborrow'd rays— Then native splendours gild the beamy way, And its own orb bestows perennial day.

PERHAPS there is no individual, who is impress|ed with a higher idea of the advantages resulting from extensive literature, than myself. I cheerfully do homage to science; a conviction of its excellence necessitates me to place it among the first of blessings; and I would enjoin persons of all descriptions to seize with avidity every opportunity of accumulating knowl|edge. He who has neglected to store his mind with ideas, to invigorate the intellectual powers, and to habituate himself to reasoning, comparing, investigat|ing, and concluding, hath not only forgotten to con|stitute a fund on which he might occasionally draw, but hath also defrauded society of that assistance which mankind had a right to reckon on from his abilities; and thus committed a crime against his species, for which, alas! it is beyond his power to atone.

But while I deliberately render all possible respect to those acquirements, so indispensably requisite to him who would run with honour the career of life, I can|not forbear confessing my superior admiration of those fortuitous candidates for applause, who, in a great measure unassisted by the schools, have reached the highest eminence to which a human being can aspire; nor does this diminish the odium so justly affixed up|on him, who, inattentive to the means of information with which he has been furnished, produces himself upon the world an unlettered blank, waiting the cas|ual impressions of every interested compositor, whom chance may direct to fill up the vacant pages.

But circumstances may have combined to deny the means of instruction; and the proprietor of genius may pass those years when he should have been entered and continued the pupil of science, without receiving those adventitious aids, which, with lapidarian influence, would have given to acknowledged merit the most brilliant polish; and if under a predicament unques|tionably disadvantageous, he attains to eminence, if although unfashioned by the cultivating hand of a preceptor, he bursts through those intercepting clouds in which a variety of unpropitious arrangements had enveloped the morning of his days, and, rich in native resources, blazes forth in meridian lustre, we surely can|not hesitate to subscribe to the justice of that decision, which, eternizing his name, invests him with immor|tality. It is true he will not combine the learning of a Johnson; his diction may be neither elegant nor correct; he will be in the situation of a man who has to shape his materials, as well as to construct his pile of building; but he may strike out some bold originalities, his superstructure may possibly create a new order in literature, and he may form very just pretensions to rank with those venerable ancients who have, through a long succession of ages, possessed the admiration of mankind. Grammaticaster may un|doubtedly convict him of a false use of nouns and pro|nouns, of confounding modes, tenses, verbs and ad|verbs, and of the heinous crime of mistaking a colon for a full stop; but the judicious critic will not ex|pect to find the child of nature miraculously impressed with an accurate knowledge of the refinements of dic|tion, nor intuitively familiar with those rules which originated in convenience, and are the production of the combining efforts and continued improvements of succeeding centuries. The candid investigator will be occupied, while perusing the compositions of unculti|vated abilities, in searching for those natural beauties that are the offspring of genius; these he will point out to public view, while he will take a sublime pleas|ure in imagining the summit his author would have at|tained, had he been assisted by education.

Had Grammaticaster lived in the days of Shake|spear, he would undoubtedly have attacked, with true Zoiluan rancour, the splendid Bard of Nature. The two Witches solus, which Shakespear is said to have introduced, would have excited his most splenetic indignation; and he would have sought out, with in|defatigable avidity and wonderful ingenuity, those bagatelle, denominated defects, thence decisively pro|nouncing the divine poet of Avon wholly destitute of merit of every description. Poor Grammaticaster, how his soul is wrung by envy! See where, with fiend-like aspect, he hovers over the flowery haunts of genius; malignantly industrious, he is busy in collect|ing the deforming weeds, which, amid a garden so richly furnished, have perchance sprung up; these, with invidious cunning, he combines; he eyes them with all a murderer's savage exultation;

he grins over them a ghastly smile;

and, after passing them through his pericranium, he produces them from the magic process as high crimes in the court of lit|erature!

The conduct of the admirer of Shakesperian worth, or, in other words, of him who is capable of viewing with a steady eye the luminous path of genius, is the reverse of this. He traces the embodied prodigy to his morn of life; he beholds him the son of care; im|perious circumstances deny his continuance even at a free school; he is accustomed to the most rigid econ|omy, and he is initiated into all the penury of traffic; he is early bound by the ties of matrimony, and to a life of labour he is apparently destined. An accident, however, of a dark and unwarrantable hue, appears to be the procuring cause which unexpectedly engages him in the most arduous pursuits; and these preced|ing facts will augment the astonishment and admira|tion of all those who candidly reflect upon his subse|quent achievements, and upon the unequalled elevation to which he soared; they will operate as a sponge, which will, in effect, erase from his pages all those pec|cadillos, that in an author receiving a regular educa|tion

would have been unpardonable. Far from im|peding his eagle flight, they seem to point more forci|bly his inimitable attainments; they are foils, which like spots in the sun, strikingly contrast his original lustre, and irresistibly enforce the vigour of an under|standing, that hath proved a rich and inexhaustible source, from which many a lesser light has borrowed its effulgence.

Miss Hannah Moore, (the celebrity of whose char|acter might almost sanction error) writing to Mrs. Montague in favour of the milk woman of Clifton, and speaking of Shakespear, elegantly embodies those ideas which I am solicitous to enrobe. But Voltaire characterizes this prodigious and incomparable genius, as a barbarous poet! Milton also is ranked in the same class by this civilized writer! yet it will not be within the compass even of a Voltaire, to diminish those splendours necessarily attached to luminaries of the first magnitude in the literary hemisphere.

As the satellite of Miss Moore, the milk woman must still be considered; and, if it is true that an adverse cloud hath for a time intercepted the beneficent rays of that resplendent orb, preventing the continuance of their genial influence on the humble daughter of ge|nius, the innate refulgence of an intellect, both elevat|ed and informed, will undoubtedly consume every opaque impediment which hath officiously obtruded; and she will once more receive to favour the gentle female whom she hath presented to observation, and whom she so kindly sheltered.

Woodhouse, the Crispian bard, extorts our pity and our admiration: Like the milk woman, common read|ing and writing comprized the whole of his educa|tion; and, from an application to even these useful branches of study, he was taken when he was only sev|en years of age. Perhaps Miss Moore's account of Mrs. Yearsley, might be strictly applied to Woodhouse; but, be this as it may, he was, however, bred a shoe|maker, at which business, he was no more than a journeyman, and condemned to labour with indefati|gable

industry, for the support of a beloved wife, and an infant progeny. We cannot but venerate both his genius and application; while we view him seated at his depressing employ, the pen and ink are at his el|bow; he arrests the couplets as they present, and, penning them down for future revision, he again pur|sues the duties of his occupation. Of his thirst for knowledge, we receive a very high idea, when we contemplate him after a day passed in earning the scanty pittance adjudged the price of his labour, ap|propriating those hours usually devoted to the restora|tive slumbers of the night, to the obtaining that intel|lectual food, fortunately so amply supplied by books, with which the indulgence of his patron at length furnished him; and we yield him our full commisera|tion, when we hear him in his poem, entitled Spring, pensively complain, not indeed so much for himself, as for the beauteous fair one whose fate was entwined with his. The circumstances and scanty advantages of the poet, induces us to allow to his lays their full merit; and the invidious attempt to point out a blemish, would seem to connect a degree of criminality. Thus thought the elegant bard of the Leasowes, when, with the utmost tenderness, and a benevolence truly charac|teristic, he commended, sanctioned and patronized; while his dignified condescension was only equalled by the gratitude of Crispin, who was ambitious of elevating almost every poetical essay, by the admired name of Shenstone.

Imagination, when tracing the progress of genius, unassisted by education, necessarily stops to drop a tear of regret over the misfortunes, and to render the tribute of applause, indisputably due to the merit and sublime genius of Chatterton. Uncommon youth! with what facility did he arrest and annex whatever could enrich and embellish; and how wonderful was the progress of this untutored bard! Excellent young man! de|frauded, whilst thou sojourned among mortals, of whatever could soothe, invigorate, or sustain; thy ex|istence became the forfeit! and nought, alas! remains

for posterity, but to raise a monument to thy memory, which shall endure as long as the smallest vestige of intellectual worth shall continue.

But the efforts of genius, unassisted by education, are alike entitled to superior panegyric, whatever track it may pursue. To the natural powers of a Brindley, the celebrated projector of navigable canals we do reverence; and, while we envy the felicity of the Duke of Bridgewater, who first called into action talents, so inherently energetic, we unhesitatingly confess that the total ignorance of art which Mr. Brindley evinced, while submitting to the investigating interrogations of the House of Commons, renders still more conspicuous the magnitude of his understanding.

The contemplation of the powers of nature, is, undoubtedly, a delightful employ: Native talent in|vests with independent lustre; and every instance of unaided excellence, stamps an idea of the inherent value of intellect. Mankind are proportionably dignified, as the inborn worth of that celestial emanation, which animates them to action, is acknowledged and established; and, impressed with this sentiment, I am free to own, that I trace with singular satisfaction, the brilliant efforts of untaught abilities, warmed to admiration and stim|ulated to exertion by the unborrowed rays which they emit; I love to bask beneath the genial beam; and I hoard, with all a miser's industry, the golden treasure.

KULIBIA, a Russian peasant, commemorated in Cox's travels, is a rich instance of the wonderful powers of nature; he will ever be grouped with examples of ex|traordinary genius; and the bridge, thrown over the river Neva, which he projected, with many other achievements of his untutored abilities, will continue to bear testimony to the sublimity of his intellect.

The consideration of neglected education hath been the ground, on which the superstructure of female abil|ities hath been reared; it hath invested women of elevated understanding with an indisputable claim to superior estimation; for when successfully struggling with those discouragements which are peculiarly sexual;

depressed by a situation necessarily humiliating; and checked by the invidious sneer of the supercilious and pedantic critic; when, in defiance of every impediment, with talents almost wholly uncultivated, they boldly seize the palm of merit, we are unavoidably compelled to yield them that respectful veneration due only to mind, and which intellectual excellence must ever extort. But the apology for female deficiencies, furnished by want of education, will not, in future, be acknowledged as valid; the partial distribution of advantages which has too long obtained, is, in this enlightened age, rapidly giving place to a more uniform system of information; and the frequently contested question, respecting the intellectual pretensions of the sexes, may one day be discussed on fair and equal ground.

