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(CLASS OF 188::) 








1803-— 4. 


VOL. I. 







HARV^n- '!OLlFet L?«n»«-V 






X-r U.Uu^^^^^^ ,fxl,tiuS. 





ADDRESS of the Editor 3 

Agricultunl essays 343 

Anacfeon's merits discussed 163 

Aathorship, remarks on 8 

Antiquities, on a passion for 246 

Carwin, the biloquist, memoirs of 

Cook, James, an Owhyhee-man 82 
Critical notices 15, 91, 173, 336, 416 
Chemical quesiions 181 

Cotton, on the culture of 329 

Cm bono? 327 

Disputation, thoughts on 84 

Dudling, reflections on 407, 410 

Eloquence of Pitt, Fox, and £r- 

skine compared 28 

Eddystone light house, reflections on 407 
Fame, thoughts on 326 

Female learning, thoughts on 245 

Rre, on narratives respecting 7 

French language, ascendancy of 24 
Futurity, impropriety of looking into 97 
Gentleman ? what is a 243 

King's Bench prison, account of 
Legibility in writing commended 
Marriage, reflections on 
Man with the huge nose 
Mehrendorf marriages, acrount of 
Murray, Lindley, letter from 
Novel reading 
Pensions, remarks on 
Pennsylvania, journey through 167, 250 
Peruvian religion, hints respecting 
Poetry, what is the essence of 
Quakerism, a dialog^ 
Robinson Crusoe, thoughts on that 


Rockaway, a jaunt to 10 

Royal, the epithet, remarks on 25 

Review of Abercrombie's Compends 38 
D'Israeli's Narrative 

Poems 44 

Paine*s Ruling Passion 104 
Wilson's Egyptian Ex- 
pedition 106 
Boston, a poem 190 
British Spy 261 
Town and Country Phy- 
sician 365 
Cowper's Life 345 
Millar's Retrospect 419 
•Swift's Polite Conversation, thoughts 

on 6 

Statues and busts, account of those 

exhibited at New York 185 

Traveller 21, 89, 247 

Warm rooms, on the salubrity of 341 
Wooden buildings, folly of 405 

Yellow fever, thoughts on 7 








Alccstes and Azora 



Artaban, the robber 



Boar hunt 



Dr Jenner, lines to 



Laura, to, offended 



Olinda, lines to 



Philanthropy, a prayer 



Peace, a sonnet 



Poetry, a fragment 


Village Maid 







Ages, the four 


Canzonets from Camoens 




Corate, a fragment 








Talc frofn Cowper 


Winter travd!er 



Addington, Mr. account of 


Alexander I, anecdotes of 


Algiers, account of 

119, 29r 

Arts, on the imitative 


Bartholemew, massacre of 


doswell, account of 




]lritish populatiott 
Bear hunting irt Finland 



Buenos Ayres described 


Biuice, character of Edmund 


Cecilia, a tale 




Coal near Woodstock 


Conde, prince of, sketch of 


sketch of 


Chamelion described 


Darwin's Temple of Nature 


Darwin, account of 


Dclwin, Philip, story of 218, 308, 3r^ 


DWersity of opinion, on 


Female dress 


Financial statements 


Fire ball, account of 


France, travels in 115, S?/, 353 

Hatfield, the swindler 


Hunting in Bcn^pi 


Immortality, on 

Klopstock's Metdah examined 


LibHf, account of 

Lee, anecdote of general 

Letter from Cowper 

Lewis, major, journal of 

Liverpool, state of 

London, picturesque view of 

Longevity of the learned 


mNri lA tne fTtm ntuk 

Meteoric stone 

Michael Bruce 



Monthly publications, London 119 
Moore, memoirs of Dr. J. 369 

Negro slavery, address on 473 

■ abolished in New 

Jersey 47* 

Pandes, count, memoirs of 

H2, 202, 389 
Peasantry of France, state of 459 

Prayer sanctioned by philosophy 459 
Reports to congress 475 

Republican marriages in Fiance 7^ 
Resemblances, literacy 124, 214, 268 
Rccamier's bedchamber, madame 456 
Rhode Island, agriculture of 2t0 

Salaries, public* in AHierica 480 

Saxe's ghost 303 

Sicard, le-appeiinmce of 350 

Shall and will, on the words 355 

Sugar from- native plants 393 

St. Domkigo, picture of 446 

Swedish travelling on^M ioe 459 

Tangun horse • 457 

Theatrical campaign / 221 

Turkish procession described 118 

Thunder ex{^ned 465, 470 

United Sutes, debt ot 205 

' ' populaition of 206 

Wax tret, account of 371 





Vol. I.] 

OCTOBER, 1803. 

[No. I. 



Enters' Address to the Public . . 1 
Swift's Polite Conversation .... 6 

YeUow Fever 7 

Rrc ' ib. 

Authorship 8 

Pensions 9 

A Jaunt to Rockaway 10 

Account of the King's Bench 

Prison 14 

Critical Notices 15 

The TraveUer^...NO. i 21 

The Man with the Huge Nose . . 23 
Ascendancy of the French Lan- 
guage 34 

The Epithet Royal 25 

Eloquence of Pitt, Fox, and £rs- 

kine 28 

Drayton's View of South Carolina 30 



Abercronibie*s Compends 38 

D 'Israeli's Narrative Poems ... 44 

Lines to Olinda 47 


Cominge ib. 

Canzonets from Camoens 51 

French Invasion of Hanover ... 56 
Irish Insurrection 58 

Remarkable Occurrences 61 

French Republican Marriages , . M 

British Population 73 

On Female Dress 74 

Anecdotes of Alexander I IS 

Miscellaneous Extracts Tt 









^Q' ^-] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1«03. [Vol. T. 


It is usual for one who presents 
the public with a periodical work 
like the present, to introduce him- 
self to the notice of his readers by 
some sort of preface or address. I 
take up the pen in conformity to this 
custom, but am quite at a loss for 
topics suitable to so interesting an 
occasion. I cannot expatiate on the 
variety of my knowledge, the bril- 
liancy of my wit, the versatility of 
my talents. To none of these do I 
lay any claim, and though this va- 
riety, brilliancy of solidity, are ne- 
cessary ingredients in a work of this 
kind, 1 trust merely to the zeal and 
liberality of my friends to supply me 
with them. I have them not my- 
self, but doubt not of the good of- 
fices of those who possess them, and 
shall think myself entitled to no 
small praise, if I am able to collect 
into one focal spot the rays of a great 
number of luminaries. They also 
may be very unequal to each other 
in lustre, and some of them may be 
little better than twinkling and "fee- 
ble stars, of the hundredth magni- 
^de ; but what is wanting in indivi- 

dual i^endor, wiD be made up bf 
theunion of all their beams mto onew 
My province a^U be to hold the 
mirror u/t so as to ajsseaible all their 
influence within its verge, and re- 
fleet them on the public' in such 
-manner as to warm and enlighten. 
As I possess nothing but zeal, I 
can promise to exert nothing else; 
but my ccmsolation is, that, aided 
by that powerful spirit^ many have 
accomplished things much more see* 
duous than that which I propose to 

Many are the works of this kind 
which have risen and fallen in Ame- 
rica, and many of them have en- 
joyed but a brief existence. This 
circumstance has always at first 
sight, given me some uneasiness; 
but when I come naore soberly to 
meditate upon it, my courage re- 
vives, and 1 discover no reason for 
my doubts. Many works have ac- 
tually been reared and sustained by 
the curiosity and favour of the pub- 
lic. They have ultimately declined 
or £sdlen, it is true ; but why ? From 
no abatement of the pui^lic curiosity, 

but from causes which publbhen or 
editors only are accountable. Those 
who managed the ^blication, have 
commonly either changed theirprin- 
ciples, remitted their zeal, or vo- 
luntarily relinquished their trade, 
or, last of all, and like other men* 
have died. Such works have flou« 
rished for a time, and they ceased 
to flourish, by the fault or misfor- 
tune of the proprietors. The pub* 
lie is always eager to encourage one 
who devotes himself to their rational 
amusement, and when he ceases to 
demand or to deserve their favour, 
they feel more regret than anger in 
withdrawing it. 

The world, by which I mean the 
few hundred persons, who concern 
themselves about this work, will na- 
turally inquire who it is who thus 
addresses them. *' This is some- 
what more than a point of idle cu- 
riosity," my reader will say, " for, 
from my knowledge of the man must 
I infer how far he will be able or 
willing to fiilfll his promise^. Be- 
sides, it is great importance to 
know, whether his sentiments on 
certain sucjects, be agreeable or not 
to my own. In politics, for example, 
he may be a male-content : in reli- 
gion an heretic. He may be an ar- 
dent advocate for all that I ^)hor, 
or he may be a celebrated champion 
of my favourite opmions. It is evi- 
dent that these particulars must dic- 
tate the treatntent you receive from 
me, and make me either your friend 
or enemy : your patron or your per- 
secutor. Besides, lam anxious for 
some personal knowledge •of you, 
that I may judge of your literary 
merits. You may, possibly, be one 
of these, who came hither f ram the 
old world to seek your fortune ; who 
have handled the pen as others han- 
dle Uie awl or the needle : that is, 
for the sake of a livelihood: and 
who, therefore, are willing to wo^k 
on any kind of cloth or leaUier, and 
to any model that may be in demand. 
Tou may, in the course of your trade, 
have accommodated yourself to 
twenty different fashions, and have 
served twenty classes of customers j 

have copied at one time, a Parisian ; 
at another, a London fashion : and 
have truckled to the humours, now 
of a precise enthusiast, and now of 
a smart freethmker. 

" *Tis of no manner of importance 
what creed you may publicly profess 
on this occasion, or on what side^ 
religious or pohtical, you may de- 
clare yourself enlisted. To judge 
of the value or sincerity of these 
professions: to form some notion 
how far you will faithfully or skil- 
fully perform your part, I must 
know your character . By that know- 
ledge, I shall regulate myself with 
more certainty than by any anony- 
mous declaration you may think pro- 
per to make." 

I bow to the reasonableness of 
these observations, and shall there- 
fore take no pains to conceal my 
name. Any body may know it who 
chuses to ask me or my publisher. 
I shall not, however, put it at the 
bottom of this address. My diffi- 
dence, as my friends would caU it; 
and my discretion, as my enemies^ 
if I have any, would term it, hin- 
ders me from calling out my name 
in a crowd. It has heretofore hin- 
dered me from making my appear- 
ance there, when impelled by tiie 
strongest of human considerations, 
and produces, at this time, an insu- 
perable aversion to naming myself 
to my readers. The mere act of 
calling out my own name, on this 
occasion, is of no moment, since an 
author or editor who takes no pains 
to conceal himself, cannot fail of be- 
ing known to as many as desire to 
know liim. And whether my noto- 
riety make for me or against me, I 
shaU use no means to prevent it. 

I am far from wishing, however, 
that my readers should judge of my 
exertions by my former ones. I 
have written much, but take much 
blame to myself for something which 
I have written, and take no praise 
for any tiling. I should enjoy a lar- 
ger share of my own respect, at tiie 
present moment, if nothing had ever 
flowed from my pen, the produc- 
tion of which could be traced to me. 

editor's address. 

A variety of causes induce me to 
form such a wish, but I am princi- 
pally influenced by the considera- 
tion that time can scarcely £Eiil of 
enlarging and refining the powers 
of a man, while the world is sure to 
judge of his capacities and princi- 
ples at fi%, from what he has writ- 
ten at fifteen. 

Meanwhile, I deem it reasonable 
to explain the motives of thepresent 
publication, and must rely tor cre- 
dit on the good nature of my read- 
ers. The project is not a mercenary 
one. Kobody relies for subsistence 
on its success, nor does the editor 
put any thing but his reputation at 
stake. At ^e same time, he can- 
not but be desirous of an ample sub- 
scription, not merely because pecu- 
niary profit is acceptable, but be- 
cause this is the best proof which he 
can receive that his endeavours to 
amuse and instruct have not been 

Useful information and rational 
amusement being his objects, he will 
not scruple to collect materials from 
all quarters. He will ransack the 
newest foreign publications, and ex- 
tract from them whatever can serve 
his purpose. He will not foi-get that 
a work, which solicits the attention 
of many readers, must build its claim 
on the variety as well as copiousness 
of its contents. 

As to domestic publications, be- 
sides extracting from Uiem any 
thing serviceable to the public, he 
will give a critical account of them, 
and ill this respect, make his work 
an American Review, in which the 
history of our native literature shall 
be carefully detailed. 

He will pay particular attention 
to the history oi passing events. He 
will carefully compile the news, fo- 
reign and domestic, of the current 
month, and give, in a concise and 
systematic order, that intelligence 
which the common newspapers com- 
municate in a vague and indiscrimi- 
nate way. His work shall likewise 
be a repository of all those signal in- 
cidents in private life, which mark 
the character of the age, and excite 
the liveliest curiosity* 

VOL* t....NO. I. 

This is an imperfect sketch of his 
work, and to accomplish these ends, 
he is secure of the liberal aid of ma- 
ny most respectable persons in this 
city, and New-York. He regrets 
the necessity he is under of conceal- 
ing tliese names, since they^ would 
furnish the public with irresistible 
inducements to read, what, when 
they had read, they would find suf- 
ficiently recommended by its own 

In an age like this, when the foun- 
dations of religion and morality have 
been so boklly attacked, it seems 
necessary in announcing a work of 
this nature, to be particularly ex- 
plicit as to the path which the edi- 
tor means to pursue. He, there- 
fore, avows himself to be, without 
equivocation or peserve, the ardent 
friend and the willing champion of 
the Christian religion. Christian 
piety he re\'eres as the highest 
excellence of human beings, and the 
amplest reward he can seek, for 
his labour, is the consciousness of 
having, in some degree however in- 
considerable, contributed to recom- 
mend tlie practice of religious du- 

As, in the conduct of this work, a 
supreme regard will be paid to the 
interests of religion and morality, 
he will scrupulously guard against 
all that dishonours or impairs that 
principle. Every thing that savours 
of indelicacy or licentiousness will 
be rigorously proscribed. His po- 
etical pieces may be dull, but they 
shall, at least, be free from volup- 
tuousness or sensuality, and his 
prose, whetlier seconded or not by 
genius and knowledge, shall scrupu- 
lously aim at tiie promotion of public 
and private virtue. 

As a political annalist, he will spe- 
culate freely on foreign transactions ; 
but, in his detiiil of domestic events, 
he will cxjnfine himself, as strictly 
as possible, to the limits of a mere 
historian, llierc is nothinj^ for 
which he has a deeper abhorrence 
than the intemperance of party, and 
his fundamental rule shall be to ex- 
clude from his pages^ all persomU 
altercation and abuse. 


He will conclude by remindingthe 
public that there is not, at present, 
any other moathly publicatwn in 
America ; and that a plan of this 
-lUnd, if well conducted, cannot fail 
of being highly conducive to amuse- 
ment and instruction* There are 
many, therefore, it is hoped, who, 
-when such an herald as this knocks 
at their door, will open it without 
Teluctance,and admit a visitant who 
calls only once a month ; who talks 
upon every topic ; whose company 
may be dismissed or resumed, and 
who may be made to prate or to hold 
his tongue, at pleasure ; a compa- 
nion he will be, possessing one com- 
panionable property, in the highest 
degree, that is to say, a desire to 

SefU. 1, 1803. 

JFor the American Register* 



swift's polite conversatiow. 

I H A V E just been reading " Polite 
Conversation" by Swift. Itisamus- 

' ing to observe how many of the em- 
bellishments of modem conversa* 
tion have been employed to the same 
purpose these hundredyears. Many 
of tliem are probably of as old a date 
as the reign of Egbert, and most of 
them, at least, as old as that of Eli- 
zabeth, when, as the comedies and 
comic scenes of Shakespeare prove, 
the coUoquial dialect of the ^glidi 
was the same as at present. 

Every body knows that Swift, in 
these dialogues, intended to ndicule 
the practice of interlarding dis- 
course with hackneyed and estab- 
lished witticisms or sarcasms. Most 
of these are wretched in themselves, 

'^ but some arc liable to no other ob- 
jection than the want of novelty. 
And yet there are some to whom the 
most hackneyed will be new. In 
truth, this must necessarily be 
the case with every good^thing. 
The tritest saying must, by e\ ery 

man, have once been heard for iht 
first time, and must, therefore, have 
once been new to him. 

The whole mass of good-things 
and good-stories, in current, use^ 
would make up a very large volume ; 
and the very tritest of these if told 
in a mixed and casual company, 
would probably be new to more than 
one person present. Hence the ir- 
resistible temptation to repeat a 
good thing, which, when we heard 
it, was new to us, and hence the 
awkward situation in which a face- 
tious narrator so often finds himself 
placed, that of finding the most im* 
pertinent gravity, on occasions 
where he looked for laughter and 

When we examine the preten- 
sions of reputed wits^ we shall be 
surprised to find how much of their 
reputation is founded upon the same 
invariable stock of good things. 
They rarely tell a story which they 
have not told a thousand times be- 
fore, and as these stories may some- 
times be real occurences or original 
inventions of their own, they will of 
course be new to strangers. We 
must pass some time widi them be- 
fore we perceive that one day's ban- 
quet is merely a counterpart of that 
of the day before. 

Perhaps, however, it is very sel- 
dom that the humorist knovnngiy 
repeats the same story to the same 
company. Memory, as it grows re- 
tentive of remote transactions, is 
apt to lose its hold of more recent 
ones. Thus an old man of three 
score will frequently repeat to the 
same man, on the same day, a rela- 
tion of some event tliat happened 
fifty years before. 

A ^tory^ however, is one thin|», 
and a witticism is another. It is 
the latter which the Dean makes 
the object of his ridicule in these 
dialogues, and which so often in- 
trudes itself into conversation. Eve- 
ry one desirous of steering clear of 
this folly, ought to read this per- 
formance carefully, for it not only 
teaches us to shun so childish a prac- 
tice, but tells us what we are ta 



Therk is nothing about which 
newspaper writers are more anx- 
ioos Uian to dignify the account of a 
fire* The plain and direct expres* 
tions are so simple and so brief, that 
they are by no means satisfied with 
them. They most amplify and de- 
corate the disastrous narrative as 
much as possible, and for this end^ 
they deal in circuitous and pompous 
phrases; in affecting epithets and 
metaphors. I have often been amu- 
sed at their laborious efforts to be 
solemn and eloquent on these occa- 

For instance;.. .the story to be 
told is, that, at such time and place, 
a fire broke out and burnt or de- 
stroyed such and such buildings. 

Tliey disdain so straight a path as 
tlus, and will ramble very ingeni- 
ously thus :...^< The citizens were 
disturbed by the alarm of fire ;" or, 
(as an Albany editor once had it) the 
peacefol slumbers of the inhabitants 
were broken by vociferated Jtre /... 
In spite of the exertions of the citi- 
zens, such and such buildings were 
" swallowed up by the conflagra- 
tion : "or, (still more poetically) " be- 
came victims to the devouring ele- 
ment;"...or, " fell a prey to the re- 
morseless fury of the flames." 