In the family of Alexy Michaelovitch, Czar of Russia, a striking instance is recorded where superiority of understanding shone forth with decided brilliancy in the female line. Feodor and Ivan, sons of the Czar, evinced in every particular a marked inferiority of intellect, while their sister, the Princess Sophia, was endowed by nature with all those shining talents, and that solidity of understanding in which her brothers were so remarkably deficient. Eminently qualified for her high station; although a woman of uncommon beauty of person, she combined therewith first rate abilities. She possessed an extraordinary knowledge in the theory of government; and she knew how to reduce to practice its true spirit. Of persons of genius and learning she was the avowed and liberal patroness; and the introduction of polite literature into Europe, was encouraged and sanctioned by her example. At an era when the lowest species of composition both assumed and disgraced the name of morality, this elegant princess occupied her leisure hours in transla|ting the Medicin Malgrelui of Moliere. She also composed a tragedy, supposed to be the first extant in the Russian language; and a circumstance which adds essentially to the merit of this essay, is, that it was

the production of a period when the most dangerous intrigues were excited and fomented against her ad|ministration; when the spirit of rebellion was abroad; and, when, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 consequence, every faculty of her mind seemed totally engrossed by the most momentous affairs.

N^o. LXIV.

With native dignity and graceful ease, Mild condescension, ever sure to please, And affability, with polish true, Will worth intrinsic, as its shade pursue; Grandeur of soul, in rectitude array'd, Is ne'er to haughty arrogance betray'd.

IF all those persons, who are ambitious of taking rank in what is called the first grade of society, would be careful to adopt those manners which are descriptive of the real gentleman, of the real lady, if they would be solicitous to attain those virtues inhe|rent in the bosom of the truly noble, we should not so often be called to observe the indignant blush pervad|ing the cheek of modesty, we should not so frequently lament depressed worth, nor witness the meritorious claims of the truly deserving crushed by the overbear|ing arrogance of those, whose only pretensions to dis|tinction are grounded upon opulence.

A sensation of painful and insurmountable disgust has sometimes arrested my perception, when I have made one in the drawing-room of an imperious wom|an, whose awkward efforts to assume that dignity which is never annexed to affectation, have rendered her truly ridiculous. The approach of timid excel|lence is announced; it enters in the person of a fe|male, whose unassuming manners and retiring sweet|ness instantly call up to recollection Mary Woolston|craft's beautiful apostrophe to modesty. She is adorn|ed with all the graces which designate the milder vir|tues; she might be considered as originating the par|agraph

adverted to; and at her appearance the most prepossessing sensations rush upon the mind. The la|dy of the drawing room advances a few steps, then recedes back, stands erect, courtesies formally, looks for|bidding, and assumes, as she supposes, airs of importance; while, in the estimation of reason, she is only giving an exhibition of insufferable haughtiness. In the mean time, the lovely maiden (perhaps in some way a de|pendant) is abashed at a reception so little correspond|ent with her wishes. Of her want of consequence, and the invidious triumph of the lady, there are many witnesses; she is covered with blushes; she seems to shrink into herself; confused and discomposed, she hastens to a seat; and, divested of that innate compla|cency which true politeness is solicitous to cherish, she listens in silence during the continuance of her ill-fated visit, to a redundance of nonsense, dissertations on fashion, and refinements on scandal.

True politeness is but another name for benevo|lence. It is studious to contribute to the ease and happiness of those with whom it is connected—it de|lighteth to give consequence to timid worth—it seek|eth to elevate the humble mind, and it disdaineth to affect ignorance of those characters and persons whose claim to attention is indubitable, and whom it hesitates not to caress in its private parties. Nature, when she produces her offspring, invests them with equal claims; and death reduces them to one common level—but vari|ous are the paths which intersect the passage from the cradle to the grave: Subordination is undoubtedly necessary to the well-being of society; and, without seeking to sap the foundation of institutions which in|volve the public weal, we only contend for that affa|bility which is proper to every condition, and well calculated to ameliorate those mortifying circum|stances attached to humble life.

The celebrated Mrs. Wright, introduced by her un|common talents to a personal knowledge of the nobil|ity and gentry of the kingdom of England, had, dur|ing her residence in that country, an opportunity of

making many characteristic observations; and, in one of her letters, she humorously contrasts the manners of the woman well educated, and possessing habitual and real superiority, with those of a female, conducted by a variety of fortuitous events to move in a sphere for which neither her natural nor acquired abilities had qualified her. Mrs. Wright devoted a fine winter morning to calling en passent on several of her patrons; and among the number of those whom she attended, and who were ambitious of obtaining celebrity, by in|serting in their list of acquaintance the votaries of ge|nius, was the lady of a baronet, who had been raised from obscurity, to all the privileges annexed to rank and title.

In the superb mansion of this chance created lady, Mrs. Wright, after sending up her name, was reduced to the necessity of waiting a tedious interval; and, al|though the chilly blasts of December were abroad, no genial blaze decorated, by its cheering flame, the gloomy chimney! It is true the elegant apartment, in which she waited the convenience of the lady, was or|mented in high taste; but this circumstance did not possess a sufficient interest in the bosom of Mrs. Wright to charm her sense of suffering; and she regarded the summons, which admitted her to the presence of the proprietress of the mansion, as an emancipation from a very unpleasant situation. The reception she obtain|ed, was, however, not more to her taste. The lady as|sumed the most petrifying airs of superiority; and both her language and her manner were cold as the icy breath of the northern tempest: But Mrs. Wright, having the address to curtail her visit, hurried away to lady N—, at whose toilette, san ceremonie, she was immediately admitted, and instantly engaged in that pleasing interchange of civilities, which so frequently marks a female tete-a-tete. Lady N—chatted fa|miliarly; soothed the self complacency of our Ameri|can adventurer, by eulogizing the art in which she con|templated future eminence; and, after completing the labours of the toilette, agreeably to a previous appoint|ment,

accompanied her to the royal presence; and the benign condescension of the British queen, was evinced by still higher demonstrations of affability, than those which had graced the manners of lady N—.

Mrs. Wright, penetrated with the most lively grati|tude, set no bounds to her joy or her admiration; and, after narrating the particulars of this interview, she observed, that in exact ratio as she approached the lib|eral and splendid source of genuine magnificence, the mild regency of urbanity became more strikingly ap|parent.

Thus the orb of day, with regular munificence, dif|fuseth over the globe its genial influence; while the glow-worm sparkles only for those who take their sta|tion within its narrow limits.

From a gentleman intimately conversant with Mrs. Wright, I have been furnished with some anecdotes relative to this extraordinary woman, which, as their authenticity is unquestionable, I shall present, as a bi|ographical sketch, that I presume will not be altogeth|er uninteresting.

Mrs. Wright was a branch of a family, residing in Crosswicks, in the Jersies, of obscure extraction, and humble circumstances; but remarkable for the pecu|liarities, which distinguished its individuals. Of her father, Mr. Lovel, many singularities are narrated; but, as it appears that his life was unoffending, he had a right to the indulgence of his innocent caprices. After his demise, his eldest son determined to erect for himself a dwelling, agreeably to the fashion of his own ideas; and he combined with this resolution the ex|traordinary ambition of preparing the materials with his own hands. He not only designed, but executed; and, both the tenement and its furniture were the pro|duction of his ingenious industry, while every article evinced the skill of a master! He next constructed a spinnet, from which, self taught, he drew such tones, as are not often surpassed. The violin, too, became sub|ject to the versatility of his genius; and he both made

that pleasing instrument, and executed thereon the most extensive compositions.

It appears, that either from want of ability or in|clination, Mr. Lovel, the old gentleman, had not been over solicitous respecting the education of his children. Mrs. Wright was apprenticed to a mantua maker, with whom she continued, until she was mistress of her business. She formed her matrimonial connexion early in life, which connexion was unhappy; and her little family drew their whole support from her indus|trious application. But, although her conduct during this part of her life was truly meritorious, yet, as her exertions were apparently the result of necessity, they did not pointedly evince those remarkable talents, which eventually produced her in the first circles in the me|tropolis of England; nor did the demise of Mr. Wright produce an immediate change in her arrangements—the mantua making business still afforded her a kind of subsistence—her week's work procured her week's support, and her hours revolved in their accustomed routine, until an accident, rendered important by its consequences, originated a surprising revolution. A woman, offering wax figures for sale, stopped at her door; when Mrs. Wright, possessing a large share of that curiosity inseparable from superior abilities, ques|tioned her relative to the composition of her commodi|ties; and, for a small consideration, obtained that infor|mation which proved to her the source of uncommon celebrity, and great pecuniary emolument. The celes|tial spark of genius, so long dormant, was instantly blown into a flame; and, immediately throwing up her business, she became the ingenious fabricator of a new and astonishing creation! Her success was be|yond her most sanguine expectations: from fancy fig|ures, she proceeded to particular resemblances; and from her fashioning fingers grew the most finished likenesses. General admiration was excited, and the gratitude of those, who beheld exact transcripts of their beloved connexions thus multiplied and perpetuated, knew no bounds.

Bordentown, where she had resided during her mar|riage, soon became too narrow a field for the display of talents so rare, and she removed to the city of New-York, where she advanced rapidly in the career of fame! She soon furnished a spacious apartment with her figures, consisting of the most celebrated per|sonages, in sacred and secular history, associated with respectable moderns, and beings, copied from her own imagination. By the liberality of her patrons, she was amply supplied with the necessary dresses, and her rooms became the resort of the curious, the gay, and the idle. Her next attempt was painting; and her essays, in this elegant art were by no means destitute of merit. Among other performances, she painted a miniature of Governor Tryon, which was esteemed an admirable likeness. Thus, uncommonly qualified by the liberal hand of nature, the orbit of this younger world being judged a sphere too contracted for abili|ties so splendid, she was encouraged to cross the Atlan|tic; and, furnished with letters to Doctor Franklin, then resident in England, and many other respectable characters, she bent her course over the great waters, taking with her some of her most capital pieces, as specimens of her abilities. Governor Tryon enclosed, by Mrs. Wright, the miniature she had painted, as a present to his sister, then maid of honour; this proved a most happy introduction. The lady, charmed with the accuracy of the similitude, was proportionably pleased with the instrument; and it is hardly neces|sary to add, that her good offices were, from that mo|ment secured. The protection and assistance of Doctor Franklin was in course, and the nobility and gentry, of every description, were numbered as her patrons. To her American collection of illustrious personages, she added, while in England, the most celebrated char|acters of that nation. Even their majesties submitted their heads to the process of her art, and a just tribute of applause was rendered her, by all ranks. Lord Chatham was among the foremost of her favourers; he was an admirer of native genius, and a likeness of

this truly patriotic and deserving nobleman, the pro|duction of her ingenuity, now figures among the prin|cipal ornaments of Westminster Abbey.

Thus countenanced, and thus supported, her income, it will be readily believed, was sufficiently lucrative: She generally averaged nineteen guineas per week; and, considering the rapid progress she had made to attain|ments so splendid, considering her origin, and group|ing in the same view her established and unequivocal celebrity, we are ready to suppose her in possession of a fulness of felicity; but, it is, alas! true, that per|manent happiness is not the growth of humanity.

As Mrs. Wright possessed great depth of understand|ing, her intellectual powers were, of course, much exer|cised, and the calculation of the probable consequences of events, was to her a continued source of inquietude. She was a profound politician, and her regrets, on ac|count of the struggles in which her native country was involved, were immeasurably afflicting. Her attach|ment to the soil on which she had drawn her first breath, was natural, if not laudable; but, it is to be wished that she had forborne to engage in a contest, so invidi|ous, as that of an ardent disquisition, relative to pub|lic men and measures; especially, as it seems to have put a period to those advances she was so rapidly making toward a splendid establishment of herself and family. It has been observed, that, although she was capable of the most solid and forcible reasoning, yet, her conversation was often so fervid and irregular, as to originate an idea of a derangement of intellect; this, probably, was the result of a warm imagination, a de|ficiency in early instruction, and a want of the habit of methodizing her ideas; and, from this trait of incohe|rence in her observations, and manner of expressing her sentiments, her character, in fact inoffensive, may possi|bly have been misunderstood. But, be this as it may, she experienced unequivocal marks of the decline of public favour; and a conviction so painful, together with combining circumstances, induced her to pass over into France, where, under the auspices of Doctor

Franklin, she was known, distinguished, and esteemed. At the close of the war, she, however, returned to England, thus demonstrating a decided preference to the Albion shore; and she expressed the warmest wish|es for the perfect restoration of amity and unreserved confidence between the United States and their par|ent country. This astonishing woman finished her mortal career in the month of March, 1786.

In the family of Mrs. Wright, genius seems to be hereditary: Her son now takes rank in the first line of painters in the island of Great-Britain; and we can|not but wish him a double portion of that spirit of em|ulation, which is ever stimulating to the highest attain|ments in the gift of fame.

N^o. LXV.

To taste the sweetness of the vernal air, Deep scented, mildly zephyr breathing spring, When every passing gale their treasures bear, And woodland warblers in the branches sing; Excursive let my wandering footsteps stray, Or join the social train—or silent roam, Pursue my journey o'er the distant way, And bear the harvest of reflection home.

LET me execute the projected excursion in the month of competency; when the ripened fruits of Autumn, have received their richest finishing, and the life supporting vegetable, crowned by maturity, invites the reaper's hand. This is the selection of many a judicious traveller; but besides that the curtailed days of September and October frequently spread the evening shades, before the distant tour is performed, I have many other cogent reasons for preferring the vernal months to a more advanced season.

The morning of the year lifts its young head, and the enthusiasm of enchantment is in its gift; and although I do not contend for its intrinsic superiority over the more substantial blessings attendant upon

harvest home, yet, to the pleased eye of contemplation, it is adorned with inimitable charms. Many and ob|vious are the advantages it possesses—its succession is the wish of every heart—it displaceth the long dreary nights, which, with gloomy regency, have pervaded the wintry months—it unbars the gates of life—the snow clad mountains once more lift their green heads—the howling blasts of winter are no more—the tepid airs are abroad—descending showers succeed each other—the mildly beaming sun emits its genial rays—all nature assumes an interesting aspect—and the pleasures of possession are inseparably blended with those of anticipation. Look where the spreading branches are loaded with the sweet scented and promise giving blossom. See the flowery tribes expand their odoriferous leaves—the surrounding atmosphere is richly perfumed—every breeze bears its proportion of the grateful effluvia, and we bless the salutary gale. The mellow toned warblers of the vernal season pursue their azure path, or enchantingly carol in the branches. The orient beams of light smile along the ethereal plain; not a view but is stampt with the most pleasing impression of which it is susceptible—but is fraught with images of rational pleasure; nor can we do less than partake the general joy.

Just returned from a tour of friendship, my heart at this moment glows with all those complacent sensations inspired by an extensive view of nature, garbed in her most fascinating charms. My excursion has led me through a delightful division of the Union, diversified by grove crowned hills, romantic vales, enamelled meads, and broad meandering streams. My route lay along Connecticut river, and through that part of the State of Massachusetts, which led me over Charles river, Malden, Beverly, and Essex Merrimack bridges. Every observer who hath traced this circuit, will readily acknowledge that it takes in a tract abounding with the sublime and beautiful. The most rapt sensa|tions rushed on my soul, while the poverty of words necessitated me to remain silent.

The last mentioned bridge pronounces a panegyric on the abilities of the ingenious Mr. Palmer. It is totally different from the others, and appears to me to be a complete piece of architecture. It hath a sin|gle arch which measures 160 feet from base to base, and its elevation in the clear is forty feet above high water mark. The liberty, granted by the legislature of Massachusetts, for the erecting this bridge, was, I am told, clogged with conditions of a singular nature; but the particular stipulation designed to crush it, has given it the noblest effect; its stability, by a wonderful contrivance, has received an aërial completion; and, while it exhibits every idea of durability of which its materials are susceptible, it happily unites what is not always combined with this fundamental advantage, a light and airy contour; and its finishing ••••truly elegant. Great commendation is due to the meritorious artist. With much labour he hath since thrown a bridge over that difficult stream, commonly known by the name of Bloody Point Ferry; and he is now, we are told, employed in the Federal City, where, we doubt not, his talents and application will receive an adequate recompense.

Essex Merrimack bridge is useful and productive beyond the most sanguine expectations of the proprie|tors. It joins an enchantingly romantic little island to the main land: Its works are so wholly detached, as to wear the appearance of two bridges; and the convexity produced by the arches, is extremely beau|tiful. A commodious house of entertainment, con|taining dancing and dining halls, are frequently the scene of those pleasurable hours which the gentlemen and ladies of Newbury-Port devote to hilarity: it is distant from that respectable emporium only three miles, on a fine level tract, ornamented on either hand with trees of various growth, elegant seats, distant hills, and verdant plains. From the window of this convivial tenement, we have a view of a beautiful grove on the right, and the towering bridge on the left; and, I am inclined to think, our country produces few more

captivating scenes than are to be found upon Merri|mack bridge, and its environs.

I have enjoyed some delightful hours in the course of my tour; I have brightened the chain of amity, and the heart of confidence is invigorated. My af|fections expand, they glance comprehensively on the universal family of man; and I feel that humanity, of whatever description, or wherever found, is inscribed by the finger of Deity, is in possession of the unalien|able rights of fraternity.

Warmed by the genial heat of a vernal day, the in|valid quits the solitude in which he hath been immur|ed; he inhales the salutary breeze, and he becomes invigorated by the parent beam. The resurrection of the year is also a solace to old age, and it is frequently regarded as a figure replete with consolation. "How fares you, Plato?" cried my friend, "I thought this fine season would bring you along; and I am glad to see you with all my heart."

Plato is a black man, born in Africa, who has num|bered, according to the most accurate calculation which can be obtained, one hundred years; and he was for sixty years of his life the confidential friend and faithful servant of his master. The good old gentleman, when dying, evinced his high sense of the merit of Plato, by bestowing on him his liberty, and bequeathing him a piece of land, spacious enough to afford him, and a woman whom he had wedded, an ample support. A neat built cottage was upon the ground, it was suitably and conveniently furnished, and the legacy comprized the necessary farming uten|sils.—"I am glad to see you with all my heart, Pla|to," said my friend—"Tanke, Sir, tanke," replied Pla|to, "I come one pring more; I do know if I eber come agen; but all winter, when e cold weder and e torms come one after anoder, I tink I go and see maser's friends soon eber e come pring. I got no new quaint|ance, maser's quaintance good enough for Plato; so I go e see dem, and den Plato e go home, make e old woman glad to hear e friends all well."

Happy advantage of years, which thus properly throws down those distinctions of which we were once so tena|cious: which gradually slopes the way to that equality, reserved for us in the silent tomb; and which may probably, in some degree, obtain, in the more perfect state of being on which we verge. Plato's spring was a kind of renewal of his youth; and the anticipated regency of the vernal months, helped to cheer and buoy up his spirits when the wintry blasts sounded fearfully in his ear.