A late newspaper introduces a 
column of such news by this sen- 
tence..." We are sorry to announce 
to our readers, the devastation com- 
mitted yesterday by the devouring 
element of fire." In the ensuing 
narrative we are told, that the " rage 
of the conflagration was appeased," 
at such, an hour and that such a part 
of the town was " snatched from the 
grti^ of the devouring element." 


How powerfully is the imagination 
affected by the frequent and almost 
periodic returns of this new, strange 
and unwelcome visitant, 'Till the 

year 1793, we, in this part of Ame- 
rica, at least, the present genem- 
tion, had only heard and read of 
pestilence. Since that period it has 
visited us five years out of ten, and, 
in our great cities, there is no do- 
mestic event more familiar to us; 
none whicli we anticipate with more 
probability, and by which we pre- 
pare more naturally to regulate our 
motions, than this. 

I often imagine to myself my feelr 
ings on being informed, by some one 
able to give the information, at the 
opening, for instance, of the year 
1793, that for the ensuing ten years, 
a destructive plague would rage 
among us, during five summers, by 
which the city would be, for two or 
three months, almost entirely depo- 
pulated ; by which all the usual func- 
tions and employments of life would 
be suspended, and a large portion 
of sixty thousand people, which sub- 
sist by daily and uninterrupted em- 
ployment, would be suddenly bereft 
of all activity. 

My notions of the evil would doubt- 
less have been imperfect and inade- 
quate, as, indeed, these notions, 
with all the benefits of experience, 
still are. I should have underrated 
it in some respects, while in other 
respects, I should equally have over- 
rated it. I should have had but fee- 
ble conceptions of the misery which 
individuals were about to sufier, 
while I should probably have com- 
puted its influence on popmation and 
general prosperity at much too high 
a rate. I could not have imagined 
before-hand the effect of familiarity^ 
the power which custom has to 
enable us to accommodate ourselves 
to inevitable evils, and that vigour 
which one spring of population is 
sure to derive from the depression 
of another. 

There is one thing, at least, which 
my ignorance of human nature 
would have hindered me fi-om pre-* 
dieting ; and that is, the effect which 
the intt'oduction of this new disease 
has had on the habits and opinions of 
physicians. Who would have dream- 
ed that this order of men would split 
into hostile factions, which shouM 


wage war against each other with 
the utmost animosity; that they 
would arrange themselves in par- 
tieSf the champions of opposite opi- 
nions not only as to the mode of 
curing the malady, but as to the 
source to which the malady itself 
is to be traced. 

What volumes of acrimonious 
controversy have the last ten years 
produced on these subjects I How 
dogmatic the assertions, how vio- 
lent the invectives, which tlie im- 
portation-men and the home-origin- 
men have darted at jcach other. 
How is the pride of human reason 
humbled, by observing that in this 
enlightened age, with so vigilant a 
police, with such comprenensive 
and exact methods of investigating 
facts, and such dififusing v^cles 
of information and comparison aa 
newspapers aflR>rd, there should still 
be in the community opposite opi- 
nions as to the nature and origin of 
a pestilence which has visited our 
principal cities five times in ten 
years: That even its contagious 
nature should not be unanimously 
settled ? If I go into company, in- 
deed, and talk with a physician on 
this subject, I shall be told that the 
means of information, on this head, 
have been so abundant and satisfac- 
tory, that the question has long ago 
been settled by* all rational people* 
Every thing, he will go on to tell me, 
demonstrates the origin of the yel- 
low fever to be foreign, and its ap- 
pearance among us to be in conse- 
quence of importation. I cannot 
help being biassed by the positive 
assertions of a man of general can- 
dour, of knowledge and experience ; 
but what am I to think When I meet 
another man, a physician, of equal 
understanding and experience with 
the former, whose assertions are 
just as positive, and directly oppo- 
site ? But still greater is my per- 
plexity when I meet a third, who 
tells mc tliat this question has en- 
gaged his attention for many \ ears, 
but tliat the more he collects, inves- 
tigates and compai-es, the farther is 
he from an absolute decision, the 
more inscrutable the question be- 

comes ; and time, he is now folly of 
opinion, instead of clearing up the 
darkness, will only involve Sie mat- 
ter in greater obscurity. 

Such reasoners as the last, are^ 
indeed, rarely to be met with. Doubt 
is so painiiil a state, and a man's 
pride and prejudice are so unavoid- 
ably engaged, on one side or the 
other, as he advances in his inquiry, 
and we so easily and suddenly 
pass from a state of neutrality, in 
which we only inquire after truth, 
into a state of conviction, when we 
merely search for arguments and 
facts in favour of one side ; that no- 
thing is rarer than a physician who 
hesitates on this subject. Some men 
may vary from year to year, and 
change sides as often as the fever 
visits us, but they are ardent and 
dogmatic in maintaining what hap- 
pens to be their present opinion, 
and stigmatize all their opponents 
as fools and villains. 

This medical controversy is much 
to be regretted on many accounts* 
It is not one of the least evils that it 
tends to shake the confidence of 
mankind in the skill of those, whose 
skill is indebted for the greater part 
of its success to the confidence, 
with which tlie patient is inspired 
by it. 


In Europe, Authorship is in 
some instances a trade: it is a call- 
ing by which those who pursue it, 
seek their daily bread as regularly 
as a carpenter or smith pursues the 
same end, by means of the adze or 
the anvil. But authorship, as a mere 
trade, seems to be held in ver>' lit- 
tle estimation. There is no other 
tradesman^ to whom tlie cpiUiet 
/ioor is more usually applied. A 
poor author is a phrase so often 
employed, that the two words have 
almost coalesced into one* The 
latter, if used alone, signifies merely 
a man who writes and publishes'; 


hut i£ floor he preftxed, it clearly 
iDdicates a writer by trade* 

This,trade is the refuge of idle- 
ness and poverty. Any thing that 
gives a permanent revenue, how- 
ever scanty the sum, or laborious 
the service, is deemed preferable 
to authorship : but when a. poor fel- 
low has either too little steadiness, 
industry, or reputation, for the post 
of clerk in a banker's office, or usher- 
in a school, or curacy in Wales, he 
betakes himself, as his last re- 
source, to writing paragraphs for a 
newspaper, translating new novels 
or travels from the French or Ger- 
man, or spinning Romances from 
his own brain ; and tliese enable him 
to live as well as habits of impix)vi- 
dence and heedlessness as to all 
economical matters, will allow him. 

While the ftoor author^ that is to 
say, the author by trade, is regard- 
ed with indifference or contempt, 
the author^ that is, the man who 
(levotcs to composition the leisure 
secured to him by hereditary afflu- 
ence, or by a lucrative profession 
or office, obtains from mankind an 
higher, and more lasting, and more 
genuine reverence, than any other 
class of mortak. As tlic re is nothing 
I should more fervently deprecate 
than to be enrolled in the former 
class, so there is nothing to which I 
more ardently aspire, than to be 
numbered among the latter. To 
write, because the employment is 
delightfiil, or because I have a pas- 
sion for fame or for usefulness, it 
the summit of terrestrial joys, the 
pinnacle of human elevation. 

ITiere is my friend H—...Can a 
man be situated more happily ? His 
aunt not only secures him and his 
charming Eleanor from the possi- 
bility of want, she secures them not 
only the pleasures and honors of cx- 
traordinar)' affluence, but even from 
the common cares of a master of a 
^mily. She is his steward, that is, 
she manages exclusively the fortune 
which is hereafter to be absolutely, 
as it is now virtually his : she is his 
housekeeper, inasmuch as she takes 
upi*n herself tlie management of 
servants, the ordering of provisions, 

and the payment of all hxoWy ex- 
penses. The young and happy 
couple have nothing to do but to 
give themselves up to the delights 
of mutual tenderness, and to fill up 
the interval between tliese joys with 
bathing and walking, or with music, 
conversation, reading and writing. 
He has no other labour on his 
hands than to decide whether the 
coming hours shall be employed at 
the clarionet, the pencil, the book 
or the pen. After a good deal of 
fluctuation, a passiou for the pen 
seems to have gotten the mastery, 
and a part of every day is regularly 
engrossed by an interesting and im- 
portant project. Every day is wit- 
ness to some progress, and thoueh 
his views continually extend to fu- 
turity and immortality, yet the im- 
mediate pleasures of reasoning, in- 
vention, and acquired knowledge 
are his, and every day is happy in 
itself, while it brings supreme fe2i<* 
city still nearer. 


I UAVE been reading Burke's 
speeches on Economical Reform. 
Notwithstanding all the eloquence 
displayed sn that occasion, notwith- 
standing the pressure of public exi- 
gencies, and the hard expedients to 
which the government has been 
driven ; who would believe, if there 
were any possibility of doubting it, 
that four noblemen of overgrown 
private fortunes, divide between 
them eight thousand pounds (forty 
thousand dollars) per annum, as sa- 
laries ; one as roaster of the fox- 
hounds, anotlier as master of the 
back-hoimds, a third as master of 
the harriers, and a fourth as ran- 
ger of some park I 

The government, however, ex- 
ercises a most laudable economy in 
other respects. The greatest moral 
or literary merit, attended with the 
greatest poverty, will not tempt the 
rwling powers to stretch their libe- 



tality any further, or to load the 
pubbc treasury with any additional 

To give them their due, howe- 
ver, we must admit of two excep- 
tions to this observation. Doctor 
Johnson, after struggling with dis- 
ease and poverty for sixty years, 
was presented with a most magnifi- 
cent annuity of two hundrfd/iound^ 
per annum. When travelling was 
prescribed by his physicians, an 
application was made for a small 
augmentation, but it was impossible 
to obtain it. Cowper, a glory and 
blessing to hupianity, struggled with 
narrow circumstances, aiui with 
the most horrible of maladies, for 
upwards of sixty years, when his 
majesty was graciously pleased to 
secure to him 8iree hundred pounds 
per annum. These salaries toge- 
ther were equal to one fourth of Uie 
wages of the master of the fox- 
hounds ; which, after all, is only a 
nominal ofRce, and which is always 
possessed by those who have vast 
patrimonies of their own. 

It is astonishing that kings and 
nobles are not more beneficent to 
men of genius, even from a mere 
selfish passion for praise. The gra- 
titude excited by such gifts, is al- 
ways in proportion to Ae benefits 
they confer on the receiver, not to 
the generosity of the donor: and 
what eloquent eulogies will the king 
receive, who, with one hand, be- 
stows three hundred a year on a su- 
perannuated poet, though, with the 
other, he confers seven times the 
dum on the master of his fox- 

Suppose the aforesaid eight thou- 
sand pounds were distributed, in 
life annuities of /wo hundred each, 
to men, whose forlorn situation, 
joined with intellectual merit, laid 
indisputable claim to so mere a 
competence, there would be no less 
th^n forty persons enlisted in the 
service of the giver's glory. How 
would such munifi^nce have sound- 
ed through the world : how rich, in 
the ornaments of public gratitude, 
would it go down to posterity! 
what a mighty and expensive effort 

would it appear ! And yet we see 

that, at present, this very sum, in* 
deed, ten times this sum, is divided 
between half a dozen noble and 
wor^ess idlers, whose claim, and 
that is only nominal, consists in their 
superintendence of a pack of hounds, 
or something of equal dignity and 
usefolness ! 

This is not a censure intended 
particularly for England, or for 
kings, lliis abuse of the public 
revenue, in a greater or less degree, 
is incident to all nations, and to 
every form, of government. 



What possible amusement can 
you expect from my recital of a 
jaunt to Kockaway f I cannot dig- 
nify trifles, or give to vulgar sights 
a novelty, by making them pass 
through my fancy. That fancy, you 
well know, has no particle of kin- 
dred to that of poet or painter, and 
nobody should pretend to describe, 
who <3k>es not look through the op- 
tics of either painter or poet. Be- 
sides, my Ignorance circumscribes 
my curiosity. I have few objects 
of remembrance with which to com- 
pare the objects that I meet with. 
Hence, as the carriage whirls along, 
faces, fences, houses, barns, culti- 
vated fields, pass rapidly across my 
eye, without leaving a vestige be- 
hind them. You will of course ask 
me, how the fields are inclosed? 
How they are planted? What por- 
tion is tilled ; what is wood, and 
what is waste ? Of what numljer, 
materials, dimensions, and form, 
are the dwellings, the granaries, 
the churches, the bridges, the car- 
riages? What is the countenance, 
the dress, the deportment of tlic 
passengers, and so forth ? through 
an endless catalogue of interroga- 



Now I cannot answer a word to 
aH these questions. Your attention, 
on the contrary, during such a jour- 
ney, would be incessantly alive: 
you would take exact note of all 
these particulars, and draw from 
them a thousand inferences as to 
the nature of the soil, the state of 
agriculture, and the condition of the 
people. While your companions 
were beguiling the time by a map : 
by looking eagerly forward to the 
bating place, and asking the driver 
now and then, how many miles he 
had to go to dinner, or cursing the 
dust, the heat, the jolting, and the 
hard benches, or conversing with 
each other, all your senses, and 
your whole soul would be chained 
to passing objects. Not a stone 
would you meet with, but should 
instantly pass through your cruci- 
ble ; not a tree or a post, but would 
serve as a clue to the knowledge of 
the soil, climate, and the industry of 
the island. You would count the pas- 
sengers, take an inventory of their 
dress, mark their looks and their 
steps; you would calculate the length* 
breadth, and height of all the build- 
ings; and compare every thing you 
saw, from the church to the pig-pen, 
and from the parson to the plow- 
boy, with all that you had seen 

Such is the traveller, my friend, 
that you would have made ; and you 
have known more of Long-Island 
in a few hours, than many who have 
lived within si^ht of it these fifty 
years: I, alas I am one of those 
whom fifty years of obser\'ation 
would leave in the same ignorance 
in which they found me. 

'Tis true, as you say, that such an 
unobservant wretch as I represent 
myself to be, may yet amuse by re- 
lating his own sensations, and his 
narrative, if it give no account of 
the scene of his journey, will, at 
least, comprise a picture of his own 
character. An accurate history 
of the thoughts and feelings of any 
man, for one hour, is more valuable 
to some minds, than a system of 
geography ; and you, you tell me, 
•are one of those who would rather 

travel into the mind of a plowman* 
than into the interior of Africa. I 
confess myself of your way of think- 
ing; but from v'fery different mo- 
tives. I must needs say I would 
rather consort forever with a plow- 
man, or evci^ with an old Bergen 
market woman, than expose my- 
self to an hundredth part of the 
perils which beset the heels of a 
Ledyard or a Parke. 

You see how ingeniously I put off 
this unpleasant task : but since you 
will not 'let me off, I must begin* 
Remember, it is a picture of myself, 
and not of the island, that you want : 
and such, how disreputable soever 
it may be to the painter, you shaU 
have. I have some comfort in 
thinking, that most of the travel- 
lers to Rockaway, are but little 
wiser and more inquisitive than 

In the first place, then, we left 

I 's at one o'clock. The day 

was extremely fine, and promised a 
most pleasant ride. You may stq)- 
pose that we were most agreeably 
occupied in the prospect of a jour^. 
ney which neither of the three had 
cvcrmadebefore: but no such thing. 
We thought and talked of nothing 
but the uncertauity of getting seats 
in the stage, which goes at that 
hour from Brookl>iin, and the rea- 
sonable apprehension of being mise- 
rably crowded, even if we could 
get seats. Such is my aversion to 
being wedged with ten or twelve in 
a stage coach, tliat I had previously 
resolved to return, in case of any 
such misfortune. So I told my 
friends, but in this I fibbed a little* 
for the naked truth was that I want- 
ed a pretext for staying behind; 
having left society in New York, the 
loss of which all the pleasures of 
Rockaway would poorly compen- 

We passed the river, and after 
dining at the inn, were seated in 
the coach, much more at our ease 
than we had any reason to expect. 
We rode through a country altoge- 
ther new to me, twelve or fourteen 
miles (I forgot which) to Jamaica. 
Sliall I give you a peep into my 



thoo^ts? I am half ashamed to 
admit you, but I will deal sincerely 
•with you. Still, say I, my conso- 
lation is, that few travellers, if 
their minds were laid as completely 
open to inspection, would come off 
from their trial witli more credit 
than myself. 

I confess to you then that my 
mind was much more busily enga- 
ged in reflecting on the possible 
consequences of coming off without 
several changes of dothes in my 
handkerchief, and without an um- 
brella to shelter me from simshine 
and rain, than with the fields and 
woods which I passed through. My 
umbrella I had the ill-luck to break 
as we grossed the river, and as to 
clothes, I had the folly, as usual, to 
ferget tliat Rockaway was a place 
of fashionable resort, and that ma- 
ny accidents might happen to pro- 
long our stay there four or five days, 
instead of a single day; and yet 
think not that I was totally insen- 
sible to passing objects. The sweet 
pure country air, which was brisk, 
oool and fresh enough to make sup- 
portable the noon-tide rays of a July 
sun, to the whole force of which my 
seat beside the driver exposed me, 
I inhaled with delight. 1 remem- 
ber little, however, but a country, 
pretty much denuded of its woodSy 
(as Sam. Johnson would say) a 
sandy soil; stubble fields, houses 
fifty years <Hd, a couple of miles 
from each other, and most of them, 
especially those furthest on the 
road, exact counterparts of such 
as we see in Dutch and Flemish 
landscapes; four-wheeled rustic 
carriages, of a most dispropor- 
tioned length, crazy and uncouth, 
without springs, entered from be- 
hind, and loaded with women and 
children, pigs and chickens ; not a 
single carriage of elegance or 
pleasure to be met with, though 
overtaken by half a dozen gigs, 
going to the same place with our- 

We reached Jamaica at five 
o'clock, and here we staid one hour. 
A glass of lemonade, a plentiful ab- 
lution in cold water, and a walk 

with B..... in a churdh-yard opp«« 
site the inn, were all the surpris- 
ing events which distinguished this 
hour. This island is one of the old- 
est of European settlements in North 
America, and we therefore expect- 
ed to find in this churchyard some 
memorial of ancient days, but we 
were disappointed. There were 
many grave-stones, broken or half 
sunken, or blackened fiy age, but 
the oldest date was within forty 
years. The church, though paint* 
ed anew and furbished up lately, 
Was about seventy years old, as an 
inscription on the front informed us. 
There was another of a much more 
antique cast within view, but we 
did not approach it 

I hope you will be sparing of your 
questions respecting Jamaica, for I 
can answer none of them. I asked 
not a single question statistical or 
topographical of our hostess. I did 
not count the houses, and therefore 
c^n form no notion of the popula- 
tion. It is a spacious, well-looking 
village, many of whose houses ap- 
pear to be built as summer retreats 
for wealthy citizens, and that is all 
I can say of it. 

During our second stage, I was 
placed much more at my case than 
during the first. I was seated be- 
side a pretty little girl, whom all 
the company took care to ijiform, 
that they tliought her pretty. For 
my part, her attractions made little 
impression on my fancy. To be in- 
firmly delicate in ^orm, to have a 
baby-like innocence of aspect, and 
a voice so very soft that it can 
scarcely be heai*d, are no recom- 
mendations to me. She prattled a 
good deal about a squirrel and ca- 
nary-bird which she had at home, 
and that respectful attention was 
paid to a pair of very sweet li/is^ 
which the words that fell from them 
» would never have obtained. The 
rest of our company were men, and 
I have not wit enough to extract any 
oddity or singularity from tlicir con- 
versation or appearance. Two of 
tliem, you know, were my compa- 
nions, and the other two cheerful 
and well-bred strangers. 



f , for tlic most part, was mute, 
ts I usually am, in a stage-coach and 
among strangers. Not so my two 
friends. B»«. finds a topic of talk 
and good humour in every thing, 
and J.««.'s amenity is always ready 
to pursue the other's lead. I forget 
all their topics, except a very earn- 
est discussion of the merits of differ- 
ent lodging-houses, at the sea-side, 
and many sympathetic efRisions, 
drawn forth by the shipwreck of 
imother coach* On the first head 
we concluded to go to the house 
nearest the sea, one Ben Com wall's, 
our purpose being as much to gra- 
tify the eye as the touch, and there 
we accordingly arrived, pretty late 
on a chill, moist and cloudy even- 

There are few men who are al- 
ways masters of their spirits, and 
mine, which had not been high 
through the day, fell suddenly some 
degrees lower, on stepping out of 
&e carnage into the piazza of the 
house. This place appeared, at the 
first glance, to want at the same 
time Uie comforts and sechision of a 
private houses and the oi*der and 
plenty of a public one. The scene 
without was extremely dreary, and 
the vicinity of the sea, not being a 
quarter of a mile distant, gave us 
very distinctly the music of his mul- 
titudinous waves. 

Our curiosity would not allow us 
to go to bed, till we had touched the 
ocean-wave. We, therefore, after 
a poor repast, hastened down to the 
beach. Between tlie house and the 
water, is a wide and level expanse 
of loose white sand, which is a pretty 
good sample of Arabia or Zaara^ as 
I have heard them described. Tell 
me, you who have travelled, whe- 
ther every country, in the temperate 
zone, of moderate extent and some- 
what diversified, contains not sam>r 
pies of every quarter of the globe ? 

The air was wet to the touch and 
saUne to the taste, but the novelty 
of the scene, to which a canopy of 
dark douds, with a pale star gleam ^^ 
log now and then tlirough the cre- 
vices, tended to increase, buoyed up 
my spirits to their usual pitch. I'o 

VOL. z. NO. I. 

my friend B.... this novelty was ab- 
solute. He never before saw the 
ocean ; but to me it was new only as 
I now saw it, at night. Seven years- 
ago I found my way to the margent 
of the sea, between Sandy hook and 
the mouth of the Raritan. I took a 
long peregrination on foot, in com- 
pany witli two friends, and shall ne- 
ver forget the impression which th^' 
boundless and troubled ocean, seen 
for the first time, from an open 
beach, in a clear day, and with a 
strong wind blowing landward, 
made upon me. It was flood-tide, 
and the sandy margin formed a pret- 
ty steep shelf. The billows, there- 
fore, rose to a considerable height, 
and brake with great fury against it ; 
and my soul was suspended for half 
an hour, with an awe, a rapture 
which I never felt before. Far dif- 
ferent were my feelings on this oc- 
casion, for tlie scene was no longer 
new to me, and the scene itself was 
far less magnificent. There was 
scarcely any wind, the tide was 
ebb, and the shore declined almost 

As we came to this place for the 
purpose of bathing, and had so 
short a time to stay, we thought we 
could not begin too early, and tliere- 
fbre stript immediately, notwith- 
standing the freshness of the air, 
and what is of greater moment, our 
ignorance of thp shore. 

Up, pretty high upon the shore, 
is an house, no better than a fish- 
erman's hut. 'Tis a meix; frame of 
wood, boarded at the sides and top, 
with no window, and a door-way. 
The floor is sand, and there are 
pegs against the wall to hang clothes 
upcHi. There is a tub provided for 
cleansine the feet from the sand, 
which wnen wet clings to the skin 
like bird-lime. Towels, which are 
furnitihed at the house, we brought 
not with us. 

Is there any tiling, the advan- 
tages of which are more iinivcr;,ally 
and constantly manifested, tnan or- 
der ? Its value is seen in the mr^t-t 
trivial matters, as in the most mo., 
mentous. This room was pitch» 
dark, and we were wholly uua&v 


jl jaunt to rockawat. 

quainted with it: and yet by the 
simple proccs» of hanging our 
clotheS) as we take tliem on, on a 
pegy and putting them on in the same 
order reversed, there is no difficul- 
ty« Some of us were not so wise as 
to practise this order, and, of con- 
sequence, were condemned to grope 
about half an hour longer tlian 
othersy in the daric, for stockings, 
s^eeve-buttonsy hats, and handker- 

What would physicians say to 
standing naked on a bleak night, 
with the wind at east, while the 
billows broke over you for ten mi- 
nutes? There is an agreeable tre- 
pidation felt, while the scene is 
new, and the sudden e£fusion of cold 
water must, methinks, produce 
powerful effects of some kind or 

As we were early comers to this 
house, we were honoured each with 
a room to himself. There were 
twenty or thirty persons to be ac- 
commodated, besides a numerous 
family, in a wooden house of two 
stories; so that we could not but 
congratulate ourselves on the privi- 
lege thus secured to us* The cham- 
ber, however, allotted to me was 
a little nook, about seven feet long 
and three wide, only large enough 
to admit the bedstead and liim that 
slept in it. In such excursions 
as tliese, however, hardships and 
privations, are preferable to ease 
and luxury. There is something 
like consciousness of merit in en- 
countering them voluntarily and 
with chearfulncss. There is a ri- 
valship in hardihood and good hu- 
mour, more pleasurable than any 
delights of the senses. A splenetic 
or fastidious traveller is a great 
burden to himself and to his com- 
pany , and ought, throueh mere gene- 
rosity, to keep himself at home. In 
saying this, I am conscious, that in 
some degree, I pronounce my own 
condemnation, but I hope I am not 
very culpable. 

My friends rose at day-light next 
Vioming, and went to bathe. They 
gave me warning, but I heeded it 
not. My little nookJiad half mehed 

me with heat, and I felt as if un- 
qualified for the least exertion, t 
was sorry to have lost the opportu* 
nity, and rose, when the sun waa 
high in the heavens, with some de- 
gree of regret. But;, more lucky 
than I deserved to be, I found a 
country waggon at the door, ready 
to carry down any one that chose* 
to the strand* I went down with 

This was a far difercnt bathing 
£rom that of the night before. Th«» 
waggon carries us to the water's 
edge, and there we may undress at 
our leisure amidst a footing of clean 
straw, convenient seats and plenty 
of napkins. The waggon receives 
us directly from the water and car- 
ries us home, without trouble or de- 
lay. On this occasion the sun was 
just warm enough to be comfortable^ 
and the time o'day exacUy suited 
to the bath. Such is my notion of 
the matter, but I doubt whether any 
body else will agree with me. Sun- 
rise and sun-set are the usual bath- 

After breakfost, we took a walk 
along the strand. My pastime con- 
sisted in picking up shells ; in sift- 
ing and examining the fine white 
sand ; in treading on the heels and 
toes of the wave, as it foil and rose, 
and in trying to find some music in 
its eternal murmur. Here could 
I give you long descants on all these 
topics, but my vague and crude re- 
veries would only make my dull 
epistle still more dull. The sun at 
last broke out with the fiill force of 
midsummer, and we panted and 
waded through the sand, home- 
ward, witii no small regret that we 
had ventured so for. We Ameri- 
cans in general have fedUe heads: 
those of us, I mean, who were not 
bom to dig ditches and make hay. 
A white hat, broad-brimmed, and 
light as a straw, is an insufficient 
shelter against the direct beams of 
the sun. What must we have suf- 
fered on Uiis occasion when tho 
vertical rays fell on a sui*face of 
smooth white sand: We were al- 
most liquefied before we reached 
the house* 



llie compcLnyy at this house, was 
numerous, and a£forded, as usual, 
abundant topics of speculation. 
Some were young men, in the hey 
day of spirits, rattling, restless, and 
noisy. Some were solid and con- 
versiUe, and some awkward and 
reserved. Three ladies, married 
women, belonged to the company: 
one of which said nothing, but was 
as dignified and couiteous in demea- 
nor as ailence wotild let her be: 
another talked much, and a third 
hit the true medium pretty well. I 
^d not fidl to make a great many 
reflections on the passing scene, 
which, together with a! volume of 
Cecilia, n^de the day pass not very 

My i&iends always carry books 
with them, even when they go 
abroad for a few hours. One of 
them to day produced the Maxims 
of La Bruyere, the other those of 
Rottchefoucauld, and some minutes 
were consumed in decyphering and 
commenting on these. But the sub« 
ject which engrossed most attention 
in the morning, was a plan for pro- 
turing a dozen of claret for the em- 
bdKshment of dinner ; and the re- 
turn of man and chaise, without the 
daret for which he had been sent to 
a <Kstant tavern, cast a great damp 
upionthespiritsofmostof us. Wegot 
rid of the afternoon pretty easily, by 
giving an hour or two to the bottle^ 
and the rest to the siesta. As to 
our talk at dinner, there was p^r- 
Itct good humour, and a good deal 
of inclination to be witty, but I do 
not recollect a single ^ood thirty 
iSaaX deserves to be recorded ; and 
my powers do not enable me to 
place the common place characters 
around me in an interesting or 
amunng point of view. As to my- 
srff, I am never at home, never in 
my element at such a place as this. 
A thousand nameless restraints in- 
cumber my speech and my limbs, 
and I cannot even listen to others 
witli a gay, uiicmbarraj^sed mind. 
Towards evening it began to rain, 
and not only imprisoned us for the 
present, but gave us some appre- 
hensions of a detention herp for a 

week. A detention, which, for many 
reasons, one of which I have alrea- 
dy mentioned, would have pfoved 
extremely disagreeable to me. 
^ My friend, I have grown very 
tired of my story. I believe I wiU 
cut short the rest, and carry you 
back with me next morning, to New 
York, In a couple of sentences. The 
weather on the morrow, was damp 
and lowering, but it cleared up 
early. We were again agreeably 
disappointed in our expectations of 
a crowded stage,and after breakfast- 
ing at Jamaica, reached town at one 
o'dock. On my return, I Was just 
as imobservant of the passing scene 
as before, and took as little note of 
the geography of the isle. Set me 
out on the same journey again, and 
I should scarcely recognize a foot of 
the way. I saw trees and shrubs 
and grasses, but I could not name 
atienxybcing as hotv lam no botanist* 
Perhaps, however, I mistake the 
purpose of such journeys, which is 
not to exercise the reasoning facul- 
ties, or to add to knowledge, but to 
unbend, to dissipate thought and 
care, and to strengthen the frame, 
and refresh the spirits, by mere 
motion and variety. This is the lan- 
guage which my friends hold ; but, I 
confess, mere mental vacuity gives 
me neither healtli nor pleasure. Tp 
give time wings, my attention must 
be fixed on something : I must look 
about me in pursuit of some expect- 
ed object ; I must converse with my 
companion on some reasonable to- 
pic ; I must find some image in my 
own fancy to examine, or the way 
is painfuUy tedious. This jaunt to 
Rockaway has left few agreeable 
traces behind it. All I remember 
with any pleasure, are the appear- 
ance of the wide ocean, and the in- 
cidents of bathing in its surges. Had 
I been a botanist, and lighted upon 
some new plant; a mineralogist, 
and found an agate or a petrifac- 
tion ; a naturalist, and caught such 
a butterfly as I never saw before, 
I should have reflected on the jour- 
ney with no little satisfaction. As 
it was, 1 S3t my foot in the cit>' with 
no other sentiment, but that of re- 



gretyfor not having employed these 
two days in a very dinerent man- 
ner* c* £• 

For tfie jfmtrican Reguterm 

Some jfccount of the King^a Bench 
Prison; in a letter from an Ame^ 
rlcan in London to the Editor. 

The comparative comforts of 
their prisons offer sometliing in 
mitigation of the severity of tlie 
debtor laws of the English, as they 
relate to persons who are not whol- 
ly destitute of the " one thing need- 
ful :" but no apology can be invent- 
ed for their absurd rigour, as they 
respect by far the greater number 
of the victims of debt* The law 
presumes every debtor solvent; 
which presumption, in innumerable 
cases, IS absolutely false. The bo- 
dy of the debtor, Uierefore, in sup- 
position of ability and fraud is 
consigned to imprisonment at tlie 
pleasure of a vmdictive creditor* 
If the debtor be really insolvent, 
which is surely as probable a sup- 
position, as the opposite, he is at 
the mercy of an angry and perhaps 
injiu'ed individual, who, by a strange 
perversion of every judicial princi- 
ple, becomes a judge, with criminal 
jurisdiction, and is invested with the 
power of dispensing a severer pu- 
nishment than the law inflicts on 
the deepest offences. If poverty be 
no crime, why punish it witli arbi- 
trary' imprisonment? If criminal, 
why is it entrusted to private hands 
to pardon without discretion, or 
punish without measure* , 

An insolvent law is now under 
parliamentary discussion, for tlie 
relief of about ten thousand misera- 
ble wretches, now imprisoned in 
all the different gaols of the United 
Kingdom, who will probably be 
soon let Inosc upon the public, cor- 
rupted by tlie habits, and soiled by 
the ignominy of a prison. This ex- 
pedient is adopted once in six cr 
seven ve:irs, not as a remedy for 
the defcclivc laws, but because the 

prisons overflow* On this joyfid 
occasion, thousands will emergs 
from many years' imprisonment, 
whose original debts did not exceed 
twenty pounds, now augmented, 1^ 
the expenses of the law, to fifty ot 
sixty, and in some instances, to an 
hundred pounds* 

If it be for the benefit of trade, 
the idol of the English nation, that 
such laws exist, it is much to be la- 
mented that the supposed interests 
of trade, and the real interests of 
humanity and justice, should be so 
much at variance; but tlie well- 
l^unded terror of innovation, 
which prevails in this government, 
will probably prevent for a long 
time any change in this^monstrous' 
feature of British policy. 

The King's Bench prison, which 
the misfortune of our friend L«.-..* 
has given me an opportunity of ex- 
amining, is appropriated to debtors 
alone, and to such of these only as 
are prosecuted in the court of 
King^a Bench. Tliis delicacy, 
which excludes from this society 
felons, or criminals of any kind, it 
must be confessed, is honorable to 
the laws, and adheres to a distinc- 
tion not well drawn in other re-* 
spects between debt and felony* 
The police of this institution is un- 
der the direction of a marshal, de« 
puty, clerk of the papers, and three 
turnkeys ; all of which offices are 
considerably lucrative. There arc. 
many immunities and privileges pe* 
cuUar to the place, and not enjoyed 
by provincial and county prisons* 
Each resident holds tlie key of his 
own apartment, and has the un- 
limited power of locomotion at all 
hours of tlie day and night, within 
an area of about six thousand 
square yards (an acre anda quarter) 
enclosed by a brick wall forty feet 
high, over which, fi'oni the tops of 
a stately edifice, you haye a plea- 
sant view of the hills of Kent and 
the city of X4ondoii» The principal 
building is three hundred feet in 
length, fifty feet wide, and four sto- 
ries high; and contains one hun- 
dred and eighty apartments, tlie 
gi-eatttr part cf whicli are in good 



. wpair, painted, and some of them 
papered* Two persons are allot- 
ted to each of these rooms, lyhidi 
ane filteen feet by twelve, length 
and breadth; but one may enjoy 
exclusive possession by paying five 
shillings a week, which the poorer 
class of prisoners accept as a con- 
sideration for relinquishing their 
right, and, with it, eke out a mi- 
serable existence in a common re- 
ceptacle* Within tlicse walls are 
inexhaustible springs of hard and 
soft water^ one of which has mi- 
neral qualities that are salutary* 
Shambles every day exhibit every 
variety^ in kind and quality of Leaid- 
,'Cnhall and BHlingsgate markets; a 
public kitchen for cooking, besides 
half a dozen cook-shops ; a coffee- 
house and two public taps, from 
which beer and even wme flow 
without measure; a bake-house, 
and ia fine every handicraft is car- 
ried on here, in the different apart- 
ments, making the place a good 
epitome of London. An unre- 
strained ingress and egress is al- 
lowed from eight in the morning, 
till ten at night; and the hum of 
innuxaerable visitors of every garb 
and deportment, with the motley 
music and appearance of every 
class of pedlars that walks the 
streets of London, display n scene 
extremely lively and grotesque* 
There is every shade of character, 
every grade of wealth and (except* 
ing privileged persons) of rank and 
title. Some of the prisoners eio- 
ceed a thousand guineas a year in 
their expences, and are visited by 
their families, who, if we may 
judge from their equipages, abate 
nothing of their wonted luxury. 
There is another class of debtors 
who place their fumilies in the 
neighbourhood, and rather than 
suri'ender an amiuity or jointure, 
take up their rest, for life : an in- 
solvent act, or act of grace, com- 
pels him not to give his property to 
the creditor, but leaves him the 
option of freedom or captivity, and 
many prefer the Matter. 
• The third class are driven to the 
most deplorable ^shifts, and, like 

the moths, feed upon their clothes, 
as long as they last* Absolute star- 
vation, tliou^ not frequent, does 
-yet sometimes occur in the annals 
of the King's Bench* The num- 
ber of prisoners now amounts to 
five hundred, and the original debts 
of threefourths of the number do 
not, on an average, exceed forty 
pounds, from which we are obliged 
to inf^ tliat the laws give im- 
punity to opulent knaves, while 
it bears with undistinguishing se- 
verity on the innocent and culpable 

For the American Rtgi^term 

i^o* I. 

I have now in my hands an old 
copy of Milton, which at first be- 
longed to my father. It is an old 
book, and few volumes have been 
oftener in my hands. I would not 
exchange it for an edition of tlio 
same work embellished by ^ the 
arts of the printer, the engraver, 
and the bmder.*.*Inanimate objects 
have an influence on the affections ; 
else why do I prefer this homely 
volume, sliattered by the hands of 
time and of use, to Paradise Ldst 
newly printed and decorated f MU- 
ton is only inferior to the voice of 
inspiration....He is first among the 
poets who were not the prophets of 
the Lord. His erudition was vast, 
but his genius was vaster. Hi^ 
learning did not restrain, but re- 
gulated his flight. Amidst the glQ<« 
rics of heav«i he looked undazzlcd, 
and rays from his penetrating mind 
ttluminated tlie depths of despair* 
Did not their antiquity increase tho 
veneration bestowed on the names 
of Homer and Virgil, criticism 
would always place them below 
Milton on the sc^e of poetical me« . 
rit, I have read, I have studied 
the Iliad and the .A!lneid....I have 
read and examined with critical' 
scinitiny, in the original language 
or in the translation most of the por 
ems which bear the name of epic mv 



.hetoiCi and ibe more I read the 
more I am convinced, the longer I 
live the more I am convinced that a 
greater magnitude of mind is disco- 
vered in the Paradise Lost, than in 
any other iminspired poem in exist- 
ence. Paradise Lost is the greatest 
effort of its author. His other 
-works rank as follows in the scale 
of merit: 

2 Comus.*».«3 Paradise Regained 
••••4 Sampson Agonistes**...5 Lyci*- 
das«...6 L'Alegro and 11 Penseroso 
••••7 Hymn on the Nativity. 