A few weeks since, and the trees disrobed of their verdant foliage, bent beneath their icy burden; the vigour of the season arresting the progress of the ready boatman, imposed upon his industry its incontrovertible embargo. How strongly pointed is the captivating reverse—the jocund swain resumes his agricultural employ; he carols gratefully as he hastens over the dewy lawn; he turns the fertile glebe; he strews the promise giving seed; and the golden days of harvest rise to his imagination. The rosy milk maid passes cheerfully on; she joins the music of the groves, war|bling, as she trips along, the rustic lay. Aurora, with her purple fingers, hath opened the gates of morn; the heavens are fringed with gold; the sun-beams glitter over the azure vault, and the children of econ|omy resume their various employments. Again the boatmen ply their oars; the emancipated river invites their efforts; once more it becomes the path of com|merce, and a little forest floats upon the bosom of the silver stream.

I love the various excursion; and the different man|ners and customs, observable even in neighbouring towns, are to me sources of instruction as well as amusement. Perhaps, were I to characterize my countrymen from my own experience, I might orig|inate very erroneous ideas; yet the faithful recorder will register as he observes; and, impelled by truth, I have to say, that as far as hath come under my ob|servation, Columbia hath not neglected to acknowledge the claims of the stranger. Wherever I have wan|dered,

hospitality hath hailed me welcome; and the grateful greetings of civility, when far distant from my native haunts, hath vibrated pleasantly on my ear. With a contemplative eye I have passed on, and the tracing of resemblances hath been one of my pleasures: many a dignified matron hath reminded me of my be|loved Mary; to the sympathizing fair one I have re|counted the story of her conjugal faith, and the loves of my Margaretta and her Hamilton hath arrested the attention and interested the feelings of the beau|teous female, who, unacquainted with their personal attractions, could only be influenced by a predilection for intrinsic worth.

But I give place to a lady whose tour of pleasure seems not to have corresponded either with her expec|tations or her merit, and whose remarks may serve as a proper supplement to this Essay.

To the GLEANER.

SIR,

AS you have assumed an office, (whether properly qualified or not) the duties of which point out a cogni|zance of, and an effort to correct, as well the petty deviation, as those enormities which essentially involve the peace of society, I take the liberty to address you on a subject, that, although little attended to, is frequently productive of real inconvenience. That few people possess the power of pleasing, the experience of every day incontrovertibly pronounces. I could make a thousand reflections, all very much to the pur|pose; but I will confine myself to a single instance, being fully convinced that it will present both my de|sign and its illustration.

Embracing the long days of this uncommonly fine season, I determined on a jaunt, from which I calcu|lated on receiving a prodigious deal of pleasure; but to my great disappointment, I was so tormented by the civilities with which I was hourly persecuted, that I was kept in a continual state of vexation. I will confess to you, Mr. Gleaner, that the necessity of re|fusing

any request, importunately urged, agonizes me beyond description; and I have frequently done vio|lence to my most favourite wishes, and broke in upon plans that have been regularly arranged for a whole year, merely because I had not the firmness to with|stand the solicitations of those, who did not care three brass farthings what became of me or my views.

But, to begin my journey—I sat out, escorted by my brother, a modest, docile young man, altogether as unequal to opposition as myself; we had taken places in the stage, a front seat in which is generally thought the least eligible; but as it was my wish to inhale the perfumed breeze, and to indulge myself with viewing the beauty of the surrounding prospects, I had stipulated for one of those seats. I was not, however, permitted to occupy it; my remonstrances were ineffectual; the travellers too well understood what belonged to politeness, to let me remain in a situation ex|posed to dust, wind and sun; and I was compelled to take my quarters in a back seat, where I was absolute|ly nearly suffocated in the want of air, and had noth|ing in view but the number of very civil persons, who had thus contrived, with a politeness on which they plumed themselves very highly, to intercept every oth|er prospect. After many days, during which I was persecuted with a multiplicity of attentions, all of a nature similar to that which placed me in the rear of the carriage, we arrived at a village in the neighbour|hood of Philadelphia, whither I had been drawn by my desire of visiting a female friend, who had past some weeks at my father's. My friend is one of the few who is versed in all those delicate and minute at|tention, which soothe and assist, while they neither op|press which soothe; but, alas! by hard necessity she is depend 〈…〉〈…〉 a set of beings, whose ideas bear no more affinity to her's, than, darkness to light; and un|fortunately she possesses no power to influence their movements.

I am naturally ••••nd of tranquillity, and that I might be indulged in my own way, I had no sooner

reached the abode of my friend, than, avowedly for the purpose of contributing to my felicity, a numerous family, in all its branches, was thrown into confusion; a redundancy of apologies poured from every mouth, and they expressed, in the most moving terms, their regrets that their abilities were not proportioned to my superabounding merit. The children, too, were in dishabille—Mary's slip happened to be the worst she had; Catharine's holiday shoes were immediately or|dered out; and the eldest son, that he might exhibit his parts to the best advantage, was directed to pin on those ruffles which were sewed to tape, and carefully reserved to ornament his person on those gala days, which occasionally occurred in the family; but a new scene of disorder was thus opened, one of those said ruffles was unfortunately lost, in search of which the whole house was engaged, and every thing turned topsy turvy; yet, although each individual largely shared the perplexity produced by this accident, the search proved ineffectual, and master Johnny was re|duced to the necessity of setting down to supper with only one solitary ruffle! The good man of the house was thus furnished with an admirable opportunity of expatiating on female nonsicallities and primosities, and his satirical remarks were only suspended for the pur|pose of helping to load my plate. I was importuned to consider myself at home, and I was accused of a want of complacency in those viands, which it was evident they had with infinite labour collected for the sole purpose of gratifying my ladyship.

Supper over, I flattered myself, fatigued as I was, that I should at length be permitted to make my es|cape to the chamber of repose; but, ah me! I found to my inexpressible chagrin, that we were then only beginning the fifth act of the drama; the whole fam|ily were drawn out, and peremptorily ordered to sing for my amusement; and their tedious chansons, love ditties, and ballads, were chanted in rotation, encored and repeated in concert, until, at the instance of my sympathizing friend, I was permitted to retire. On

the ensuing day, scorched by the intense rays of a meridian sun, I was dragged over grounds, that evinc|ed nothing so much as the ill taste of the owner, and returned to take my seat at the dinner table, where the incidents which occurred seemed but a continua|tion of the scene opened the preceding evening

A round of visits succeeded, all of which were in the same style. I recollect one afternoon, a timely shower having given a peculiar sweetness to the even|ing breeze, being on one of these same visits, I antici|pated the pleasure of my walk homeward, distant about two miles; but this very shower, from which I had promised myself so much, proved a new source of vexation. The lady of the house, fearful that I might take cold after the rain, insisted on my accept|ing a cloak; it was to no purpose I assured her it would be particularly inconvenient to me; she was not to be outdone in good breeding; the cloak was pro|duced—it was a thick satin, lined, and full trimmed with a rich dark sable! I glowed spontaneously at its ap|proach! but notwithstanding all my resistance, I was arrayed in this cloak; and I returned to my tempo|rary home in a profuse perspiration. I might, Mr. Gleaner, proceed in my narration; but I have nearly got to the bottom of my paper. If I am properly en|couraged, you may hear from me again; and, in the mean time, I take the liberty to add, that I have con|ceived true politeness to consist in making people easy, and in permitting our connexions to enjoy themselves in their own way. I am, good Mr. Vigillius, your most obedient humble servant, and constant reader,

HARRIOT B—.

A continuation of the favours of Miss B—is so|licited. We trust her next excursion will prove more propitious; and we think she would figure with singu|lar elegance as a panegyrist.

N^o. LXVI.

Benevolence—can we too often trace Those lineaments which mark thy angel face? Too oft admire that philanthropic glow, Which feels by sympathy each human woe?

ALL the energies of benevolence, responsive sym|pathy, heavenly commiseration, a heart to con|ceive the most extensively munificent plans, a head to fashion, and perseverance to execute—All these I have seen contained in the compass of one little frame; and this frame, invaded by the despoiler, was constantly struggling to make head against the inroads of an in|satiate victor, whose despotic sway will continue, until the renovating morning, when He, whose government is universal, shall annihilate the power of a tyrant, who hath hitherto exulted to destroy.

Pleasant were his convivial hours; laughter rejoiced in his presence; but his mirth was unoffending, and all the sons of humour flocked to his standard. Ami|ably tender-hearted man! the stroke which severed thy beneficent spirit from the debilitated tenement it inhabited, gave death to the high-plumed hopes of all those, who, calculating on thy capacious benevolence, were in the habit of expecting from thee emancipation from every difficulty. Thou wert hailed as the friend of the destitute, who experienced, as surely as they made application, either thy bounty or thy extricating interference. While a single piece remained, thy purse continued open; and when thy immediate powers of aiding thy suffering brethren were exhausted, thy access to kindred benevolence, facilitated by thy un|common merit, furnished additional supplies; and such were thy resources, that the means of replenishing thy own funds were still at thy command. Often have I blest thy liberal purposes; and well did I know the goodness of that heart, which, alas! hath now ceased to beat!

It can hardly be necessary to name a man, whose general celebrity was so strongly marked. The sons of sorrow will not forget to revere his memory; the lisping tongues of the children of gratitude will still chant the praises of the philanthropist; and the un|bounded benevolence of a Joseph Russell may wake to extacy the yet unborn admirer of transcendent excel|lence. Doubtless, he was a branch of the Shandian family; "the milk of human kindness," with a never ebbing current, flowed in his veins; nor did any Le Fevre languish, within his knowledge, to whom he did not hasten to administer the oil and wine of consola|tion. I recollect an anecdote relative to this benevo|lent man, not perhaps generally known; and, as I conceive it will strikingly evince his affinity to the Shandian stock, I feel impelled to produce it. The circumstance adverted to, took place in his youth, when his pulse beat high for pleasure, and the hilarity of his disposition frequently presented him at the shrine of genuine humour.