I consider the relish for the po- 
etry of Milton as a criterion of the 
taste and mental elevation of the 
reader. None can fully admire him, 
|>ut those who are raised in mind 
above the firqfanum vjUgua. Mi- 
serable was the judgment of Vol- 
taire, which could wonder at an 
Englishman's passionate adnuration 
of Milton and Shakespeare. An 
object of contemptuous pity was that 
feshionable Lord* who declared his 
preference of the Henriade of Vol- 
taire, before the works of hb immor- 
tal countryman. Such a man might 
harrangue to tlie astonishment of as- 
sembled peers, he might offer his 
sacrifices on the altar of the gi^aces, 
but he should never attempt to join 
the councils of correct and digni- 
fied criticism. I could fill a volume 
in speaking of Milton, so keen is 
my sensibility to his excellencies, 
so great is the instruction and plea- 
sure whicli I have received from 
him. I have marked many of his 
passages in my almost worn-out 
copyj and offered upon them some 
remarks: To these I sometimes 
recur with satisfiaction ; tliey are 
mementos of former periods whicli 
have been passed in converse with 
the mighty bard, and of some hours 
of dejection which were lightened 
by his voice. 

Dr. Johnson has said, that we 
must read Milton's Paradise Lost 
as a task. This is one among the 
many premature sentences pro- 
nounced b}' that great man. The 
whole of his M'ork we could not ex- 

• Chesterfield, 

pect to excite the same pleasore; 
but if the greater part produces not 
delight, then there b no delight iit 
elevated poetry.....! consider Dr. 
Johnson's criticism however,on this 
performance, with some excep- 
tions, to be in the highest degree 
excellent. A^disbn's Saturcfaiy't 
Papers on the same subject, though 
not equally acute, are erainenUy 
pleasing. Cowper has said in one 
of his most agreeable letters, that 
Milton has employed the only ma- 
chinery which was justifiable in a 
Christian poet. I have however 
admired tiie conception of Dryden, 
who, when he thought of writing an 
epic poem in honour of King An-^ 
thur, determined to introduce an- 
gels as the guardians of nations. It 
was the lot of Arthur and the (guar- 
dian angels to foil into very diflfer- 
ent hands. Perhiqw some have 
heard that Sir Richard Blackmore 
has written an epic poem called 
Arthur, and used the intervention 
of angels, though they may not have 
read the poem. The exordium 
and invocation of Paradise Lost, 
are eminently hiq^py. They em- 
brace completely the subject which 
is to be sung; they are simple and 
strong. How poor is the mvoca- 
tton of any muse to Milton's invo* 
cation of the Spirit? His strain 
was heavenly, and to heaven he 
looks for aid. As the £all of angels 
was the foil of man, Milton first 
discloses to our view the apostate 
^rits in their regions of sorrow, 
forming new schemes of rebellion 
and malice. 

Many of tlie most striking pas- 
sages of Milton have been noticed 
by the critic, and suggested to tlie 
admiration of the reader. I hare 
however the hope of pointing out, 
in the course of my Critical Notices, 
some portions of Milton, and of other 
poets, which are deserving qf the 
highest commendation,and on which 
criticism has not yet been lavish of 
its praises. 

I am deceived if, from all the vo- 
lumes of uninspired poetry, there 
can be produced a sublimer descrip- 
tion than that which is contained in 



Ae {oUowmg^ lines of the Vlth Book 
of Paradise Lost: 

Tet half hU strength he pot not forth, . 

but check 'd 
His thunder in mid volley ; for he meant 
Not to destroy, but root them out of 

heaven 5 
The overthrown he rais'd, and as a herd 
Of goats or timorous flocks together 

Drove them before him thunderstruck, 

With terrors and -with furies to the 

And chrystal wall of heaven ; which 

opening wide 
EoWd ifneard, and a Bfiaeioui gap dit- 

Lao the 'maUefiU deep; the numttrouM 

Struck tbcm faith horror hachwardt but 

far worse 
Urg'd them behind : Headlong tliem- 

selves they threw 
Down from the verge of heaven ; eter- 
nal wrath 
Burnt after them to the bottomless pit. 
Heli heard thcinauffarabU noite, hell 

tas» . 
Metnen ruirungfrom heanen, and wmld 

' hone fed 
Affrighted; but strict fate had cast too 

Her dark foundations, and too fast 

had bound. 
Nine days they fell : confounded chaos 

And felt tenfold confution in their Jail 
Through hia toild anarchy ^ #0 huge a rout 
Ineumher^d him vjith ruin: Hell at last 
Yawning received them whole, and on 
them closed. 

I cannot conceive how it is pos- 
sible for words or conception to 
exceed the preceding passage in 
strength. It represents a termina- 
tion of a battle purely original.... 
Here Milton could not tread either 
in the footsteps of the Grecian or 
the Roman bard. The scene of the 
action was on the borders of hea- 
ven, and the place in which the 
routed army was plunged, was the 
bottomless abyss...«chaos, the em- 
pire of universal confusion, was, by 
the rout, encumbered with ruin. 
The soul which conceived this un- 

commonly original description, must 
have been agitated by the tumults 
of poetical rage; and the hand 
which wrote it, must have trem» 
bled. Though all the lines are ad- 
mirable, yet I have ventured to. 
mark in italics, those which I 
thought were supereminent among 
the eminent. 

As a contrast to the passage al- 
ready quoted, I shall offer the fol- 
lowing tendu* and sweetly modu- 
lated lines : 

« O unexpected stroke, O worsethan 
death ! 
Must I thus leave thee. Paradise I thus 

Thee, native 9bil! these happy walks 

and shades. 
Fit haunt of Gods \ wh^re I had hope 

to spend. 
Quiet tho* sad, the respite of that day 
That must be mortal to us both. O.' 

That never will in other cUmate gro^» 
My early visitation, and my last 
At even, which I bred up with tender 

From the first opening bud, and gave 

ye names! 
Who now shall rear y« to the Am, or 

rank ' 

Your tribes, and water from the anw 

brosial fount ? 
TTiec lastly, nuptial bower! by me 

With what to fight or smell was 

sweet ! from thee 
How shall I part, and whither wan- 
der down 
Into a lower world ; to this obscure ^ 
And wild ? how shall we breathe in 

other air 
Less pure, accustomed to immortal 

fruits ? 
Whom thus the Angel intem^rted 

Lament not. Eve, but patiently reMgn' 
What jusdy thou hast lost, nor set thy 

Thus over-fond, on that which is not • 

thine : 
Thy going is not lonely ; with thee goes 
Thy husband; him to follow tliou art 

bound ; 
Where he abides, think there thy na^ - 

tive soul. 
Adam, by this from the cold suddeg 



CftlTlCAL VOTICX«.««»N*. U 

Recoveringf and his scatter 'd spiriu 

To Michael thus his humble words 
CelestialfWhether among the thrones, 
or nam'd 

Of them the highest ; for such of shape 
may seem 

Prince above princes ! gently hast thou 

Thy message, which might else in tell- 
ing wound, 

And in performing end us ; what be- 

Of sorrow, and dejection, and despair. 

Our frailty can sustain, thy tidings 

Departure from this happy place, our 

Recess, and only consolation left 

Familiar to our eyes ! all places else 

Inhospitable appear, and desolate ; 

Nor knowing us, nor known : And, if 
by prayer • 

Incessant I could hope to change the 

Of Him who all things can, I would 
not cease 

To weaiy him with my assiduous cries : 

But prayer against his absolute decree 

No more avails than breath against the 

Blown stifling back on bim that 
breathes it forth ; 

Therefore to his great bidding I sub- 

This most afflicts me, that, departing 

As from his face I shall be hid,depriv*d 

His blessed countenance: Here I could 

With worship place by place where he 

Presence divine ; and to my sons re- 

" On this mount he appear*d ; under 
this tree 

Stood visible ; among these pines his 

I heard ; here with him at this foun- 
tain talk»d:" 

So many g^teful altars I would rear 

Of grassy turf, and pile up every stone 

Of lustre from the brook, in memory 

Or monument to ages ; and thereon 

Offer sweet-smelling gums, and fruits, 
and flowers : 

In yonder nether world where shall h 

His bright appearances, or foot-step 
trace i 

For though I fled him angry, yetr re^' 

To life prolong'd and promised race, I 

Gladly behold though but his utmost 

Of glory ; and far off his steps adore. ** 

In this passage tiicre is a beauti- 
ful contrast between the sorrow of 
Adam and that of £ve..«The sorrow 
of Eve was more melting than that 
of her husband.« dwelt more mi- 
nutely^n the favourite objects which 
she was to leave behind her. The 
flowers which she had nursed and 
cherished with her o^n hand....the 
nuptial bower which she had deco- 
rated...«the walks and shades among 
which she had rambled and reposed ; 
and from which she must now be 
separated forever, filled her with 
the most piercing regret. The 
sorrow of Adam dwelt more espe« 
cially on his banisment from the di- 
vine presence, and on the places in 
which he appeared or stood visible^ 
and where he heard the sound of 
his compassionate voice. He re- 
solves that should he be permitted 
still to dwell in Paradise, he would 
rear up many mementos of his for- • 
mer days of happiness, that so he 
might be able to telHo his children, 
that here his God appeared before 
him, and from that thicket he heard 
the sound of his voice. The comfort 
which the angel endeavours to give 
to each of our parents, is of the 
most conciliating and soothing kind. 
These speeches of Adam and Eve 
have been noticed before, but I think 
not suflBciently. No lines could be 
more pathetic. When we consider 
that they were spoken by our pa- 
rents and representatives, can any 
passage in poetry be produced 
which can equal them in dignified 
pathos, and in the effect which they 
communicate ? While reading them, 
every son and daughter of Adam 
may unite in language somewhat 
similar. Fields of Paradise, the 
dwelling of my parents, farewel.... 
Abodes of innocence and of happi- 
ness, *' fit hauit for C»o<ls," from you 
we must be ever secluded... CXir foot- 
steps shall not be impinntcd upop 

CRITrCAL irOTICE9.,,.)fO. U 


^rmir9o3....We shall gather no flow- 
f?rs from the garden of Eden, to the 
whisper and music of your woods ; 
to the murmur of your streams we 
shall never listen....reclining from 
the banks, our lips shall never 
Juss the coolness of your waters 
•••••In your bowers of bliss we 
flIiaU not be permitted to repose«... 
Our parent fathers shall never tell 
US, " On this mount God appeared^ 
under this tree stood visible, among 
these pines his voice I heard, here 
with him at this fountain talked," 

The description in Paradise Lost, 
Book XL of th^ abatement of the 
waters after the deluge, is remark* 
ably strik^g, and deserves to be 
repeatedly noticed ; 

'* He look*d» and saw the ark hull 

on the Hood, 
Which now abated; fof the clouds 

were fled, 
Drhreh by a keen north-wind, that, 

blowing dry, 
Wrinkled the face of deluge, as de- 

cay'd ; 
And the clear sun on his wide watery 

paz'd hot, and of the fresh wave 

largely drew. 
As after thirst; which niswU their 

flowing shrink 
From standing lake to tripping ebb, 

that stole 
With soft foot towards the Deep; 

who now h;id stopt 
His sluices, as the Heaven his win« 

dows shut. 
The bold and curious personiHca- 
ttons in this passage are most wor- 
thy of remark. The face of the do- 
luge is wrinkled by the keen nortli 
wind, Hke that of an old man by 
age- The sun gazes hot, in his 
wonderful mirror of the expanded 
waters, and draws f^om them such 
draughts to qi\ench the fi^rcenesii 
of his thirst, that they hush the tu- 
Qiults of their bi^ows, shrink aMfav 
before him, and " witli soft foot," 
pr with gentle n\urmurs steal agaiq 
to the bosom of the deep. None 
Iriit the most mighty imagination 
could have given birth to such a 
picture, and none but a giant in in- 
tellect could have begotten such gi- 
gantic personiiications. 

Some critics, in order to afford 
to the world the testimony of their 
discernment, have asserted .that 
such books were the best in such a 
work. One critic has discovered, 
and after him many have said, that 
the first six books were the best of 
the Paradise Lost. Upon what thej 
have grounded this opinion, Ican«r 
not discover. They have much 
more discernment than I pretend to 
possess. In the different books, 
tliere is a variation of matter ; but 
the same strength and ardour of 
imagination....the same burning, 
intrepid and victorious genius i$ 
preserved without diminution 
throughout aU of them. I am of- 
ten tempted to laueh at the manjr 
absurd criticisms \wiich have been 
written on epic poetry. It forsooth, 
must have a beginning, a middle, 
and an end. Tliis we all must ac^ 
knowledge to be indispensable ; for 
we cannot conceive how any man- 
in his senses could give a finished 
narration without these. Every 
composition on earth, "not repre-. 
seuted as a ft'agment, written by a' 
rational man, has a beginning, nlid-, 
die, and an end. Then ajain in the 
epopee there must be machinery, 
because Aristotle said so, and Ho- 
mer has employed it in his Iliad.... 
but with all due deference to critical 
acumen; if all the machinery of 
Homer could be withdrawn, and a 
substitution be made of an equal; 
number of Homer's lines with those 
taken away, so as to fill up every 

?ap and incoherence of transition, 
should vote fbr the destniction o^ 
Homer's machinery. Milton *s ma- 
chinery Is stupendously great, andt 
as far superior to that of all other 
poets as can be conceived. Th6 
Jerusalem Delivered stands next' in 
dignity, in this respect, to Paradise* 
Lost. The machinery of (xothic 
superstition is vastly more pleasing^ 
to me when embodied hy poetry^ 
than Homer's Oods* Iq the bosom^ 
of every son and^daughter of poetry, 
there is a chord whjch vibrates to 
the sound of Goth?c story. But; 
Homer's mytliology communicatei^ 
(10 ploasmg dread, M. thri^ln wit]i\ 



the presante of no icy fingers, and 
1k>l(& out not one supernatural be- 
ing that we can love. In the days 
of my boyhood* when the marvel- 
lous in fiction lifted me above the 
world, I read with indifference all 
the stories of Homer's Gods^ and 
was always sorry when I was in- 
troduced in their company. Like 
Achilles, I searched for Hector 
amidst the embattled ranks, not 
with his terrible look of revenge, 
but with the eye of interest and af> 
lection ; and I could not forgive the 
venerable Grecian for making my 
favourite hero fly from his ap- 
proaching enemy. 

If we exclude from the compa- 
rison the dramatic writers, who 
among the English poets, who have 
written in blank verse, shall we 
rank next to Milton ? Without he- 
sitation I would assign that place to 
Young. In some respects, he hXLn 
not breath Milton. In condensing 
bought within a small compass, he 
surpasses all ancient and modem 
authors. When he wrote his great- 
est work, he courted the stillness of 
the night, he associated with sha- 
dows drear....his eyes caught 
through his lattice the raysofUie 
moon and the stars, and his ears 
listened to the music of tlie spheres. 
After Young, come Thomson and 
Cowper.... Thomson is praised by 
every body, whether they relish 
him or not ; and they never praise 
him unjustly. *' Arise ^ JufiUer^ 
and snuff the moouy** was not only 
the language of a madman, but of a 
poet ; and indeed, the highest exhi- 
liration, the most elevated inven- 
tive agitation of every poet of the 
first order, is on the borders of 
phrenzy. The soul of Pope was 
never tossed by these tumultuous 
sensations....he is an accurate, , a 
reasoning poet... .he is melodious In 
the highest degree....he must al- 
ways please. .. .he should always be 
admired ; but he is vastly surpassed 
by Milton, Dryden, Young, Thom- 
son, Cowper, and Gray, in poetical 
enthusiasm. Cowper has not the 
music or romance of Thomson ; his 
eye, however, roiled in a Jinc 

phrenzy; he is the most fiimiliar 
and domestic poet of the English 
language ; he is fiill of thought and 
exquisite morality. If he has less 
music and romance than Thomson, 
he has more solidity anderavity ; he 
is a better instructor. I have been 
lately reading, with delight, his 
Letters and pc^thumous poems, pre- 
served in Hayley's life of him, and 
would enrich mv Notices with some 
extracts from them ; but I wish not 
to put in my sickle, before the har- 
vest is ripe ; for an edition of Hay- 
ley's Life of Cowper is now in an 
American press ; and if this work 
be prosecuted, will form the subject 
of a minute and interesting Review* 
Were I called upon in a compa- 
ny of poetical votaries and talkers, 
to give utterance to one of the most 
strilung passages of Young's Night 
llioughts, I jshould rq>eat the fol- 
lowing (m time, from Night ther 

All-sensual man, because untouched, 

He looks on time as nothing : nothing 

Is truly man's ; 'tis fortune's. Time's 

a god ... 
Thou hast not heard of Time's omni- 
potence ; 
For, or against, what wonders can he 

And will : to stand blank neuter ho 

Not on those terms, was time, heav'ns 

stranger, sent 
On this important embassy, to man, 
Lorenzo! no: on the long destin'd 

From everlasting ages growing ripe & 
That memorable hour, of wond*rous 

When the dread Sire, on emanation 

And big with tiature, rising in his 

Call'd forth creation, (for then time 

was bom) 
^y godhead ttreaming^ tbrougb a tbou' 

tand vtorldi. 
Not on tbote terms, from the great 

daysof heav*n, 
From old eternity's mysterious orb, 
W(u time cut off, and catt beneath the- 




fktkie9,Vfhieh nDateb*d him in bit new 

Mttuurinr hie motione by revohing 

That horologe machinery divine. 
Saurt, daj^, and months and yeare hie 

children play, 
Like numeraue vtinge, around him, ae he 

Or nther, as nnequal plumes, they 

His anople pinions, swift as darted 

To gain his goal, to reach his ancient 

And join anew eternity, his sire; 
In his immutability to rest» 
When worldly that count hie circlee, nan 

(Fate the loud signal sounding) head' 

To timeUu night and chaoe, whence 

they rote. 

If these lines are not admired, it 
vill not be for want of grandeur in 
them, but for want of elevation 
somewhere else. The conception 
that time is a portion cut off from 
eternity, and thrust down beneath 
the slues, and watched by the hea- 
Tenly bodies, and measured by their 
revolutions«...that days, months, 
and years, are his children, or ra- 
dier so many wings, which hover 
around him, and direct him in hb 
course to the bosom of eternity 
again, is inexpressibly great. The 
closing lines might serve as a motto 
for a philosophical discussion. ••• 
Time, separated from the existence 
of animated beings, is nothing : it is 
measured by our consciousness; if 
we bestow individual existence on 
what we mean by time, it is evident 
that it cannot cease to exist : though 
worlds should be destroyed, yet 
such an airy notlilng as we mean by 
time, separated from animated na- 
ture, must still be just as it was : 
how very fine, then, is the idea of 
Young, tiiat time is cut off from 
etemity..,.that it is hastening into 
eternity ag^in, with its years and 
its centuries«...andthatwhen worlds 
are destroyed, and in the places 
which they now occupy, nothing 
will be left, to measure tke lapse of 

time. Time will be swallowed up 
in eternity, which is occupied by 
the existence of God, of angels, and 
of men. 

Hert I shall, for the present, sus- 
pend my Critical notices, by assur- 
ing^ those who have derived any 
satisfoction from following the 
traces of an hasty and busily occu- 
pied writer, that should the project- 
ed work of my friend the Editor, be 
sufficiently encouraged by a liberal 
and discerning public, they shall 
(Deo volante) repeatedly meet the 
productions of the same pen. 

I. 0* 


I am a man left solitary in th6 
world. I have neither parents, 
nor wife, nor children, to rejoice in 
my prosperity, or to mingle their 
sorrows with mine : my friends and 
associates are few. I am not more 
than thirty years of age, but my 
pallid cheek, my musefiil counte- 
nance, and some hairs which have 
been silvered by an aching head, 
would declare that I was nearer to 
forty. In the course of my journey 
thus far on the stage of human ex- 
istence, I have not been an inatten- 
tive observer of the characters of 
men, and of passing events.. •• 
Though I could tell much, yet I am 
called a silent man: and I must 
confess, that what I have seen in 
life, has more disposed me to be- 
come a speculative, thoughtful and 
melancholy man, than a vivacious 
and busy narrator of facts. I am 
oftentimes more fond of employing 
my pen, than my tongue, and have 
occasionally, through its instrumen- 
tality, pre;.crved on paper some 
sentimental speculation, and the 
traces of some musefiil journey. In 
this j)ropeiisity I still persevere, 
and shall probably to the public ad- 
dress several numbers of my specu- 
lations and rambles, wluch shall 
succeed th<! one wliich now solicits 

heir attention. . 


TRB TRAYSLLX)l.»«irO« r« 

The attachments, which we form 
3n early life, are generally the 
strongest and the most sincere* 
The feelings have not then lost 
Uieir generous warmthy nor is the 
ardour of sensibility damped, by 
commerce with the world. Covet- 
ousness has not then been bom, and 
made the soul the grave of every 
noble passion ; malice has not then 
aroused from its slumbers, nor does 
envy sicken at tlie praise of a bro- 
tlier....The heart then pants with a 
noble emulation, and the blush of 
shame burns on the dieek* Stran- 
gers to the world, the prospect that 
spreads before the eyes of youth, 
appears pleasing and enchainting* 
Ko hills of difficulty arise before 
them ; no snares open beneath their 
feet; the world to them is virtuous 
and honest, for they have not yet 
experienced its guile. It has been 
often tlie remark of experience, 
that when we are most igno- 
rant of human nature, we are 
freest from care ; that those years 
which are spent within the walls of 
a college, and which are devoted to 
the acquirement of knowledge, 
form the happiest period of our 
lives. Though I cannot wholly sub- 
scribe to this remark, yet I can 
safely say, that, while at college, 
I passed my most unincumbered 
da> s. Often fi*om the most exalted 
stations in society, has the manof the 
world looked back, with regret, on 
the scenes of his youth, on those 
happy da}'s, when, immersed in 
academic shades, he had not yet 
mingled with the noise and uproar 
of men ; when he had not yet disco- 
vered their machinations and their 
wiles; when. his ambition was con- 
fined to the little sphere in which he 
moved ; when he trod, unwearied, 
the paths of science, and when the 
strains of the Grecian and Roman 
bards kindled his soul to rapture. 

When wasting pains, and manhood's 
brooding woes 

Broke not the slumbers of his gay re- 

When o*cr the fieldi , light as the sum- 
mtr wijid, 

He flew, and left escb anxloustboi^ghf 

All these remembrances, as thc^ 
shades of departed pleasures, arise 
before his view, and he mourns 
over their grave, with a tear; ** all 
these remembrances sweep over 
his mind with an enchanting power 
of melancholy tenderness, and lull 
to sleep the cares and business of 
the moment." 

Frequent sensations of this kind 
are congenial to the mind which 
has not lost its sensibility and its 
taste. Who can hear with indiffer- 
ence, in more advanced age, the 
strain to which he has often listened 
in his infancy, and which then 
transported him with its liveliness, 
or soothed him with its sadness? 
Who can behold, without emotion, 
the shades, beneath which he has 
often reclined, or revisit the stream' 
to whose murmurs he formerly lis- 
tened, and along. whose banks he 
directed his earliest rambles ? Who 
can behold, without being carried 
back to scenes which have forever 
gone, the building in which he was 

I have been excited to these re- 
flections, by a visit to the place of 
my nativity ••••I am now gazing on 
the house in which I first opened my 
eyes on the light of heaven, and ex- 
ploring the hills, the plains and wa- 
ters, which I traced while a vagrant 
boy. Sensations, which are unde. 
scribable, rush on my mind at this 
review, and I cannot restrain my 
desire to pourtray my boyhood, and 
to talk of events, which this spot of 
my birth recals. Come then, let me 
make this log my chair, this old 
stump my table, and with my pencil 
let me fill these blank leaves of my 
pocket-book with the images of the 


Where have ye flown, ye visions 


Which flutter'd round my head? 
Has time's rude hand brush'd you 

away ? 
Is youthful fervor 4ead? 


l^ace to thy banks, thou gentle 

Where first 1 saw the light, 
Yet do thj munnurs fill my dream. 
And soothe the sleep of night. 

The house which stands upon the hifl, 
The waving wood behind. 
The distant church, the busy mill. 
Are pictur*d in my mind. 

O let me wander o»cr again 
These scenes of artless joy, 
And mark the shades, the hills and 

n' in, 
while a boy. 

Fond memory, bear me to that cliff, 
That overhangs the shore. 
And let me watch the passing skiff, 
i^ hear the dashing oar ... 

On that rude seat, with moss o'er- 

I often lay, rcclin'd, 
lndulg*d my pensive whims alone. 
And listened to the wind. 

One night I sat upon that rock. 
No human foot was near, 
The close of day had toUd tlie clock, 
But still 1 knew not fear : 

Beheld me at the peep of dawfi, 
Loud clamouring o'er my book. 

Ah ! mc, how many a restless day 
Has held m^ captive there ! 
How did I hail the hours of play. 
Which slew each litde care. 

The teacher was an aged wight, ^ 
With spectacles on nose; 
To me how dreadful was the sight, 
When'er his anger rose. 

My book, bethumi^d dog-ear'd and 

Each day he heard me read ; 
And how approvingly, each mom. 
He strok'd my flaxen head. 

Goodman! he's gone, he's sunk t» 

rest ; 
His little reign is o'er, 
And squabling imps shall not raolsst 
His peace and quiet more. 

For the Literary Magazine. 

In Imitation of the Mamcr of Stenx, 

Pale rose the moon, and o'er the flood 
Her trembling lustre cast. 
And loud and sullen, from the wood. 
Came on my ear the blast. 

The moon withdrew her silver beam, 
The night grew damp and dark. 
Lash'd by the north-wind, howl d the 

And rose the watch-dog's bark 

Ah I then I started from my seat, 
Swift to the house 1 fled, 
With fears my childish bosom beat. 
For ghosts were then my dread. 

Such fears leave sunshine in the 

When all the danger's gone • 
Sweet are the dreams of childhood s 

When some gay trophy's won. 

That school-house on the shaded lawn, 
B«&idM ihttbabl^Uog brook. 

My uncle Toby, one cold Decem- 
ber evening, sat smoking his pipe 
bv the fire, involved in deep reve- 
rie, when Corporal Trim entered. 
Please your honour, said the Cor- 
pral, slowly approaching. My uncle 
W made no reply. There is a 
biting air abroad, your honour. 
My uncle Toby spoke not. SluiU 
I help your honour to a cup of sack, 
continued the Corporal, raising hw 
voice. Still my uncle Toby was ii- 
Icnt. I have seen the man with tlitf 
huge nose, said Trim. My uncle 
Toby dropped his pipe. I ha\e 
seen the man with the large nose, 
continued the CorponU; the m^m 
whom your honour heard so muLU 
of in Strasburgh, i^ith the satin- 
crimson breeches. 1^^^ ^^^^/,^^ 
was seen by the centmel and the 
baudv-leeged trumpeter, 1 nm . .. .• 
ffiamf your honour. My uncle 

Toby arose. I dreamt that I saw 
that man last night. Trim, conti- 

n«»d my uncle Toby, juiit a* he ea- 



tcTcd the gates of Strasburgh, hold- 
ing a scimitar before his nose. Hea- 
ven defend his nose, exclaimed the 
Corporal* Let no man do it any 
harm, echoed my uncle Toby. Hea- 
ven defend it from the finger of the 
bandv-legged trumpeter, continued 
the Corporal. And from those of 
the hostess of the inn, continued 
my uncle Toby. May his crimson- 
satin breeches escape all danger, 
exclaimed the Corporal. May mey 
escape all pollution, echoed my 
uncle Toby. May the hands of the 
trumpeter's wife never lay hold up- 
on thetoi, continued Trim. Nor of 
the hostess of the inn, continued my 
uncle Toby. He has a noble nose, 
please your honour, said Trim.... 
tlie bandy-legged trumpeter swore 
it was as long as his trumpet, and 
that it made a noise as loud....the 
bandy-legged trumpeter's wife 
swore it was a sweet noae^ and as 
soft as a flute....O! it is a noble 
nose, your honour. Trim, quoth 
my uncle Toby, I should like to see 
that nose. You shall see it, please 
his majesty, exclaimed the Corporal 
....I will fetch it to your honour. 
Forget not, Trim, replied my uncle, 
to bring the man along with his nose . 
Trim disappeared, and my uncle 
Toby walked the room, agitated 
and silent. The clock had struck 
eight, when Trim returned with a 
nose in his hand, followed by an 
elegant young stranger. llere, 
your honour, said Trim, is the 
man, and here is the nose. My 
imcle Toby was silent, gazing on 
the stranger. Before him stood the 
figure of a man of twenty-five, tall, 
and of a martial air. He was ar- 
rayed in a military habit, and wore 
a small scimitar on his thigh. His 
countenance was manly and noble, 
but overcast with a shade of melan- 
choly sadness. As he cast on my 
imcle Toby a look from his dark- 
brown eyes, a big tear rolled from 
his cheek. Gallant stranger, I have 
seen ytm before, said my uncle 
Toby. You have, said the stranger, 
while he fell on one knee, and raised 
his hands toward heaven. I have 
se«n you before, and I know you 

how, said my uncle, while he fell 
on his neck, and wept. Ask him, 
please your honour, quoth Trim, 
6ic Corporal, why he wore this 
huge no8e....and wl^t has become 
of his crimson-satin breeches....if 
they have escaped the fingers of the 
bandy-legged trumpeter's wife, and 
those of tiie hostess of the inn..*. 
Hold thy peace. Trim, quoth my 
uncle Tobjr, while he wiped his 
eyes, we will hear that by and by*... 
Trim? Your honour, answered 
Trim. Trim, continued my uncle 
Toby, in a moumfiil voice... Jlere 
I am, answered the Corporal..— 
Trim, continued my uncle still 
more mournful. God bless your 
honour, exclaimed Trim, letting 
fall tlie waxen nose. Mend that 
fire, Trim, and bring mfc anotlier 
pipe, ended my uncle Toby* 

For the Literary Mttgazine. 


The ascendancy of the French 
language, in the nations who arc 
neighbours of France, is a circum- 
stance somewhat remarkable. In 
the English language, for instance, 
we find the teclmical vocabulary of 
several arts to be cliiefly or wholly 
French. In many cases not only 
words are pure French, but the or- 
der in which they stand in the 
Ehrase, is agreeable to tlie French 
ishion, and very many of these 
words and phrases are not of remote 
and Norman origin, but recently 
imported. As, The Art Military, 
Prerogative Royal, Ambassador 
Plenipotentiary, Envoy Extraordi- 
narv. Commissary General, and so 

It just now occurred to me to in- 
quire what arts had adopted their 
language from the French. In the 
first place, the art of war, and its 
kindred art of fortification,- are en- 
tirely French. Their terms are all 
borrowed from that language. 

The diplomatic dialect is French, 
and many French terms and phraaca 



•re preserved when the corres- 
pondence of governments is carried 
on in English, or translated into it* 
It is remarkable, that the only oc- 
casion on which the adjective of Bri- 
ain is Britannic^ is in diplomatic 
papers, in imitation of the French 
adjective. This is so well estab- 
lislied, that to say his British or his 
English majesty, would be a sole- 
cism ; whereas to substitute Britan- 
nic for British on any other occa- 
sion, would be equally singular and 
uncouth. The Britannic Jleet or 
army, would sound as strangely as 
his British majesty. 

The terras in cookery, in confec- 
tionary, in perfumery, in hair-dress- 
ing are mostly imported, together 
with the arts themselves, from 

Among the fine arts, music de- 
rives its language from Italy. The 
terms of sculpture and painting are 
many of them Italian, and many of 
them are also French. To France 
arc we indebted for most of our ar- 
chitectural terms. 

The terms of science are chiefly 
derived from the Oreek and Latin. 
The French, however, have the 
honour of inventing an entire new 
language for cliemistry. The French 
re\'oiution, as it has given birth to 
a great many new doctrines, has 
likewise brought into existence a 
great number of new words; and 
the Elnglish, with an unaccountable 
servility, have always made haste 
to adopt them. It is common to 
hear writers and speakers declaim- 
ing against France, and against in- 
novation in general, in a language 
that may be termed revolutionary 
French, and which would be quite 
anintelligible to the contemporaries 
of Steele and Addison. The Eng- 
lish are hostile to innovation in e vei7 
thing but language. 

In the arrangements now taking 
place in Engliind to resist imi/cnd- 
ing invasion, there is a law for rais- 
ijig what is called, in direct i nata- 
tion of the French, an army of re- 
serif e. This phrase (like one of 
long standing, though also borrow- 
ed from the French, c or/it de rC" 

9ervcy or body qfreservcy) is a di- 
rect hostility on the genius of old 
English, l^ut it is used merely be- 
cause the French have given the 
same name to the same t£ng. 


For the Literary Magazine* 


Tif£ affectation of honouring 
places, associations, and profes- 
sions with the epithet Royal, which 
at present prevails in ^gland, and 
formerly in France, has been car- 
ried to great, and sometimes ridi- 
culous extremes* In England, the 
first society of sages called itself the 
Royal Society. It would puzzle any 
one to discover, from their title, 
the pursuits of the association. In 
this case, the appellation is merely 
fulsome and unmeaning flattery, 
since it is well known, that this fra- 
ternity owed nothing, at its first 
formation, to the King. Within a 
sliort period a great number of so- 
cieties have sprung up, which, from 
the spirit of absurd imitation, oi^ 
with a view to curry favour with 
majesty, have been careful to add 
royal to their name. Thus we have 
the Ro)'al African Association, the 
Royal Academy, the Royal Institu- 
tion of Great Britain, the Royal 
Insurance Company, the Royal 
Bank (of Edinburgh,) the Royal 
Jennerian Society, the Royal Aca- 
demy of Dublin, the Royal Society 
of Edinburgh. 

Among the Royals of elder date, 
we have the Royal Exchange, the 
Royal College of Physicians, and 
Theatres-Royal of Drury-lane and 
Covcnt-Carden. In recent times, 
the establishment of new theatres 
has put their proprietors to sad 
shifts for names sufficiently digui- 
fled ; one of them is obliged to re- 
verse the name already in use, -cuid 
to call itself IVie Royal Thcairr. 

The thrifty class of mankind, 
who have their subsistence to jiro- 
cure by stud} ing the popular hu- 
mimr, have made extensive use of 
this epidiet. Travellci-s describe 


the whimsical effect produced in 
tiiis respect, among the French ar« 
tizans, by the chanee of govern- 
ment, dn the downlal of Sie mo- 
narchy, " Royal" was every where 
«uperseded by ^< nationale," and 
yery odd combinations ensued. 

We in America, having no kings 
nor princes among us, are obliged 
to content oqrselvp^ ^ith describ- 
ing our vocations by their propter 
names. I do not recollect to have 
met with but one instance in which 
an artist has endeavoured to ac- 
quire repute by the use' of some 
great name, ^iany of my readers, 
perhaps, recollect an advertise- 
ment of a New-York operator on 
the teeth, who advertised himself 
as " Dentist to the late General 
Washington;" and to support his 
^ pretensions, published a letter from 
the General, which ran in these 
terms.... Sir, whenever I have oc- 
casion for your services in the way 
of your profession, I shall have no 
objection to employ you. 

G. W. 

I recollect a barber, for whose 
razor I used to have daily occasion, 
who displayed one morning an 
nnnsual share of self-importance, 
which he presently accounted for, 
by telling me that he had just had 
the honour of shaving his excel- 
kncy the Governor. 

Ftyr the Amtrican Pe^9ter^ 


[The kindness of a friend has permit- 
ted us to print the following letter, 
written by a young American now 
in Europe. The author has already 
afforded proofs of talents, which 
will probably one day raise him to 
the first stations in his country, and 
this lettt»r is no mean evidence both 
of a delicate taste, and an amiable 
disjiosition. ^ e.] 