A party of young men had determined to devote a morning to shooting. Russell, the soul of every enjoy|ment, was solicited to join in the predatory scheme; and, unskilled in the science of refusal, the tenderness of his disposition was for once sacrificed to his accom|modating temper. The evening preceding the ap|pointment was spent in preparation for the important enterprize; and, at the peep of day, accoutred cap-a-pie for the occasion, he joined his depredating comrades. They marched for a time in a compact line; but judg|ing that so formidable a body would spread the alarm through the little community, against whose rights they were plotting, they conceived some manoeuvring necessary; and, departing in separate directions, they prepared to ambush the little beings, who, alas! pos|sessed neither policy nor defence, sufficient to enshield either their own lives, o•• that of their beloved nest|lings.

Russell placed himself in a cumbent posture on the velvet margin of a limpid stream, almost surrounded

by the tall trees that towered on its banks; his piece, primed for execution, was by his side, and scarce a breeze interrupted the peaceful serenity of the scene. The sun was just rising above the horizon, and its ra|diant influence, darting through the foliage, spangled every dew-drop, and glittered over the azure bosom of the slowly winding rivulet. The birds, at length, flut|tering in the branches, began the progress of the day. A parent robin perched on an extreme bough, im|pending exactly over the head of our young adventurer, unconscious of the mischiefs that awaited him, incau|tiously kept his airy stand. The ambushed foe present|ed his piece, took aim, grasped the trigger, and was on the point of discharging his piece, when the un|wary warbler, apparently in the moment of his fate, poured forth from his little throat such a stream of melody, as was more than sufficient to arrest the pur|pose of a much greater adept in the science of bird-killing. The fascinating notes vibrated on the ear of Russell with swan-like efficacy; he dropt his piece, and again reclined perdue; he still listened; but his design was to ••ear, and not to destroy. The robin was soon joined by numbers of the feathered choir, who, mingling their matin lays, continued melo|diously chanting; the ambient zephyr echoed the strains; every breath was in unison, and the music of nature floated around. It was a scene worthy of benev|olence, and the rapt soul of Russell acknowledged its congeniality. "Blest innocents!" he cried,

go, war|ble in the ear of the maternal bird, and glad, by your sweetest carols, the domestic nest; narrate, my little flutterers, how you have disarmed your enemy, and say, that against lives so unoffending, his hand shall never more be raised.

The birds, as if obedient to his mandate, or, more strictly speaking, alarmed by the sound of his voice, spreading their party-coloured wings, instantly dispersed; and Russell, shouldering his firelock, triumphantly left the grove.

To the raillery consequent on the tenderness of his nature, he was fully equal. His party had, what they

termed, a successful morning; and the feathered vic|tims they produced, evinced the deathful valour of their exploits. Russell, on that memorable day, feasted on vegetables, in all their maturity of excellence and rich variety; he consecrated the era sacred from the repast of blood; and the ripened strawberry, meliorated by refined sugar and a flowing bowl of cream, crowned his dessert; nor was he ever after known to attempt aught against the defenceless and tuneful inhabitants of the grove.

I have thought that Russell's robin was a fit com|panion for Uncle Toby's fly; and, that the annals of benevolence may no longer record the Shandian ebul|lition as a solitary instance, it is here inserted. I con|tend also, that the benign feelings which preserved the life of the robin, were original in the bosom of Rus|sell; for, at that period, his eye had never travelled over the heterogeneous pages of Tristram Shandy.

The action, however trivial, was indicative of the disposition of the man; and it may be viewed as a sin|gle thread of that web, the texture of which was equal and consistent. He was, in the most extensive sense, a philanthropist; the poet has perfectly delineated him. His sympathy and humane exertions primarily embrac|ed those whose alliance to his blood naturally demanded his aid; but the rays of his beneficence, diverging from a centre so virtuously infixed, extended their genial in|fluence to his fellow-citizens at large; and the human being existed not, whose claim to his regard he refused to acknowledge. Nay, his capacious mind, emanating from the Parent of the universe, encircled, by its over|flowing aspirations, every being of every description. He anticipated the extermination of evil; and he saw, in imagination, vice, and its concomitant, sorrow, ban|ished from the wide extensive circle of all intelligence. No wonder then that earth possessed, in his estimation, superior charms, and that, viewing it as the production of a supreme and beneficent Architect, it was dressed for him in smiles. When the severing angel caught from his embraces hose he best loved, he felt, it is

true, a pang; but that pang was transient; and, wip|ing from his cheek the natural tear, his elevated spirit rejoiced in the assurance, that he also was in a state of progression, and that he should soon rejoin them in a new and improved state of being. Thus he passed on; and, while he blessed the bounties of Omnipotence, the virtues of heaven were imaged in his bosom. Spirit of Pope! immortal bard! forgive this appropriating paraphrase of thy rich and beautiful versification; a description of the philanthropist must invariably in|volve thy well selected ideas; and it suits with thy mu|nificence to bestow, from thy abundance, a portion of that thou canst so well spare.

Benevolence—philanthropy—The name and charac|ter of Mr. Joseph Russell has been considered as synoni|mous with these virtues. Should I attempt to particular|ize his deeds of worth, innumerable instances would crowd around. Thronging fellow-citizens, aided by counsel and by pecuniary gratuities—bankrupts reinstated—the little tenement and household goods of the widow redeemed from the merciless grasp of the unfeeling creditor—helpless orphans accommodated with pater|nal friends—public measures, tending to the general good, powerfully supported—strangers hospitably re|ceived, and taught to hail a second home.

What were the feelings of the amiable, the youthful La Fayette! How swelled the bosom, and how beat the pulse of his worthy preceptor, when, in the hum|ble guise of persecuted foreigners, their wandering footsteps first pressed the threshold of the benevolent Russell! first met, in that celebrated abode of genial hospitality, a reception so amply suited to their exigen|cies and their merits.

But vain in my recital. A virtue so uncommon, and marked by such a multitude of instances, dazzles by its refulgence; and, although many of his philan|thropic exertions, which should have been recorded by the living fingers of immortal fame, enveloped by in|gratitude, and clouded by a train of succeeding cir|cumstances, are nearly erased from the tablets of hu|manity;

yet they are registered in the archives of heaven; from their imagined obscurity they shall again emerge; and, in the day of retribution, they shall blaze forth with additional splendor.

But hark! what plaintive sounds are those which vibrate on the ear? The voice of the pensive Elmira, borne on the stream of imagination, strikes suddenly on my memory; it breathes the sweet accents of grat|itude. Let us listen to its pathetic strains.

"Forbear, my friend," she exclaims, "Oh! forbear—close not the page of panegyric, until I pour thereon my tributary sorrow—until I recite a simple tale, and give a list of benefits, which demand of acknowledg|ment the boldest note that ever yet hath issued from lively gratitude. My days of prosperity were passed at a distance from the philanthropist; I had heard of him by the hearing of the ear, but my eyes had never seen him. My morn of life was happy; cherished in the bosom of parental tenderness, and blest with every requisite which my situation demanded, no rational wish remained ungratified. My wedded days succeed|ed; and my power of contributing to the felicity of my connexions, was rendered more various and pleas|ing. I dreamed not of portending evils, established, as I conceived, in life; I looked not for the bursting storm. Suddenly, however, it arose, and it deluged all those fair prospects which had blest my youth; surrounded by the waves of adversity, I was nearly overwhelmed by its billows. Writs of attachment; irritated creditors, and sheriffs' officers surrounded those doors that were barricaded with a frightful kind of vigilance. Abridged of liberty, that gem of incalcu|lable value, whose cheering influence gilds by its own genial rays, even the cottage of freedom, I steeped the hours in tears; and, at the shrine of comfortless calamity, both my health and my reason were alike im|molated. My name was unknown to the philanthropist, but my sufferings became its passport; and, unsolicited, the benevolent Russell had the goodness to plead my cause: Persuasion dwelt on his tongue; there was a

kind of magic in his virtues which generally operated successfully. What mortal could achieve, he did; and, to mitigate those ills he could not cure, he bent his utmost efforts. Change of air, exercise, a long journey—these were proposed by medical gentlemen for the restoration of my prostrated health and spirits. I commenced my melancholy excursion; my unknown friend met me on my way: It was in the beautiful village of D—, that I first saw the philanthropist; he essayed to chase sorrow from my mind, and to rekindle in my bosom the pleasures of anticipation. His kind interference followed me to the end of this tour of necessity; and he mingled with the dearest of my friends to gratulate my return. Nor did his beneficent efforts cease here; he was indefatigably persevering in my favour, taking in my fate the deepest interest, aiding me with genuine delicacy, triumphing in every propitious event, and warding, as far as he might, every adverse cloud. His acts of goodness to me, were the coevals of his being, and the last day of his abode in mortality witnessed his benevolent at|tentions.

"Cruel was the stroke of death; it prostrated the hopes of the desolate; it precipitated from the summit of felicity to depths of sorrow the female whom he judged worthy of his confidence; it blasted the filial expectations of that incomparable young man, who, it is said, inherits with his father's name his uncommon virtues; and it clad in mourning the PUBLIC MIND. Benevolent Man! Matchless Citizen! and now, indeed, Divine Philanthropist! Let the tears that marked thy exit, proclaim thy value. But reflection arrests the tide of sorrow; it imposes silence on my lips, and I bow obedient to the behests of THE ALMIGHTY."

Poor Elmira!—yet we believe her gratitude hath not too far emblazoned; and we therefore constitute her sketch a true specimen of the benevolent and un|commonly useful life of the late uniformly philan|thropic and virtue honoured JOSEPH RUSSELL.

N^o. LXVII.

Again a Russell lends the copious theme, To the same fount we trace the kindred stream; From God himself the sacred spark was caught, With philanthropic fervour amply fraught.

I knew him not, save by the voice of fame, Which dwells enraptur'd on his splendid name; Yet, will I sweep for him my humble lyre, Virtues like his must every heart inspire.