London, ISth July,' 1803. 
Dear Sir^ 

Ma.W.........istosailfor Phila- 

dielpliia to-morrow, aud I cannot 

permit such an opportunity to oe- 
cur, without letting you know, thaty 
wherever I am, I cherish the re^ 
membrance of you with that of my 
country. The distance which in- 
terrupts our correspondence, and 
the engagements which often per- 
plex me, serve only to endear to 
me the recollection of my absent 
friends, to whom my heart has long 
desired to be reunited. In the 
midst of this crowded metropolis, 
I am yet literally a stranger : I find 
no spot in which I can plant one 
new affection, and I long to culti- 
vate those which I left at home* 
You wiU, I know, reprove me for 
this disposition ; which, you will sup* 
pose, disqualifies me for improving 
my new situation in a Country 
which affjrds so many curiosities to 
an inquiring mind ; which you deem 
the seat of the arts and sciences* I 
won't argue with you : I submit to 
your reproof with a consciousness 
that it is not entirely unmeritted* 
But I am conscious, sJso, of having 
made many laudable efforts to sot- 
ten the severity of English cour- 
tesy , and, when repulsed in the pri- 
vate walks of life, I have turned my 
footsteps to the public scenes, best 
calculated to aSbrd innocent amuse- 
ment and useful information. I at- 
tended the theatres, till they dis- 
gusted me, as well by tlieir perfor- 
mances, as their audience. Though 
repeatedly baffled in my attempts 
to gain admission into the courts, I 
have sometimes succeeded in hear- 
ing Erskine, Garrow, and Gibljs : 
and at the * imminent haxardof mf 

• The writer here alludes to tho 
difficulty of gaining access to the 
House of Commons, on occasion of 
Pitt's speech on the renewal of war. 
The contemporary journalists mentioa 
this speech as having been lost to the 
world by the exclusion of the note-ta-. 
kers. The writer, more adventurous 
and rfiore fortunate, got a seat in the 
lobby of the house, by being throwim 
headlong, though without injury, with 
a «corc or two of others, from tho 
gallery, by the pressure of an ii^mensot 


Hfe, I, at last, witnessed the fiill 
' blase of Mr. Pitt's eloquence. This 
last is the g;reat era of my enjoy- 
ments here, pre-eminently surpass- 
ing all the rest, and so far, indeed, 
as almost to make me recollect it 
alone. You will believe all I say, 
when I assure you, that Mr. Pitt 
realized the highest expectations I 
had formed. He is the greatest 
orator that I ever heard. His elo- 
quence is a clear and constant 
stream; you admire its majestic 
windings, you are dazzled by the 
lights reflected from its smooth and 
unbroken surface. I feel its pre- 
sence, when I behold the current 
rolling in Uie field of my imagina* 
tion, and I strive in vain to discover 
some other object which can cx)n- 
Tey to you a more correct idea of 
this great orator. His very defects 
are so peculiarly fitted to each 
other, that they do not impair the 
great character of his eloquence, 
while his forcible reasoning, his ar- 
dent and uninterrupted delivery oc- 
ci^y the mind, and carry it along 
with him, it does not perceive that 
his person is slender, his carriage 
and gesture awkward, or that his 
perii^s, so happily are they balanc- 
ed, and so well adjusted to the tone 
and cadence of his voice, are longer 
than the rules of criticism allow to 
discourses which are to be spoken. 
Without the formality and stiffness 
of formal divisions of his subject, he 
displays the most methodical ar- 
rangment, so natural that, while you 
listen to him, you do not perceive it, 
and, after speaking two hours, you 
think that he has spoken only a few 
minutes. His style is rather argu- 
mentative than figurative. , But al- 
though it presents you no bold apos- 
trophes, no splendid comparisons, 
it abound* with tropes and meta- 
phors, which come to his assistance 
unasked, which he utters without 
appearing to be conscious of using 
them, and which you perceive only 
in the general light they shed over 
lus discourse. iTiey resemble the 
innumerable star^ which compose 
Ihe galasty, and which a telescope 
TOU I....NO. i« 

only can separate into distinct lumi- 

He is completely the sun of elo- 
quence in the House of Commons, 
K>r he eclipses the light of every 
other orator. Mr. Fox is the morn- 
ing-star only, till his great opponent 
rises. Mr. Fox's eloquence is whol- 
ly of a diffetent character. In in- 
vention. Quickness of apprehension, 

* variety of illustration, humour, and 
one species of pathetic eloquence*. .• 
perhaps in till the constituents of 
eloquence, derived from the mind, 
independent of delivery^ he is at 
least equal, if not superior to Mr. 
Pitt. In that which addresses itself 
to the tender emotions of the heart. 
Fox is, I believe, unrivalled. In 
his late speech, he displayed, in a 
very uncommon degree, a talent for 

•exciting the ridiculous. He suc- 
ceeded so well, as to make the pa- 
triotic ardour, kindled by Mr. Pitt, 
and those who took the same side of 
the question, explode in repeated 
bursts of laughter. In the charac- 
ter of Muley Molock, Mr. Pitt 
laughed heartily at himself, and the 
declaimers against the injustice of 
France were astonished, when they 
came to defend their own coimtry 
from the same charge, to perceive 
that their arguments must resemble 
the reply of " the lady in the farce,'* 
that " she had always been chaste 
on this side of the Cape of Good 
Hope." But Mr. Fox's delivery 
is exceedingly disagreeable. His 
voice is squeaking, his utterance 
embarrassed and interrupted. He 
frequently recals his words, and al- 
ters the arrangement of his sen- 
tences, after having gone lialf 
through them.. Nevertheless, there 
is no orator, after Mr. Pitt, whk» 
deserves to be^compared with Mr» 
Fox ; and, on the whole, I believe 
there is less eloquence in England 
than in America. I have not men- 
tioned Mr. Sheridan, because I have 
net had the pleasure of hearing him, 

•except for a fiew minutes. Gray, 
Erskine, Canning and Wilber.. 
force, have no pretensions to elo- 
quence, nor is there one grealt 



dpeaker in the present administra- 
tion« You are surprised, perhapsi 
at my denying eloquence to Mr. 
Erskine : I heard him speak for one 
hour in the House of CommonB, and 
I found it impossible, I would have 
defied any body else to tell on what 
side of the great question, peace or 
war, he intended to v<fte, unless, in- 
'deed, it be always proper to judge 
from the place where a member 
seats himself, of what party he is. 
Mr. Pitt's great speech followed 
Mr. Erskine's, and contained, as 

nearly as I can recoUect, the follow- 
ing words : ^' In reply to the honour- 
able member who has just spoken, 
I shall j)ot consider what he has ut- 
tered as either a very systematic or 
a very clear view of the subject 
which he proposed to Investigate, 
nor can I suppose that he hims^ 
considers his remarks in that light«" 
I have also heard Mr* Erskine at 
the bar, and been almost as much 
disappointed as in the house. In 
both places he is, in my opinion at 
least, far surpassed by Mr. D^— -• 

I^or the Literary Magazine* 


A View of South CaroUnoj as retfiecta her natural and civil concetns^. 

by John Drayton. Charleston^ IV. P. Youngs 1802, 8vo. boards, ftp* 255. 

between one and two in the after- 
noon of the same day, was seen ap- 
proaching us very fost in a direct 
line, and not three miles from the 
town. But when it had advanced 
to the distance of about half a mile 
from us, it was providentially op- 
posed b^ another whirlwind, which 
came from the north-east; and 
crossing the point of land on which 
Charleston stands, the shock of 
their junction was so great as to al- 
ter the direction of the former some- 
what more towards tlie south,where- 
by great part of this piace was pre- 
served from inevitable destruction. 
It then passed down Ashley river 
with such rapidity and violence, 
that in a few minutes it reached 
Rebellion Road, where a large fleet 
of loaded vessels with one of his 
majesty's ships, their convoy, lay, 
about four or five miles below the 
town, ready to sail for England; 

We have great pleasure in meet- 
ing with a work of this Idnd. At 
present, the geographical and sta- 
tistical condition of the United States 
is very little known ; and it can on- 
ly be known by the compilation of 
works like the present. The Dis- 
trict of Maine, the Spates of Ver- 
mont and New-Hampshire are the 
only portions of our country, which 
have been made the subjects of par- 
ticular histories or descriptions, be- 
fore the present undertaking ; and 
we now add the name of Drayton 
to those of Williams and Belknap, 
as the literary benefactors of their 

We are first presented with a ge- 
neral account of the discovery and 
settlement of this state. Then fol- 
lows a description of the face of the 
country, its mineral and vegetable 
productions, and its climate. The 
tlelineation of the face of the coun- 

try is accurate and scientifical. The three of which were overset and 

climate is illustrated by thermome- 
trical tables, by tables of diseases 
compiled by a medical society at 
Charleston, and by other valuable 
documents and observations. 

The following account of a whirl- 
wind deserves to be extracted : 

" About ten o'clock in the morn- 
ing, on the 4th of May, 1764, a 
dreadful whirlwind was said to be 
observed in the Indian country, 
above three hundred miles to the 
westward of Charleston; which, 

sunk so suddenly, that some people 
who happened to be in one of their 
cabins had not time to come on 
deck ; and many of the other ships, 
which, luckily, did not lie so imme- 
diately exposed to the greatest fury 
of the ten)])est, would have shared 
the same fate, had not their masts 
.given way ; for all tliose it passed 
over, were laid down on their sides : 
and tlie mizen-mast of the king's 
ship was carried off close to the 
quarter-deck, as smoothly as if it 
had been cut witli a saw. 



** As people sat at dinner that day, 
they were alarmed with an unusual 
sort ^f stunning noise, as of the ruf- 
fling of many drums, intermixed 
with such a roaring, thundering, 
churning or dashing sound, as the 
sea makes, in breaking on a hollow 
rocky shore, during a violent storm ; 
when, on running out of doors, the 
tremendous cloud was seen advan- 
dng at a great rate, with a quick 
ciroilar motion, its contents seem- 
ing in a violent agitation, from the 
great tumult that appeared, not on- 
ly in the body of the column itself, 
batj likewise from the contiguous 
clouds which drove rapidly towards 
it from all directions, as if the 
wlM^e contents of the atmosphere 
flowed thither, and were instantly 
absorbed by it. Hence it was, that 
this meteor every moment appear- 
ed so diflferently ; some parts of it 
being black and dark at times ; 
others of a flame colour ; and again, 
as if vast waves of the sea had risen 
into the air. But such was the per- 
turbation in the cloud, that these 
phenomena varied continually ; all 
parts of it rolling over each other 
m the most confused and rapid 
manner : and everV now and then, 
large branches oi trees might be 
seen hurled about in it« Its diame- 
ter was tliought to be about three 
hundred yards, and the height thir- 
ty degrees ; a thick vapour emitted 
fi*om it rising much higher. In 
passing along, it carried the waters 
of the river before it, in the form 
of a mountainous wave ; so that the 
bottom was seen in many places. 
Such floods of water fell on tliose 
parts over which it passed, as if a 
whole sea had been discharged on 
them at once; and for a mile or 
two on each side of it, abundance 
of rain fell. As the wind ceased 
presently after the whirlwind pass- 
ed, the branches and leaves of va- 
rious sorts of trees, whicli had been 
carried into the air, continued to 
fall for half an hour ; and in their 
descent, appeared like flocks of 
birds of different sizes. A gentle- 
man, over whose plantation the 
skirt of this storm passed, not more 
than two miles from Cliarlcstony 

assured me, that had a thousand 
negroes been employed for a whole 
day in cutting down his trees^ they 
could not have made such a waste 
of them, as this whirlwind did in less 
than half a minute. Such trees as 
were young and pliant, stooped to 
its violence, and afterwards reco- 
vered themselves. But. all those, 
which were more inflexible, and 
firmly rooted, were broken off, and 
hurled away: so that no part of 
many of them could afterwards be 
found; anoongst which were some 
live oaks of near two feet diameter, 
the wood of which is known to be 
almost as ponderous and hard as 
lignum vita; so that some of these 
trees, must have weighed, perhaps 
more than two tons. Yet heavy as 
they were, no remains of them 
could afterwards be found any 
where, except the roots, which 
were fixed in the earth. These 
whirlwinds more often proceed 
through the upper country, some- 
times in a width of half a mile, 
tearing up the largest oaks and 
other trees in their way ; or twist- 
ing and shivering them to pieces." 

The following statement of the 
nature and extent of estates is va- 
luable : " 

" The incomes of the planters, 
and farmers, are various ; ranging 
from eighty to forty thousand dol- 
lars. Very few, however, receive 
incomes of the above magnitude. 
Many receive from twelve to tvyen- 
ty thousand dollars per annum ; and 
the greatest part of the planters are 
only in the annunl receipt <)f from 
three to six thousand dollars. The 
estates of these latter may be wortii 
from 20 to 40,000 dollars. The 
farmers are on a smaller scale ; and 
their incomes may be said to range 
between two thousand, and forty 
dollars. The best lands in this 
state, which are tide swamps, if 
cultivated, have sold for one hun- 
dred and seventy dollars an acre. 
In general, however, they sell from 
seventy to ninety dollars an acre ; 
on a credit of « one or two years. 
Uncultivated tide land sells propor- 
tionably lower. Inland swamps, if 
cultivated, sell at prices betwixt 


twenty and fifty dollars each acre. 
Good cotton land has sold in Beau*- 
fort district, as high as sixty doUars 
per acre. In general, however, 
Its value, in dlrorent parts of the 
state, is from six to forty dollars ; 
the same depending much on its si* 
tuation ; as that nearest the sea is 
considered the most valuable, and 
produces the finest cotton. Other 
high lands sell from one to six do]* 
lars an acre ; according to their re- 
spective situations, and conveni- 
ences to navigation. Hence, men 
possessing any capital whatever, 
may settle themselves independent- 

a; upon lands which descend to 
eir posterity ; together with every 
improvement made thereon, by 
their industrious labour. 

^ The buildings are also as va- 
rious, as the values of estates ; ran- 
ging in value between thirty thou- 
sand and twenty dollars. They are 
commonly built of wood; some, 
however, are constructed of brick ; 
principally those in cities and 
towns. And of late years, build- 
ings have been carried on with spi- 
rit throughout the state ; and houses 
of brick and wood erected, suitable 
to the improvementof manners, and 
comforts of society. The houses 
are, for the most part, built of one 
or two stories, according to the 
taste and abilities of the owner. 
One particularity, however, may 
be remarked respecting them, which 
is, that. piazzas are generally at- 
taclied to their southern front, as 
well for the convenience of walk- 
ing therein, during the day, as for 
preventing the sun's too great in- 
fluence on the interior part of the 
house ; and the out-ofiiccs are rare- 
JLy connected with the principal 
dwelling, being placed at a distance 
from it, of thirty or forty yards. 
The houses of the poorest sort of 
people, are made of logs, let into 
each other at the ends, their inter- 
stices being filled up with moss, 
Straw, and clay ; and are covered 
with clap-boards. Their plans are 
simple, as they consist only of one 
f r two rooms: and the manners of 
their tenants are equally plain. 

But, it is here, that health 
independence dwell* And a crop 
of an hogshead of tobacco, or a bag 
or two of cotton, forms an income 
which pays the taxes and expenses 
of the farm, and makes a family 
happy and contented." 

The most valuable part of this 
performance, is the detail it con- 
tains of the agriculture and rural 
economy of this state. We have 
here a more clear and satisfactory 
account of the culture of those im- 
porUnt articles, rice and cotton, 
than is elsewhere to be found. A 
distinct view is given in an happily 
conceived table, of the comparative 
modes of cultivating rice in South 
Carolina, Spain, Egypt, Sumatra, 
and China. 

As cotton is growing very rapidly 
into esteem, and its cultivation be- 
gins to be attended to in the middle 
districts of the United States, we 
shall extract our author's account 
of the Carolinian culture : 

<^ Cotton is noticed as an article 
of export in South Carolina, as 
early as the year 1754; and from 
that time to this, it has been grown 
in the state ; but, without any par- 
ticular attention, until of late years. 
During the American war with 
Great Britain, it was raised through 
necessity; and with a mixture of 
wool, or sometimes by itself, was 
woven into negro cloths: but, it 
ceased with the cause which excited 
its culture ; and again sunk to its 
former level. As an article of ex- 
port from theUnitedStates of Ame- 
rica, it originated in Georgia, since 
the peace of 1783 ; and yidUling ex- 
traordinary profits to the planter, 
soon recommended itself to those 
of tliis state. And hence that be- 
ginning, which has now surpassed 
in value the greatest crops of rice 
or indigo, which have ever been 
made in South Carolina. 

" Tlie cotton wliich is grown in 
this state, may be ranged in three 
classes: viz. nankeen^ green sted^ 
and black eeed, cotton. 

" Nankeen cotton is principally 
grown in the middle and upper 
country, for family use. It is sr 


«iBed from the wool, resembling 
tbe colour of nankeen or JSTamking 
doth; which it retains as lohg as 
It is worn. It is not in much de- 
mand, the white cotton having en- 
i;n)ssed the public attention. Were 
it encouraged however, cloths might 
be manufactured from it, perhaps 
not inferior to those imported from 
the East Indies, it being probable 
the cotton is of the same kind ; as 
from experiments which have been 
made, nankeens have been manu- 
£actared in this state, of good co« 
lour and of very strong texture. 

*< Green seed cotton, produces a 
good white wool, adhering much 
to the seed ; and, of course, with 
difficulty ^imed. Its produce b 
greater, and its maturity is sooner 
than the black seed ; for which rea- 
son it is principally cultivated in the 
middle and upper country ; as the 
seasq^ of those districts are shorter, 
by several weeks, than those of the 
lower country ; and the frosts are 
more severe. 

^^ Black seed cotton is that which 
is grown in the lower country, and 
on the sea islands ; producing a fine 
white cotton, of silky appearance \ 
very strong, and of good staple* 
Hie mode of culture is the same 
with all these species; and rich 
high land, is the soil, on which 
^ey are generally planted. In the 
middle country, however, the high 
noamfi lands produce tlie green 
9€ed in great abundance ; and some 
tide lands and salt water marshes 
(after being reclain^ed) in the lower 
country, have also made excellent 
crops of this valuable article. 

*' This plant is raised from the 
seed, and is managed in nearly the 
IbUowing manner: About the latter 
end of March, or beginning of 
April, commences the season for 

enting cotton. In strong soils the 
d is broken up with ploughs, and 
the cotton is sown in drills, about 
five feet from each other, and at 
the rate of nearly a bushel of seed 
to the acre ; after which, when the 
•otton is a few leaves high, the dirt 
is thrown up in a ridge to the cot- 
ton, on each side, by a plough, with 

a mould board adapted to that pur- 
pose. Or, in the first instance, 
beds are made rather low and flat, 
and the cotton is sown therein. By 
some they are sown in holes, at 
about ten inches distance ; but the 
more general practice is to sow the 
cotton in a drill, along the length 
of the bed; after which it may be 
thinned at leisure according to its 
growth. In rich high land soils, 
not more than fifteen of these beds 
are made in a quarter of an acre ; 
but in inferior lands, twenty-one 
beds are made in the same space of 
ground. When the plants are about 
four or six leaves high, they re- 
quire a thinning; at which time, 
only a very few plants are left at 
each oistance, where it is intended 
the cotton is to grow: and from 
time to time these plants are thin- 
ned, until at length two plants, or 
only one, are left at each distance. 
Wliere the land is not rich, the 
plants remain withui ten or twelve 
inches of each other ; but when a 
luxuriant growth is induced, they 
are thinned to eighteen inches, and 
two feet ; and in rich swamp lands, 
to four feet distance in the rows. 
At the time of thinning also, the 
first hoeing is generally given ; and 
the rule is, not to draw the earth 
down, but constantly to draw up a 
little earth, at each hoeing, to tho 
plant ; and to give the fields a hoe- 
ing every two or three weeks. 
With some planters, the practi:o 
of topping the main stalk has been 
used, when the plants are too luxu- 
riant; but the plant throwing out 
consequently an abundance of suck- 
ers, and Uiereby increasing the toil 
of the negroes to pull them away, 
ha? induced its discontinuance. 
Towards the middle of September, 
however, it may be advantageous 
to top tlic cotton to the lowest blos- 
soms ; as from that time no blos- 
soms will produce cotton. By this 
treatment, also, the sun has a great- 
er influence on the plant, the pods 
sooner open, and the strength of 
tlie plant is not drawn unnecessarily 
from those pods, whicli are likely 
to come to maturity. 