Yea, though contending panegyrists rise, While worth, exhaustless worth, the page supplies—

Though Rev'rend THATCHER lifts the voice of praise, And MORSE the votive tribute joins to raise; Though WARREN mingles in the pious train, Moulding the classic, eulogizing strain; Though countless bards with emulative zeal, Pour forth the sorrows they so keenly feel—

Though GARDINER's magic verse, attun'd by worth, Offers sweet incense at the shrine of truth, Forbears to satirize, and joins the throng, Mounting the pinions of immortal song—

Though e'en PH••••••NIA decks the honour'd bier, And graceful drops the rich embalming tear, Twining those peerless lines that shall endure, From mouldering time and death itself secure—

Yet, unappal'd, I here devote the lay, Echo applause, and ready homage pay; The little stream the monarch river swells, And the small ray a flood of light impels.

WITH the subject of my last number I was intimately acquainted; his virtues were daily under my observation, and I was familiar with his deeds of worth. But, to the Honorable Thomas Rus|sell, whose name I am ambitious of inserting in my list of worthies, I was personally unknown; yet, I have frequently listened with rapture to the authentic nar|rator of his meritorious deeds. The record of his life, is a record of splendid actions—of actions, which, gem|med by compassion, and its attendant sympathies, uniformly gave to his character the highest lustre. With admirable propriety has the energetic Divine

adapted the sacred text; and a paraphrase thereon might be entitled, an admeasurement of the virtues and the usefulness of this universal benefactor.

"When the ear heard me, then it blessed me." Forlorn and disconsolate, the children of adversity were en|compassed about by sorrow; they looked, and there was no one to help, when suddenly the renovating voice of commiseration vibrated gratefully on the ear. Cheer up, ye sons and daughters of sorrow, behold the almoner of your God! Our common Father hath en|trusted me with a portion of his property, that I may distribute to the necessities of the destitute: Come, therefore, my friends, and permit me to bestow that, to which your claims are indubitable. "When the ear heard me, then it blessed me;" nor is this strange, since so few people know how to approach the children of penury, with that consideration which their circum|stances demand; no wonder that the voice of him who was exercised in acts of benevolence, should extort ap|plause, even from the perception of frigidity.

"When the eye saw me, it gave witness to me." Yea, verily, from the contemplation of benignity, we derive sensations truly pleasurable; we trace, with a kind of conscious pride, those actions which confer a dignity on humanity; and, if sickening envy is composed by the powerful opiates of self-interest, we give full scope to our admiration; our eyes are suffused by the tear of rapture; they delight to mark the philanthropist, and they follow, with ineffable complacency, so illustrious an ornament to humanity. "When the eye saw me, it gave witness to me"—the reason is obvious—"Because I delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to help him." Excellent motives of com|placency! indisputable testimonies of transcendent merit! he bent an ear to the lamentations of poverty—he presented the means of living, and thus cut asunder the bands of affliction—he protected the fatherless—he hailed, with the gentle soothings of paternal conso|lation, the bereaved orphan—he became the guide of his youth—he constituted the fund from which he

drew an ample support—in one word, he was the pat|ron of his life.

"The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me." Do we not see the desolate stranger?—he has not where to lay his head—he is an exile from the place of his nativity—his natural connexions are no more—his spirit is broken by infirmities—the sorrows of his heart have invaded the seat of life—his brow is furrowed by those cares, which, alas! have proved ineffectual—his pallid cheeks are hollowed by the excavating hand of agonizing woe—his frame is emaciated—he trembles on the brink of the grave—"he is ready to perish." But Russell was the friend of the friendless—"of him that had none to help him." Hark! do we not hear the ben|edictions of gratitude?—they are wafted upon the per|fumed gale of fame—"he who was ready to perish" now swells high the notes of praise—existence assumes to him another aspect—hope is restored to his bosom—motives for attachment to life are suddenly multi|plied unto him—his wants are liberally supplied—and, upon the head of his munificent benefactor, his tongue invoketh blessings.

"And I caused the widow's heart to sing for joy!" Poor, desolate mourner! at the period which inhumed in the gloomy mansions of the grave, him in whom her soul delighted, her widowed spirit calculated on an unbrok|en succession of melancholy days; but the heart of the good man still beat compassionately. In the bosom of Russell dwelt the virtues of commiseration—pleasant is the voice of amity, its honied accents sounded grate|ful on her ear, and her heart once more "sings for joy." Yes, undoubtedly, the path of Russell was the path of rectitude; it was pointed by righteousness, and wisdom influenced his election; for admirable is the judgment of that philanthropist, who becomes "eyes to the blind, feet to the lame, and a father to the poor;" who investigat|eth the cause of ••he oppressed; who "searcheth it out," and arrests the decision of iniquity; who procureth a righteous hearing, and becometh an advocate for the afflicted. Such actions are indeed "as a robe and a dia|dem;"

they are productive of general benefit, and they are entitled to universal applause.

That Mr. Russell richly merited the eulogy of virtue, the unaffected sorrow with which all ranks of people re|garded his exit, fully evinceth. To repeat, that he well discharged the filial duties, and was the principal prop of a venerable parent, who still lives to mourn his depart|ure; to celebrate his attachment to the orphan children of a deceased brother; to dwell on his delicate and faith|ful affection to the amiable females who successively be|came the partners of his heart; to descant on his pater|nal goodness to those of whose existence he was the au|thor; or, to expatiate on his beneficent regards to the individuals who composed his household, would be but a superfluous attempt to distinguish and dignify propen|sities, which are the residents of almost every bosom; and, had Mr. Russell possessed only these common at|tachments of humanity, which are but a refined modifi|cation of self-love, he would have merited no tributary lay, and his panegyrists would have incurred the charge of adulation. But to the friend of the friendless, to the universal benefactor, the bard of integrity spon|taneously raiseth the song; and, although the ear of death is heavy, that it cannot hear, yet we pleasingly believe, that the immortal spirit sleepeth not; nor is it irrational to suppose, that it sometimes bends from its etherial elevation, listening with complacency to the effusions of gratitude, to the expressed commendations of those virtuous children of men, whose approbation it once delighted to merit.

To communicate benefits is truly godlike; and, in proportion as we are made instrumental in disseminat|ting happiness to our fellow-creatures, exactly in such proportion we imitate Him who went about doing good. The exercise of munificence is invariably re|garded with a glow of satisfaction; and perhaps this vestige of an illustrious and divine original, is never totally obliterated from the heaven-born mind. That Mr. Russell was eminently conspicuous for the number and value of his beneficent acts, the concurrent testimo|nies

of those who best knew him unanimously pro|claim. Seldom have we known a character who hath so fully united the suffrages of all ranks in this partic|ular; and it is, we conceive, on this ground, that the splendor and eclat of his life is chiefly rested.

His integrity and punctuality as a merchant; his extensive commercial knowledge, with the vast advan|tages which accrued from his mercantile career, were but the appendages of sound policy, ingenuity, habit and application. The easy manners, the gracefully elevated deportment, the freedom of access, and gen|uine politeness, attributed to Mr. Russell, but designate the gentleman. Early introduced to, and making a respectable part of, the most genteel circles, it would have been rather surprising, if his deportment had not been that of a man thoroughly well bred. His wealth, and consequent importance, might possibly place him at the head of those societies, over which he presided with honour to himself, and advantage to them; and his opulence may be supposed to have been his passport to many other honorary distinctions. But it has been presumed, that affectionate sympathy and unreserved sincerity are not generally the necessary result of an inter|course with what is called high life; and for these pro|ductive virtues, we are inclined to give the deceased philanthropist full credit; they were unquestionably inherent in his bosom; and hence issued those fertiliz|ing streams, which made glad the sons and daughters of sorrow; hence originated that cheerful and equal disposition of mind, and that frankness of temper, which banished suspicion, and authorized the most un|equivocal confidence; and, to the same source we may likewise trace his unbounded hospitality, and that man|ly and grateful welcome, with which he ever greeted the footsteps of the stranger.

Religion diffused over the excellent qualities of his heart her meliorating influence; he reverenced her laws, and bent in humble acquiescence and filial obe|dience to her dictates. Her ministers possessed his re|spectful and distinguishing regards; he constantly lent

them his countenance; he was particularly fond of patronizing men of merit in this line; and the hand|some benefaction which he bestowed on the fund ap|propriated to the relief of those among their widows, whose circumstances are embarrassed, is evincive of his attachment to, and consideration for, this venera|ble body. Here again we are brought round to a contemplation of that liberality, on which we have chosen principally to rear the superstructure of his fame. It is said that Mr. Russell annually appropri|ated twelve thousand dollars to private charities! What an ample relief must this sum, distributed by the hand of economy, have afforded to those indigent sufferers, who were the pensioners of his bounty! How do the virtues which give birth to such liberal arrangements command esteem! how do they endear the man, and exalt the citizen! And who but must painfully regret the exit of a personage, by whose departure such rich and copious streams are, alas! suddenly dried up? Who but must supplicate the Fountain of munificence, that they may again spring forth in the lives of his descendants? who, if they pursue the path marked out for them by their illustrious ancestors, will unquestion|ably insure to themselves the highest possible honours, the esteem, confidence and approbation of their fellow|men, the peace of their own bosoms, and the plaudit of their Creator.

But the munificence of Mr. Russell was not exclu|sively shared by those claimants, to whom his judgment apportioned occasional gratuities; nor was it wholly confined to the citizens of Columbia. Mankind in gen|eral, according to their necessities, seemed to be the object of his beneficence, while his diffusive and equal regards extended their genial influence to the far distant shore. Instances of his generosity are, questionless, echoed in many a clime; but a recent example, strikingly in point, may serve as a close to this sketch.

A respectable house in a celebrated European em|porium, (the capital of which was supposed immense) celebrated for punctuality and probity, suddenly stop|ped

payment, and astonishment pervaded every de|scription of our merchants. This misfortune was not attributed to ill conduct, but rather to a succession of adverse accidents; and an arrangement was speedily produced, which enabled one of the firm to visit Ameri|ca, for the purpose of collecting outstanding debts. This gentleman arrived in the town of Boston, the metropolis of Massachusetts, (which place Mr. Russell then dignified by his presence) under the pressure of very unpleasant circumstances. Both the house and heart of the generously hospitable Russell were open for his reception. A travelling prince could scarcely have been received with higher marks of respectful atten|tion; and he found in the bosom of this worthy fami|ly, during his abode there, an elegantly pleasing asy|lum. But this was not enough—the kindness of the American merchant stopped not here. From the pe|riod which announced the failure of the European house, no commercial negociation had been entrusted to its firm. Under such a cloud the wary trader stood aloof; but the bosom of Mr. Russell possessed a sym|pathetic chord, which, as surely as his eye glanced on the children of adversity, uniformly vibrated to pity; he regarded the claims of misfortune as sacred; and he conceived, that the suffering individual imposed on him duties which were indispensable. Through the powerful aid and extensive influence of Mr. Russell, two ships, richly laden with West-India productions, and calculated, with their cargoes, to amount to not less than forty thousand pounds, were consigned to the pros|trate house! The emoluments arising from the sale of these valuable appropriations, let the arithmetician compute. What an advantageous re-commencement of business was thus furnished▪ and what a benign lustre is thereby thrown over the American name! But a further act of beneficence remains to be re|counted.

On the departure of the European, Mr. Russell, with that delicacy which is the appendage of munifi|cent actions, presented him with bills, for his separate

and sole use, to the amount of five hundred pounds ster|ling; inclosing, also, like sums for similar purposes, to the unfortunate gentlemen with whom he stood con|nected!!! To throw the veil of silence over virtues thus splendid, would, we conceive, betray a phlegmatic or an envious mind; and the advantages resulting from eulogizing the meritorious dead, are too obvious to need enumeration.

The panegyrist of the everlastingly absent, if he lev|ies no tax on survivors, cannot be accused of interest|ed motives; he has but expressed his admiration of what he has conceived abstractedly good; he does not do homage to the creature, for he regards every vir|tue as emanating from Deity; and he is morally and religiously certain, that he risks nothing by prostrat|ing before the image of his Creator, wherever it may consist with the arrangements of Omnipotence to im|press it.

N^o. LXVIII.

Who can the coming moment designate, Or to enjoyments give a certain date? Those scenes that promise most, by fancy wrought, And with enthusiastic ardour sought, Full oft disgust the fond believing heart, While disappointment tops her blighting part.

Again—when wrap'd in clouds the view appears, And on its disk no pleasing promise wears, When clust'ring joys come not within our plan, And, to endure it, is the most we can, Then—mark the caprice—tip-toe pleasures spring, Thick o'er our path the richest flowers to fling; The unexpected good we grateful bless, And all its magic influence confess.

THE experience of every day evinces that hu|manity is subject to error; those calculations that we fancy we have made with the greatest accuracy, frequently, by proving the reverse of truth, betray our total ignorance both of causes and effects. I have

sometimes feasted, by anticipation, for many days, on the refined and genuine pleasures which I confidently believed would result from the collection of a select party of sentimentalists, who were, by appointment, to devote a few hours to the social enjoyments of conver|sation. My heart has beat high with expectation, and I have hasted with avidity to the place of rendezvous; but, in vain have I watched for the moment of senti|ment; in vain sighed for the richly enrobed thought, which I might bear as a trophy from a scene where I had calculated to partake the feast of reason; for, strange to tell, the gems of intellect were muffled in the thickest clouds—not a ray was elanced—and the company have separated without a single observation which could merit an inscription upon the tablets of memory!

But, if I have been necessitated to confess that expec|tations, originating in reason, have proved fallacious, my mortification has been amply balanced by oppor|tunities from which I have reaped a large supply of intellectual enjoyments, where I have looked for taste|less silence, or noisy mirth.

Considerations of interest, the duties of good neigh|bourhood, or motives of general civility, have fre|quently introduced me to parties, that, but for the obligations thus imposed, I should have avoided. Yet, in these resorts, a rich repast has awaited me! Nature, unadulterated, and replete with sterling worth, has stood confessed; silence, impressed by respectful at|tention, has hung on the lips of the hearers, and thus endowed with energy even the timid speaker. Inquiry has produced inquiry; a subject of conversation has obtained the general ear; individuals have alternately expressed their sentiments; rational conclusions have been deduced; and I have returned home, informed, complacent and happy.

"We are to have a pantomimical exhibition at the Thea|tre—will you go, Mr. Vigillius?" said an inquirer; No, Sir—I detest pantomimes. Speech was bestowed on man as a distinguishing mark of superiority; and

it is, methinks, a strange depravity of taste, which, reject|ing this dignifying advantage, confineth the performer to dumb shew: Besides, I have an insuperable aversion to the degradation of the "human form divine." Man was made in the image of his Maker, and I regard the debasement of this image, as absolute profanity. The antic gestures which the pantomimical performer fre|quently assumes, in my opinion, do violence to every idea of propriety; and I pity the mind which is suffi|ciently vitiated to draw amusement from such fantas|tical sources.

"I will not dispute the correctness of your taste, Mr. Gleaner," returned the gentleman, "but the pantomime is to be preceded by Shakespear's Tempest, or Enchanted Island." What lover of the drama but feels his bosom glow at the mention of this immortal bard? I had read the Tempest, but I had never seen it on the stage; and a friend, whose judgment no votary of science hath ever yet impeached, had informed me its stage effect was wonderful.

Yes, I will go by all means; and, elated by the most sanguine expectations, in a front box I obtained a front seat. The curtain drew up; and the tempested ship—the billowy waves—the storm of thunder and lightning—the affrighted mariners—the crash of the ••alling mast, all together, obtained their full effect; and I could scarcely have believed it in the power of fiction to have raised such a hurricane in my breast. But, from this moment, I experienced little else but disap|pointment and disgust. Some of the finest sentiments were so mangled and mutilated, that it became impos|sible to re-unite them, or to endow them with that divine energy, thus extinguished by their dissolution, which was breathed into them by the creative bard, when they first received the vital principle. Whole speeches were so mouthed and misrepresented, that we smiled were we should have wept; and were fretting with vexation, when the genuine wit of the inimitable author should have excited the most mirthful approba|tion! Yet the part of Prospero was well supported; he

seemed apprized of the gravity of his character, and he seldom forgot his dignity. Ariel, also, the spirit Ariel, her sylph like movements would indeed have become an inhabitant of the blue expanse; she was exactly what we could have wished her, as near celestial as the habiliments of mortality would permit; not a soul but blest the winged vision, and not a hand but was raised to approbate her emancipating ascen|sion. Her "follow, follow, follow," still vibrates melo|diously on my ear; indeed, even the most phlegmatic must confess that Miss Harding is a very lovely and a very promising child. With respect to the other performers, they generally overtopped or undervalued their parts; and, although Dorinda and Miranda were very engaging women, yet they seemed to have little idea of that artless simplicity with which the education they were supposed to receive, should have invested them; and I suspect it will be some time before they will be qualified for an assumption of Shakespear's capital characters.

The play over, I was hurrying away, with the pain|ful reflection that I had lost an evening; but in the moment of my intended departure, I was arrested by the observation, that a serious pantomime was to be pre|sented. A serious pantomime! repeated I. I will stay then, and see of what stuff a serious pantomime is com|posed. La Forete Noire, or the Picture Discovered—this was the title of the piece; and, to my great aston|ishment, it possessed every feature of a well conceived and regular comedy. The plot was evident and strik|ingly worked up; it had its Protasis, its Epitasis, and its Catastasis; and these introduced a most happy ca|tastrophe. Whether the unities are strictly preserved, I cannot exactly determine; but if they are not, while Shakespear abounds with precedents of the utmost latitude in this respect▪ an inferior author will hardly become inconsolable for such defects. On the drawing up of the curtain, Madame G— was discovered at her toilette; from her work-bag she drew a parcel of letters, from which, selecting one, she seemed almost

to devour the contents; and while she traced and re|traced the lines, we read, in her agitated countenance, the strongest emotions; Suddenly she arose, and now, with quick and perturbed steps, anon solemn and slow, she traversed the stage, evidently struggling to obtain that self-command, which may put her in possession of some degree of calmness—her efforts prove ineffectual, and she hastens to the wainscot, where, touching a secret spring, the pannel flies back, and exhibits a por|trait, to which she addresses the most impassioned aspi|rations. Every one readily concluded that the picture was the resemblance of a person whose image was unquestionably engraven on her heart, and whose letters she had been so fervidly perusing. On the ap|proach of footsteps she retouched the spring, and the friendly pannel again concealed the object to whom she had been breathing her tributary sighs. A figure, on whose brow the dignity of manhood sat enthroned, next approached; she hastened to meet him; and we hesitated not to pronounce him the original of the portrait, the writer of the letters, and the man of her affections. A tender interview having succeeded, the almost distracted fair one warned him of approaching danger; and, so irresistible, so heart affecting were her pleadings, that, yielding to her energetically enforced wishes, and tearing himself from her embraces, he reluctantly made his escape from the open casement to which she had conducted him. Our heroine then approached an apartment, and a particular signal produced from thence a beautiful boy, whom she em|braced with such animated transport, as induced us to pronounce, without hesitation, that she pressed him to a maternal bosom: After she had evinced, by a variety of animated gestures the inherent claim he possessed to her protection, she led him, all agitated and trem|bling, to her toilette, and, putting into his hands a letter, the perusal of which produces in the child the unequivocal expressions of surprise, affection and filial duty, she has once more recourse to her treasure behind the wainscot; she points it out to the little

cherub, who, in a transport of duteous attachment, assays to grasp the respected figure, leaps on his feet, throws abroad his hands, clasps them in a petitioning attitude, as if soliciting a father's benediction; and, in short, demonstrates, beyond the power of language, every emotion which could be supposed to triumph in the affectionate bosom of innocence, on an unexpected discovery of the author of its being. Just at this junc|ture, a loud noise interrupted the sweet and amiable effusions of young attachment; the boy was hurried to his place of concealment, the picture veiled, and the lady prepared to meet the approaching storm; nor was she long held in suspense. Her father entered, and, ignorant of the marriage she had clandestinely procured, he was accompanied by a person, whom from his dress we conclude to be an ecclesiastic, whom he commands her to receive as her future husband. The authority of this father was marked by austere severity; he en|joined with unrelenting sternness, and it was evident that he would admit of no appeal. The lady entreat|ed, but her supplications were ineffectual; her tyran|nic father continued obdurate. It appears he is one of those grey beards, against whom Octavian, in the Mountaineers, is so justly exasperated; and of course he is peremptory and despotic, and his weeping daughter is left to receive the man in black as her intended lord and master. He, good soul, appears to possess a comfortable share of sang-froid, and a most ludicrous scene ensues, to which the lady puts an end by making her escape; when her would be lover sneaks off in a manner which may be termed mock heroic.