M At Che first hoeing, the grass 
U carefully picked from aaiongst the 
plants, and a little earth is drawn 
around them. The second hoeing 
l» also done in the same manner, 
and those sacceeding ; with this ad- 
dition, that at every hoeing, the 
beds are drawn up more and more 
into an angular ridge, for the pur- 
pose of better throwing off the au- 
tumnal rains from the roots of the 
cotton. Some cotton-planters plant 
Indian com at the intersections of 
•very twenty-four feet, throughout 
the cotton field ; and by' this mode 
nearly make their provisions. But 
whether both the cotton and the 
com would not do better by them- 
selves, is for experience to deter- 
mine. Towards the middle of 
June, the plants begin to put forth 
their beautiful blossoms ; and con- 
tinue blossoming and forming the 
pods, until the frosts set in; at 
which time all the pods that are 
not well grown, are injured and 
destroyed. Early in August, the 
harvest of cotton begins on the sea 
islands; and in September, it is 
general throughout the state, con- 
tinuing until December. The cot- 
ton wool is contained in the pod in 
three or four different compart- 
ments ; which, bursting, when ripe, 
presents the cotton full blown to the 
sight, surrounding its seeds. In 
small bags of oznaburgs, which are 
slung over the negroes' shoulders 
for the purpose, the cotton is then 
picked m>m the pods, and is car- 
ried home to the cotton house. 
From whence, for one or two days 
thereafter, it is taken out and spread 
to dry on a platform adjacent to tlie 
house, for that purpose ; after which 
it is ready for ginning. For this 
purpose, a suitable house is neces- 
sary, sufficiently large to receive 
both the cured cotton and that which 
has been latelv brought in. To the 
upper part of this house the scaf- 
fold is generally connected, for the 
greater convenience of taking the 
cotton from the upper part of the 
house to dry, and of returning it 
therein. When the cotton is well 
opened, a negro will gather sixty 

or seventy pounds of cotton in the 
seed in a day. The produce -of 
cotton is various, according to 
its different situations and kinds. 
In the lower country, the black 
seed ranges between one hundred 
and three hundred pounds weight, 
of clean cotton, to the acre. In 
the middle and upper country, 
green seed does the like. Upon 
uidifierent lands, only from sixty to 
one hundred weight of clean cotton 
is made to the acre; on better 
lands, from one hundred to two 
hundred ' pounds weight are pro- 
duced ; and on the best lands, with 
happy seasons, three hundred 
weight of clean black seed cotton 
has been made in Beaufort district 
to the acre. This, however, is 
rarely done ; and the planter is sa- 
tisfied with from one hundred and 
fifty to two hundred pounds of clean 
bhck seed cotton to the acre. .The 
green seed planter expects some- 
what more. 

" The cotton, thus picked and 
brought in, is next to be ginned; 
for which purpose a suitable house 
is necessary. And various kinds of 
gins are used for extricaUng this 
valuable staple from its seed. Those 
at present in use, tLtcfoot gin^ 
£vee»'9 gin*^ barrel giriMj and mw 

" JFoot ghf are worked with 
cranks, by a foot board, or treadle, 
almost resembling a turner's lathe. 
They are composed of two small 
rollers, about three-fourths of an 
inch diameter, which by puUies arc 
made to turn contrary ways. To 
each of these gins a negro is placed,' 
with cotton for ginning; this he 
constantly applies to the rollers 
on the side next to him, which, by 
their moUon, clraw the cotton from 
the seed. It then falls into a bag, 
and the seed is discharged on the 
ground. With one of thcfe gins, a 
negro will gin from twenty to twen- 
ty-five pounds of clean black seed 
cotton in a dny ; and can clean out 
about lOOOlbs of clean cotton du- 
ring the seas'^n. 

^^IZvets*9ff2ng work similar rollers 
with additional mechanism; con- 



Bsdng of iron teeth and puUies, by 
which the niill| with a little assis- 
tance, feeds itself. These mills are 
worked by horses and oxen, or by 
water. They were some time past 
introduced into Beaufort district; 
but not answering tlie expectations 
which had been formed of them, 
they are but little used. 

** Barrel gina are either worked 
by oxen or water ; and may be said 
to be nothing more than foot gins, 
to which greater power is applied 
by complicated mechanism. This 
consists of a large driving cog- 
wheel, working a small trundle 
wheel. This smaller wheel gives 

. motion to a large cylinder or bar- 
rel, round which from eight to twen- 
ty-four sets of bands are passed, 
communicating with the pullies of 
as many cotton gins ; which are 
fixod in rows on each side of it. A 
n^;ro is stationed at each of these 

, gina, to feed it with cotton ; besides 
one who superintends tlie whole; 
and the larger kind of these mills will 
gin out from six to eight hundred 
weight of clean cotton in a day* 

** The «ow gina are used particu- 
larly for extracting the cotton from 

. the green 9eed^ to which it closely 
adheres. This mill is worked ei- 
ther by oxen or water, and consists 

.of an horizontal cog-wheel, or a 
water wheel, woi'king a band which 
puts the puUies of the saw-mill in 
motion* One of these pullies turns a 
cylinder, round which is affixed from 
twenty to forty circular iron plates, 
about three-fourtlis of an inch dis- 
tant from each other, serrated at 
the edge; which continually revolve 
between iron straps, into the com- 
partment where the cotton is plac- 
ed ; and thus tear the cotton from 
the seeds, as the space throu^ 
which they revolve, is not suffici- 
ently large to let the seeds pass 

.through. Another puUy moves a 
cylinder with a set of brushes op- 
posite each saw ; which takes the 

. clean cotton from the teeth of the 
saw, and discharge it from the gin. 
One person besides the packers, 
and those who drive the oxen is 
sufficient for attending tliis gin; 

and the cotton cleaned by it dailf 
may be fi*om six to nine hundred 

" After the cotton be thus ginned) 
by these different machines, a num- 
ber of hands is employed in picking 
from it any dirt or bits of seed, 
which may remain in it : it is then 
packed up in bags, weighing from 
250 to 300lbs. and is ready for mar- 
ket. As the nicety of its prepara- 
tion more than its bulk, is the ob- 
ject with manufacturers, it is wdl 
worth the planter's attention to be 
careful in having it gathered clean 
from tlie field, ajid otherwise cleans- 
ed from all trash, broken seeds, 
and stained wool, which may re- 
main, after its having passed 
through the gin . Cotton, prepared 
in this way, will assuredly com- 
mand a ready and good price ; as, 
in the extensive spinning machines 
which are established in Europe, the 
smallest particle of trash or seed 
breaks the thread, and iivterrupts 
the progress of the manu&cture. 

<^Such is the growth of cotton in 
South Carc4ina, and the mode of 
preparing it for market. But it is 
not all of the same intrinsic value, 
as that raised on lands adjacent to 
the sea and salt water, called Uland 
or tea %hore cotton^ being black 
9eedy it is preferred to tlie green 
9eed cotton^ which is raised in die 
interior of the country." 

After discussing, very fiilly, the 
agriculture of tlie state, the author 
proceeds to make some few re- 
marks on negro slavery. On this 
dehcate topic it is but justice to all 
parties to hear what a shrewd and 
candid judge has to say in defence 
of negro servitude. 

" In the pursuits of agriculture, 
slaves were introduced into this 
state; and importations from Africa 
soon supplied the planter with as 
many negroes as he was able to 
purchase. This gave a rapid in- 
crease to the settlement, and riches 
of the lower country; when, other- 
wise, its richest lands would not 
have been worth tlie cultivating, 
nicy, consequently, became a vest- 
ed property in their respective own- 



ers, b^ the laws of the land ; and 
however paradoxical it may appear, 
their owners, on obtaining their in- 
dependence, and a right by the cop- 
stitution and e;ovemment of tins 
state, and theseUnited States, thence 
flowing, to be protected in their fter^ 
9&ns and ftro/iertijy had an indefea- 
sible right in them: without the 
reach of laws to alter, unless by 
their own consent, or by suitable 
compensation. Notwithstanding, 
however, this barrier, which has 
been, and will continue to be placed 
against an^ innovations respecting 
this property ; many are the eflbrts 
which are not only tried mdividu- 
ally, but collectively, to weaken 
this right of property; and, ulti- 
mately, to change its very nature. 
The impropriety appears greater ; 
as these attempts flow, not from 
our own citizens, Jbr they know 
their rights and interests better; 
but from those of the Northern 
States; who are less acquainted 
with them . With as much propri- 
•ty might we request them to dis- 
miss their horses from the plough ; 
as for us to dismiss these people 
from labour. For in both cases ^ 
lands of excellent quality ^ rv/iich are 
fultivated by theniy would revert to 
a state qf nature* And with the 
same reason might they be asked to 
give the money out of their pockets, 
in order to equalize the situation of 
every person ; as the people of the 
. soutliem states be requested to make 
changes in this property, which 
would materially aflect the fortunes 
they possess. And notwithstand- 
ing this impropriety, societies have 
intruded so far, as to send addresses 
to the different branches of our le- 
gislature ; recommending certain 
modes, which they deem most eli- 
gible for us to pursue in this respect ; 
and all thh for the good of the 
whole family of mankind ! The 
reception which these addresses 
have met with, renders any fur- 
tlier comment on them unnecessary. 
This much, however, may be said ; 
that, if it be an evil, it will sooner, 
or later, effect its own cure ; and if 
it be a sin, it is the happiness of 

those who are not engaged in tV, t4 
be safe from any of its future cala« 

** Should we for a moment inqiure, 
what is the situation of negroes in 
Africa; we shall find them gene* 
rally in a state of slavery ; liable to 
be sold for the luxury of their 
princes, or, as following the chances 
of war. Some few are stolen from 
their parents, and others are taken 
by deception and fraud. But the 
great mass, which have been brought 
to South Carolina, only exchanged 
one slavery for another ; and £at 
too, with many advantages infa^ 
vour of their present situation in 
this country. There, they are sub* 
ject to the uncontrouled pleasure of 
princes; and are sometimes even 
slaughtered for the ceremonies of 
their funerals. Neither life nor pro« 
perty is secured to them. But 
force, oppression, and injustice, are 
the great engines of their govern- 
ment. Nercy laws are passed for 
their security tind protection* They 
are worked by certain tasks, which 
are not unreasonable; and whea 
they are dHigent in performing them^ 
they have some hours of the day to 
themselves. Hence they are en- 
couraged to plant for their own 
emolument ; raise poultry for their 
own use, or for sale ; and are pnw 
tected in the property which they 
thus acquire. With good masters^ 
they are happy and contented ; and 
instances are known, where they 
have declined an offered freedom. 
It is prohibited by law to work them 
more than certain hours of the day, 
during different portions of the 
year ; and their owners are liable 
to a penalty J if they do not feed and 
clothe them in a suitable manner. 
Should they treat them cruelly, thef 
are amenable to a court of justice 
for the sanle. If a slave be killed 
in the heat of passion, fifty pounds 
sterling is forfeited to the state :*^ 

* What a poor defence is this, if 
it should appear that these laws af|^ 
r-ever executed, these penalties never 
levied, these forfeitures never ex- 
acted I Z4 


and if wUfulIf murdered, one hun- 
dred pounds sterling is forfeited in 
liie manner by the person offend- 
ing, and he is rendered forever in- 
capable of holding, exercising, en- 
joying, or receiving the profits of 
sny office, place, or emolument, 
civU or military, within this state. 
And in case such person shall not 
be able to pay the said penalty, or 
forfeiture, he is liable to be sent to 
any frontier garrison of the state ; 
or to be committed to prison, or a 
work-house, for seven years; and 
during that time be kept at hard 
labour. Their importation has been 
prohibited since the year 1786 ; not, 
however, without struggles in our 
legislature, respecting it. But, ne- 
vertheless, numbers of them have 
been introduced into this state, both 
by land and water ; and that smug- 
ging, which Mr. Edwards, in his 
history of the West Indies saga- 
ciously predicted would happen in 
»ich case, has actuallv taken place 
in a great degree.* What the dif- 
ferent importations of negroes, into 
this state, from time to time, may 
be, is not in my power to relate. 
But the census, which was taken 
of the population of this state in 
1801, by direction of the federal 
government, gives us the number 
of them, about that time, amount- 
ing to 146,151 ; since which period, 
their numbers have no doubt in- 
creased, as well by births, as by 

Had not this agricultural strength 
been fiimished South Carol ma, it is 
probable, in the scale of commerce 
and importance, she would have 
been numbered among the least re- 
spectable states of the union. At 
this moment, the extensive rice 
fields which are covered with grain, 
would present nothing but deep 
swamps, and dreary forests; in- 
habited by panthers, bears, wolves, 
and otlier wild beasts. ^ Hence, the 
best lands of this state, would have 

• Sec Edward's History of the West 
Indies* 4to. vol. II. pages 115, 116. 
And also page 503, ct scq. of the ap- 
pendix of the same volume*- 

▼OL. I....V0. U 

been rendered useless; while the 
pine lands, from their barren na- 
tures, although they might'maintain 
the farmer, would have done little 
towards raising the state to its pre- 
sent importance. At its first set- 
tlement, the fertile lands in the up- 
per country were not known ; or if 
they were, surrounded by Indian 
nations, they offered no reti-eat to 
the calm exertions of the farmer; 
where wars interrupted navigation, 
and unopened roads, would arrest 
from him the profits of his industry. 
But, should it be asked, why the 
swamps and low lands in the lower 
country, cannot be cultivated by 
whites, and without the labour of 
negroes? I would answer, these 
situations arc particularly unheal- 
thy, and unsuitable to the constitu- 
tions of white persons ; whilst that 
of a negro, is fierfectly adapted to 
its cultivation. He can, uncovered, 
stand the sun's meridian heat ; and 
labour his appointed time, exposed 
to the continual steam, which arises 
from the rice grounds; whilst a 
white person could barely support 
himself under the shade, surround- 
ed by such a relaxing atmosphere* 
He can work for hours in tnud and 
water ^ (which he is obliged to do in 
the rice culture^ in ditching" and 
draining^) witliout injury to him- 
self; whilst to a white this kind of 
labour would be almost certain 
death. Should these observations 
be founded on fact, (which it is be- 
lieved they arc) they sufficiently 
justify the present condition of this 
stale, in the kind of property to 
which we immediately refer. And, 
while we lament the iniquitous pas- 
sions, which originally introduced 
slaveiy into this state; it is with 
satisfnction we can assert, that their 
condition is far ameliorated to what 
it formerly was. They have their 
houses, their gardens, their fields, 
their dances, their holydavs, and 
their feasts. And, as far as is con- 
sistent with our government, they 
enjoy privileges and protections, in 
some cases, superior to the poor 
whites of many nations; and in 
otlicrs equal to the mildest slavery 

A ViXtr OF lOUTB dABOtllTA* 

in an^ part of the world. It may 
be Baid, this U still elaverj* True. 
Buty as was observed, it is prefer- 
able to the condition of the peasantry 
of some countries. How many tracts 
of land are there on this globe, 
whose inhabitants cannot boast as 
ftiuch good ? How many thousands 
are there, who labour from morn- 
ing until night, and from season to 
feason, for at best a beggarly sub- 
sistence ; whose tenure depends on 
the will of a prince, at once master 
of their fortunes, and of their liber- 
ties? With them, the father may 
in vain attempt to raise up his son 
for his support and comfort; but 
yhen the time arrives, and with 
increasing years, he comes to u&e- 
fiil manhood; he is torn from the 
presence of his parents, and the en- 
dearments of his relations ; to swell 
the pageantry of a court....or to con- 
found the liberties of his country. 

^^ This is what may be seen on 
the theatre of human life ; conti- 
nually chequered with good and 
evil, happiness and misery. The 
philanthropist may seek perfection 
and happiness among the human 
race ; but he wil^ never find it com- 
plete. The philosopher may plan 
new laws, and new systems of go- 
vernment ; which practice too often 
declares but the effervescence of 
fancy, and unequal to the end pro- 
posed. Nature, governed by uner- 
ring laws, which command the oalL 
to be stronger than the willow, and 
tlie cypress to be taller than the 
shrub; has at the same time im- 
posed on mankind certain restric- 
tions, which can never be over- 
come. She has made some to be 
poor, and otliers to be rich ; some 
to be happy, and others to be mi- 
serable; some to be slaves, and 
others to be free. Tlic subjects, or 
people, on which these principles 
are enforced, may be changed by 
industry, intrigues, factions, or re- 
volutions; but the principles can 
never be altered; they will shew 
themselves again, with the same 
force on new subjects; unchange- 
able in their natures, and constant 
in their effecUi. i»e woods may be 

cut down, and the lands on whidi 
they grew may be made to produce 
grains, which nature never planted 
Siere. But, withhold the hand of 
cultivation ; andnature immediately 
causes weeds and plants to spring 
up again : and, in course of time^ 
covers them with her dark r&- 
treats, and stately forests." 

We have marked in italics the 
passages in this extract, on which 
the friend of ne^o liberty will be- 
inclined to meditate. We should 
have been much better pleased with 
our author, if he had admitted the 
iniquity of the traffic, and urged 
these considerations rather to ac- 
count for and excuse, than to Jus" 
tijy the practice. Had he insisted 
on the enormous evils which would 
accrue even to the blacks them- 
selves, from general or partial 
emancipation, rather than on the 
abstract right of the planters, to 
the persons of the blacks, as to the 
persons of their hogs and sheep, 
he would have gained a favourable 
audience, even with the greatest 
enemies of slavery, and have takeo 
the stro7ig€^t ground even with its 

We have next a very good ac- 
count of the manufactures, inland 
navigation, and foreign commerce 
of the state. For this purpose, he 
has consulted the public offices, and 
procured the most ample and au- 
thentic documents. 

Then follows a political view of 
the state, its constitution, laws and 
revenue; and a topographical ac- 
count of Charleston, and other 
principal towns; and some parti- 
culars of the literature, and man-- 
ners of the people. 

On the whole, this publication is 
a valuable addition to our slender 
stock of information, and we sin- 
cerely hope that Mr. Drayton's 
laudable example will be followed 
by otlier ingenious men. 


For the Literary Magazine* 
Two Coupes^ps for the use of the 
Philadelphia Academy....!. Of Elo- 
eutioa; 2. Of N&tural History. By 



James Abercronibie, A. M. one of 
the Assistant Ministers of Christ's 
Church and St. Peter's, and Di* 
rector of the Academy. 