The secreted child then presents himself, who, peeping from his confinement, and finding no one to cross his path, is compelled, by a very natural curiosity, to retrace the lines which had given him such surprizing information; he seizes the work-bag, and, skipping with it to the front of the stage, places himself in a convenient attitude for examination; one letter is taken out, and another, and another,

which, not proving the paper he wished, are careless|ly tossed about, until, with childish impetuosity, he grasps the whole parcel, and after throwing them promiscuously over the floor, relinquishing the pur|suit, he hastes to catch one more glance at the be|loved portrait, by which he had been so much cap|tivated. With skilful hand he touches the ready spring, the obedient pannel yields to his pressure, and he again exhibits those testimonies of a duteous heart which are so becoming, and in him so hazardous. But as the tremendous thunder and the lightning's glare, to him who had promised himself a serene sky, or as the roar of the hungry lion, to the traveller who dreamed of security, thus fearfully portentous sounded the tread of authority in the ear of the poor affrighted victim, who, all trembling and appalled, flew to his place of shelter, regardless of the letters that strewed the floor, and utterly forgetting to veil the treasured portrait. The old gentleman entered, and, starting with astonishment at the lettered floor, he happened to stumble upon the explanatory paper which the boy had overlooked; he reads, and a hur|ricane of the passions succeeds; all is revealed; the clandestine marriage, the child, his secret residence, the pannel—he raises his eyes, and the uncovered picture vouches the authenticity of every syllable! He traverses the stage, stamps, distorts his figure, and acts a part proper for the madman, which sur|prise and unrelenting cruelty had rendered him. With demonstrations of ungovernable rage, he makes his way to the sanctuary of innocence; and, rudely seizing the little sufferer, he seems about to sacrifice him to his vengeance; but the uproar producing the entrance of two ill-looking fellows, the beauteous boy, with expressions of savage barbarity, is commit|ted to them! In vain the little unfortunate kneels and supplicates; his pleadings avail him not; and the ap|pearance of his mother, while it heightens the agony of the scene, procures no relenting in the breast of the grandfather! She weeps, prostrates and implores;

but had she assailed the rude winds, or the impen|etrable rock, her intercessions had been as effectual; driven to desperation, she seizes the lovely child, and once more presses him to her maternal bosom; by command of her savage parent, he is torn from her embraces, and forcibly hurried away by the ruffians to whom he is committed! while the distressed lady, fainting in the arms of her attendant, is borne off, and the scene is thus terminated.

We were next introduced to a dreary forest, where we met the little exile, for whom we were so deeply interested, with the two ruffians, who seem on the point of imbruing their hands in innocent blood!! By the most heart-affecting gestures, the little mourner discovers the agony of his soul; but mercy is denied him, and he trembles on the verge of eternity, when he is suddenly rescued by the captain of a banditti, who, putting those authorized assassins to flight, takes the boy under his protection. The robber's design to guard the child was unequivocally expressed, by his wrapping him in his enormous cloak; and when the succeeding scene presents the assembled banditti, pro|ducing their various booty, we are prepared to admire their chief, who uncovers the rescued innocent as the fruits of his expedition. The disgust expressed by the nefarious fraternity, is the consequent result of their depravity; and we cannot but tremble for the little wanderer, although apprized that his protector is at hand, when we find him on the point of being sacri|ficed to the turpitude of their feelings. His second rescue by the commander of these atrocious offenders—his subsequent pleadings for him whose hand was raised to take his life—the appeal of the chief to his subordinates—his striking comparison between the un|merited clemency of that infant, and their unmanly and groundless malice—with the extorted applause and reconciliation which ensued, were finely imagined, and a most wonderful piece of acting.

On the dispersion of the robbers, we are called to witness a struggle in the bosom of the little hero, be|tween

his gratitude to his preserver and his filial af|fection. He wore on his breast the miniature of his mother; this picture captivated the robber, and he endeavoured to prevail on the boy to relinquish it. Agitated to an extreme, he entreats permission to re|tain it—any thing else he would part with—but that picture, clasping it to his heart, that picture must still remain with him. The robber offers him in exchange an elegant watch—this charms him—he seizes it with avidity, views it over and over, admires it much, claps it to his ear—and then, catching the picture, presses it to his lips, and, with a smile of self-complacency, de|livers up the watch. The robber, (I can hardly pre|vail on myself so frequently to bestow on him this de|testable epithet) charmed by the strength of his filial affection, and admiring so much firmness in a mind so young, made him a present of the watch, and led him off in triumph.

The eventful forest then presents the lady herself, surrounded by the banditti. Either a voluntary exile from her father's house, or driven thence by his savage cruelty, she had wandered forth, and, ere she was aware, her trembling steps had led her to those haunts of horror!! All the energies of commiseration are now roused to action. A female—in a thick forest—surrounded by the most hardened wretches—no eye to pity, and no hand to protect. The abandoned villains evidently meditate the worst of purposes—rudely they grasp her hands—they seem to confer on a division of their prize—and, like savage beasts of prey, they exult over their agonized victim. The distress of the lady is beyond description—her fine tresses hang in disor|dered ringlets on her well-formed shoulders—anguish riots in her pallid countenance—and succour, alas! is placed beyond all rational hope. At this moment, the captain of the banditti, accompanied by his little fa|vourite, makes his appearance—a transient gleam of joy illumes the grief-worn countenance of the lady—she snatches her child to her bosom—but alas! the chief, more enchanted by the original than the picture,

immediately prefers his ferocious suit—he is rejected with spontaneous marks of detestation—a pointed po|niard seems to be the alternative, to which, presenting her defenceless bosom, she smiles beneath the expected stroke. The mode of attack was then changed; and, while her beloved child is held by two of the most hardened of the banditti, a sword is pointed at his breast, which, it appears, her continued refusal will pierce with the stroke of death! Is it possible to imag|ine a situation more shockingly interesting? Her feel|ings were wrought up to a degree of frenzy—despair nerved her efforts—and, with more than mortal cour|age, she flew, and, snatching the boy, fled with him from her pursuers! Again, however, she was over|taken; but in the struggle, the general attention being arrested by the lady, the boy escaped, and she is borne off by the banditti.

But the pantomime draws towards a close, and hope begins to dawn. We are presented with the hero of the piece; his figure is commanding, and his counte|nance unites the traits of those virtues, which go to the conformation of the gentleman and the soldier. His company is drawn up on the stage, and he is in the act of performing the manual exercise, when sud|denly a little cherub, agitated and trembling, rushes forward, and, kneeling at the feet of the military com|mander, supplicates his extricating hand; and, to make certain the assistance which he solicited, he presents the picture of his mother, then a suffering captive in the hands of the most abandoned of the human race. The picture was instantly recognized; and astonish|ment, paternal affection, joy, grief, love, detestation, pity, indignation, tender apprehension, and determined bravery, in one pathetically interesting and tumultu|ous contrast, were strikingly grouped. But no time was to be lost. Instantly, in a manner expressive of the hurricane in his breast, catching his son in his arms, and followed by his soldiers, he pursued his way to that recess of atrocious villany, to which his little guide directed. The consequences were precisely

what might have been expected; the robbers were sur|prised in those haunts which they had believed secure; a skirmish ensued; fire-arms were employed; success declared on the side of rectitude; the banditti were completely defeated; and the victor, when in the mo|ment of plunging his sword into the bosom of their chief, finds his arm arrested by his heroic boy, who forcibly representing the obligations he was under to this generous delinquent, who had repeatedly rescued him from the stroke of death, induced his father to raise him from the despairing attitude he had assumed, and to extend unto him the hand of forgiveness.

The parent of the lady now enters. Sorrow had meliorated his breast, and he seeks his daughter in that forest whither he supposes she had wandered. Trans|ports unutterable grew in his soul at this rencountre; reconciliation and pardon dwelt on every feature and in every expressive gesture; and the piece concludes with an act of general amnesty, which possesses the power of conferring happiness upon every worthy individual.

I will not say that I have given an accurate sketch of La Forete Noire. I saw it only once—some months have since elapsed, and my memory may have been treacherous; but, during its presentation, I was inter|ested, alarmed and soothed, and the finest feelings of my heart were in exercise. From Shakespear's Tem|pest I expected much, but I had the mortification to witness its murder! Pantomimical mummery I abhor|ed—yet the pantomime proved a rich entertainment; and, felicitating myself on the various talents with which humanity is endowed, I was happy they could be thus called into action; and I rejoiced in that ac|commodating pliability which bestowed the power of embodying the feelings, even without the aid of lan|guage.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

Notes

• * 12.1

  These letters do not appear.
• * 25.1

  It is perhaps unnecessary to observe, that this Essay was written previous to the accession of th•••• illustrious personage to the presidential chair.