Quicquid prxcipies, esto brevis : lit 

cit6 dicta 
Percipiant animi dociles, teneantque 



Philadelphia, H. Maxwell, p. p. 254. 

time pSLstf been engaged as the in- 
structor of youth. The Philadel- 
phia Academy under his care, has, 
we have no doubt, promoted the in- 
terests of religion and literature in 
this city. The duties of the teacher 
in science, may be very properly 
united with those of the preacher 
from the pulpit ; and in both capa- 
cities Mr. A. deserves no small 
f approbation. In prosecution of the 
plan of education which he has 
adopted, the Qompends now under 
examination were written. These 
are two....The^r«r on elocution... 
the second on natural history. In 
the endeavour to reduce these to a 
concise and systematic order, the 
writer has availed himself of what 
has been written <m these subjects 
by many excellent writers. Mr. A, 
has not however implicitly followed 
these authors, but has thought for 
himself, and in several instances has 
discovered considerable originality^ 
His style is always neat and perspi- 
cuous, and occasionally elegant and 
elevated. The Compend of Elocu- 
tion, we think, is more successfully 
executed, than the one of Natural 
History. The former is divided in- 
to two parts. The Jirst fiart^ on 
the art of reading, includes the fol- 
lowing subdivisions : On the voice, 
of reading, of accent, of emphasis, 
of modulation, of expression, of 
paHses....The second part, on the 
art of speaking, includes the fol- 
lowing subdivisions: Of tones, of 
looks, of gesture • In treating these, 
Mr. A. has succeeded in conveying 
instruction in an easy and impres- 
sive manner to the young. He con- 
cludes the Compend wittj^ the Col- 
«||wing ientence^f • 


** Thus have we endeavoured to 
delineate those outlines, which no<. 
thing but good sense and taste can 
fill up. 

" These few hints, however, if 
duly attended to, may suffice to aid 
and direct your efforts for improve- 
ment. Though, after all, it is im- 
possible to acquire a correct and 
Judicious pronunciation, a command 
of the various modulations of the 
voice, and strict propriety of ges- 
ture, merely from rules, without 
practice and an imitation of the best 
examples: which shews the wis- 
dom of the ancients, in training up 
their youth to the study and prac« 
ticc of ELOCUTION, by the assist* 
ance of the most accomplished 
teachers, who exemplified the rules 
which were given to form the 
speech and action of their pupils. 

*' Yet, the more distinctly the.<re 
outlines are marked and remem- 
bered, the easier will be the finish- 
ing: and if, instead of leaving so 
much taste, as is generally done, 
we were to push, as far as possible, 
our inquiries into those principles 
of truth and beauty in delivery, 
which are immutable and eternal | 
if we were to mark carefully the 
seemingly infinite variety of voice 
and gesture in speaking and read- 
ing, and compare this variety with 
the various senses and passions, of 
which they are expressive; from 
the simplicity of Nature, in her 
•ther operations, we have reason 
to hope, that they might be so 
classed and arranged, as to be of 
much easier attainment, and pro^ 
ductive of much certainty and im-t 
provement, in the very difRcult ac- 
quisition of a just and agreeable de» 
livery ; which, when once acquired, 
gives a polish to the character 
which irresistibly captivates and 
arrests the attention of the hearers 
and b^ehoiders. The accomplished 
speaker at once regales thp eye 
with a view of that most noble ob- 
ject the human form, in all its glory , 
the ear, with the perfection and 
original of all music; the under- 
Standing, yritli its proper and n*ti%i 



ral food, the knowledge of impor- 
tant truth; and the imagination, 
with al] that in nature or m art is 
beautiful, sublime, and wonderful : 
for the orator's field is the universe, 
and his subjects are all that is 
known of God and his works. 

^' In a finished speaker, there- 
fore, whatever there is of corporeal 
dignity or beauty.. ..the majesty of 
the "human face divine,** the grace 
of action, the piercing glance, the 
gentle languish, the fiery flash of 

. the eye ; whatever of lively passion 
or striking emotion of mind ; what- 
ever of fine imagination, of wise 
reflection, or irresistible reasoning ; 

.whatever of the sublime and beau- 
tifiil in human nature ; all that the 
hand of the Creator has impressed 
of his own image, upon the noblest 
creature we are acquainted with.... 
all this appears to the highest ad- 
vantage. And whoever is proof 
against such a display of real ex- 
cellence and dignity in the human 
character, must be void of sensibi- 
lity, of taste, and of understand- 

" Such are th* effects of action, in 
the fields 

" Of oratorial fame ! and such the 

" Which Nature gives her children j 
while a /ooi, 

*' A tone^ a getture, conjures up the 

«* Of passions, to transfix the con- 
scious heart. 

«* But, if the force of tentiment, ar- 

** In beauteous order, and of language, 

" In elegant attire, with those com- 

** The fire-fraught urn of Eloquence 

«* Its rapid v.ave, and nations catch 
the flame !" 


Mr. Abercrombie introduces his 
Compend of Natural History in the 
following manner.... 

" Natural History has been long 

and very justly ranked by the wise 

and good of all enlightened nations, 

. among the most useful and interest- 

in g branches of science* Its excel- 
lence arises from its contributing 
equally to promote knowledge, cul- 
tivate moral habits, and implant 
sentiments of rational piety. Its 
chief effect is to introduce man to 
an acquaintance with himself and 
the various objects of nature around 
him. But its influence over him 
does not terminate here. It irre- 
sistibly directs the powers of his 
mind to contemplate, and the affec- 
tions of his heart to adore the Cre- 
ator and Governor of the universe, 
the inexhaustible source of wisdom, 
-of virtue, and of happiness. 

" Natural History, in its most ex- 
tensive signification, denotes a 
knowledge and description of the 
material universe ; but in its more 
limited and familiar sense, extends 
only to the construction of the 
earths its productions, inhabitants, 
and the atmosphere which sur- 
rounds it. It treats of those sub- 
stances of which the earth is com- 
posed, and of those organized bodies, 
whether vegetable or animal, which 
adorn its surface,' which rise into 
the air, or live in the bosom of the 
waters. But as a science so various 
and comprehensive, could not pos- 
sibly be discussed within thenarrow 
limits of this manual, it is proposed 
to give a general view of the sub- 
ject, and merely to delineate, in a 
summary manner, whatever curi- 
ous, worthy to be known, or not 
obvious to every observer, occurs in 
the three kingdoms of nature. Or 
in other words, a brief, though com- 
prehensive view of that all-wise 
disposition of the Creator, in rela- 
tion to natural things, by which they 
are fitted to produce general cnd% 
and rec^rocal uses. For tliough 
we see the greatness of the Deity 
in all the seeming worlds which 
surround us, it is our chief concern 
to trace him in that which we in- 
habit ; the examination of the earth, 
audits wonderful productions, being 
the proper business of the natur^U 

" It is necessary, therefore, here to 
remark, that Uiis Compend is in- 
tended only to ^wal^n curiosity '^ 



the yoathM mind, by a disj^ay of a 
few striking objects ; not to gratify 
the fulness of its wishes. From 
the extensive nature of the subject, 
and the necessary conciseness of 
such a summary, we arc compelled 
to generalize, rather than enume- 
rate, and to exhibit only such pro- 
.minent features as may best serve 
to stimulate farther examination; 
at the same time endeavouring to 
condense as much information as 
can possibly be contained witliin so 
restricted a boundary. 

*' All the sciences are, in some 
measure, linked witli each other ; 
and before the one is ended, the otlier 
.begins. In a natural history, there- 
fore, of the earth, we must bej^in 
with a short account of its situation 
andform, as given us by astronomers 
and geographers ; it will be suffi- 
cient, however, upon this occasion, 
just to hint to the imagination what 
they, by a train of elaljorate and ab- 
stract reasonings, have forced upon 
the understanding. 

** The earth, which we inhabit, is 
one of those bodies which circulate 
in our solar system : it is placed at 
a middle distance from the Sun, 
which is the center of that system ; 
not so remote from it as the Geor- 
gium Sidus, Saturn, Jupiter and 
Mars, and yet less parched by its 
rays than Venus or Mercury, which 
are situated so near the violence of 
its power. 

** Besides that motion which the 
earth has round the Sun, the circuit 
of which is performed in a year, it 
has another upon its own axis, which 
it performs in twenty-four hours. 
From the first of these arises the 
rrateful vicissitude of the seasons ; 
m>m the second day and night. 

*' Human invention has been exer- 
cised fer several ages, to account 
fortlie various irregularities of the 
earth, and various have been the 
speculations of philosophers re- 
specting it: but our attention is now 
to be directed to the earth and its 
productions, as we find them ; not 
to th^ reveries and reasonings of 
opposing theorists, concerning the 
•auses of those productions; that 

being the province, not of natural 
history, but of natural philosophy." 

He tlicn proceeds to treat sepa- 
rately of Meteorology. ...of the Ele- 
meuts.—Fire.... Water.... Common 

Water Sea Water Mineral 

Waters... .He considers the Three 
Kingdoms of Nature...,The Mine- 
ral Kingdom, which consists of 
four classes : 1 Earths and Stones ; 
2 Salts ; 3 Infiammables ; 4 Metallic 
Substances or Ores....The Vegeta-* 
"ble Kingdom,.,.The Animal King^ 
doni wiUi its various classes....He 
then proceeds to consider the na- 
ture of instinct in animals,' and in 
the Conclusion of his work gives ra- 
pid portraits of some of the differ- 
ent races of men, and offers some 
properties which may be consider- 
ed as forming a criterion to distin- 
guish between animals, vegetables, 
and minerals. 

*' Tlie present fashionable mode of 
blending the vegetable with the ani- 
mal creation, and the rational with 
the ir rationed classes of the latter, 
by referring every impulse in hu- 
man nature to a particular in- 
stinct as its ultimate cause, is a tlie- 
or}- hurtful to science, and danger- 
ous to morals ; tending directly to 
materialism, and couhcquently to 
tlie degradation and extinction of 
Christianity, the only true bource of 
consolation and of happiness to a 
virtuous and well disjKJsed mind. 

" In contemplating that portion of 
the great scale of creation which is 
subjected to our inspection, Man 
is unquestionably the chief or capi- 
tal link, from whom all the othei* 
links descend by almost impercep- 
tible gradcitions : and as head of the 
animal kingdom, while all the infe- 
rior orders are solely intent on the 
gratification of the senses, or are 
conducted to the performance of 
certain duties by blind instinct, un- 
conscious of the wonders which sur- 
round them, it is ///.•; glory and pre- 
rogative to be gifted with an ability 
of extending his views beyond hit 
own insulated existence, of examin- 
ing^ the relations and dependencies 
of things, and of contemplating the 
vast universe of being. As a highl/ 



rational animal, improved with sci- 
ence and arts, he is m some measure 
related to beings of a superior or- 
der, having been originally made 
** but a Tittle lower than the angels." 

" Though there cannot be a doubt 
but that ^ mankind, however dis- 
seminated over the globe, sprang 
from one parent stock ; yet the in- 
fluence of climate, civilization, and 
government, has created great and 
sensible diversities in colour, form^ 
and stature. These broad lines of 
distinction, it is the businesa of the 
naturalist to remark, and of the phit 
Ibsopher to explain* 

** In taking an extensive view of 
our species, there does not appear 
to be above five or six varieties, suf- 
ficiently distinct tn constitute faroi- 
lies; and in them the distinctions 
arc more trivial than is frequently 
seen in the lower classes of animals* 
In all climates, man preserves the 
erect deportment, and the natural 
superiority of his form. There is 
nothing in his shape or faculties 
that designates a different original ; 
and other causes connected with the 
climate, soil, habits, customs, laws, 
&c. sufficiently account for the va- 
rieties which exist among them* 

" Tlie Polar regions exhibit the 
JSr»t distinct race of men. The 
Laplanders, the Esquimaux In- 
dians, the Sanioied Tartars, the in- 
habhants of Nova Zembla, the 
Greenlandcrs, and the Kamtscha- 
dales, may be considered as form- 
ing a race of people, all nearly re- 
sembling each other in stature, com- 
plexirjn, habits, and acquirements* 
Bom under a rigorous climate, con- 
fined to particular aliments, and 
subjected to numerous hardships, it 
seems as if their bodies and their 
mindshave not had scope to expand. 
The extreme cold has produced 
nearly the same effect on their com- 
plexions, as intense heat has on the 
natives of the tropical regions: 
they are generally of a deep 
brown, inclining to black. Dimi- 
nutive and ill shaped, their as- 
pects are as forbidding,as their man- 
ners are barbarous. Their visage 
ii large and broad, theiiose flat and 

short, the eyes brown suffused witk 
yellow, the eyelids drawn towards 
the temples, the cheek-bones high^ 
the lips thick, the voice effeminate, 
the head large, and the hair black 
and straight. The tallest do not ex- 
ceed the height of five feet, and 
many not more than four* Among 
these nations feminine beauty is al- 
most unknown ; and little difference 
is to be discerned in the external 
appearance of the sexes. In pro* 
portion as we approach the nor^ 
pole, mankind seems to dwindle in 
energv and importance of charac- 
ter, till we reach those high lati- 
tudes that forbid rational, if not 
animal life. The gradations, how- 
ever, vary almost imperceptibly; 
but on the southern borders we find 
people of a large stature and more 
noble form, which, compared with 
those of tlie more northern, exhibit 
a striking contrast, and prove the 
omnipotent influence of climate on 
whatever breathes and lives* 

** The *econ// great existing varies 
ty in the human species, seems to 
hie the Tartar race, whence it is 
probable that the natives of the 
hv'perborean regions spi-ung. The 
Tartar country, in its common a"b- 
ceptntion, comprehends a very con-^ 
siderable part of Asia, and conse- 
quently is peopled by natives of 
very difierent forms and complex- 
ions ; yet there are leading traits of 
distinction between the whole race, 
and the people of any other country* 
They all have the upper part of the 
visage very broad, and early wrin- 
kled; the lower narrow, and ap- 
proaching to a point at the chin ; 
their eyes are small and wide apart, 
their noses short and flat, their 
cheek-bones high, the eye-brows 
thick, the hair black, and the com- 
plexion olive* In general they are 
of the middle stature, strong, robust 
and healthy. 

" The Calmucs in particular, are, 
according to our ideas of beauty, 
not only ugly, but frightfiil. 

" Different as the Chinese and Ja- 
panese are in their manners and 
customs, they are evidently of Tar- 
ur origin* The general contour d^ 



Ibatares is the same, and the vari- 
ations in complexion, stature, and 
observances, may be satisfactorily 
explained from the principles of 
climate^ food, and political institu- 
tions* To the class of original Tar- 
tars may be referred the Cochin 
Chinese, the Siamese, the Tonqui- 
nese, and the natives of Aracan, 
Laos, and Pegu ; which all evince 
a common origin. 

" The southern Asiatics constitute 
the tMrd variety in the human spe- 
cies. In stature and features they 
bear a strong resemblance to the 
Europeans^ they are slender and 
elegantly formed, have long straight 
black hair, and not unfrequently 
Roman noses. Their colour, how- 
ever, according to the diversity 
of the climate, assumes different 
ihades, from pale olive to black. 
The Persians and Arabians may 
be referred to this class; which, 
including the inhabitants of the 
widely dispersed islands in the ori- 
ental ocean, constitutes a very large 
mass of mankind. 

The negroes of Africa form a 
well defined and striking variety of 
our species, which may be called 
ihR fourth. This sable race is ex- 
tended over all the southern parts 
of Africa: and though there are 
various shades of distinction in 
point of colour and features, all may 
be grouped with propriety in tlie 
same picture. As among Euro- 
peans we find some handsomer than 
others; all, however, have the 
bluck colour, the velvet, smooth 
sltin, and the soft frizzled hair. 
Their eyes are generally of a deep 
hazle, tiieir noses flat and short, 
their lips thick and prominent, and 
their teeth of ivory whiteness. 

We shaU find ihejiflh variety of 
the human species among the Abo* 
riginal AmericanSy who are as dis- 
tinct in colour, as in their place of 
residence or habitation, from the 
rest of the world. These people, 
except towards the north, among 
Ibe Esquimaux, whcr« ih^y rekam- 

ble the Laplanders, are of a red or 
copper colour, with less variation, 
however, than might be expected 
in such a diversity of climates* 
They have all black, straight hair, 
and thin beards, which they take 
care to extirpate in whole or in 
part, flat noses, high cheek-bones, 
and small eyes. Various deformi- 
ties are created by art, among dif- 
ferent tribes, under the idea of 
beauty ; and for this puipose they 
paint the body and face, m a man- 
ner truly hideous, if scanned accord- 
ing to the standard of European 

" The sirth and last grand division 
of the human race, and the most 
elevated in the scale of being, com- 
prehends the Europeans and those 
of European origin. Among whom 
may be classed the Georgians, Cir-» 
cassians, and Mingrillians, the na« 
tives of Asia Minor, and the norths 
ern parts of Africa, together with 
parts of tliose countries which lie 
north of the Caspian Sea. The m- 
habitants of countries so extensive 
and so widely separated, must be 
expected to vary a good deal from 
each other ; but in general there it 
a striking uniformity in the fairness 
of their complexions, the beauty 
and proportion of their ]imbs, and 
the extent of iheir capacity. 

" To some one of the classes alrea-* 
dy enumerated, the people of every 
country may be referred. It is easy 
to perceive tliat of all the colours 
by which mankind is diversified| 
white is not only the most beautiful, 
but also the most expressive. The 
fair complexion becomes like a 
transparent veil to the soul, through 
which every shade of passion, every 
change of health, may be seen with- 
out the necessity of oral utterance ; 
whereas, in the African black, and 
the Arabian olive complexion, the 
countenance is .found a much less 
distinct index of the mind. With 
regard to atature^it wholly depends 
on climate, food, aiid other local 



** The European figure and com- 
• plexion, riiay justly be considered 
as the standards, to which all the 
other varieties must be referred, or 
■with which tliey may be compared. 
In proportion as other nations ap- 
proach nearer to Euix)pean beauty, 
the less they may be said to have 
degei^erated ; and in proportion as 
they recede, the farther they have 
deviated from that original form 
impressed on them by their gi*eat 

We conclude this Review, by re- 
commending these Compcnds j\nd 
an excellent Compend of Logic, 
written by die Reverend Dr. An- 
drews, Vice Provost of the Univer- 
sity of Pennsylvania, to tho attention 
of the schools in the United States. 

When the works of our country- 
men discover talents and informa- 
tion, the feelings of every scholar 
and of evei-y patriot should wish to 
see them meet proportionable en- 
couragement, instead of being rank- 
ed below European productions of 
inferior merit. 

for the Literary Magazine. 

J^arrative Poews^ by J. d^lerarii; 
published by John Conrad ^ Co. 
Phiiadelphia....T. isf G.Falmery 
/irinters...,/u fi. 63* 

From several of the prosaical 
works of 1) 'Israeli, we have re- 
ceived pleasure and instruction. 
He is a writer who discovers an 
uncommon store of anecdote, who 
riots in the luxuries of literature, 
and leaves the more profound re- 
searches to minds more patient 
and inquiring. It is probably well 
known, that to him we are indebted 
for Curiosities of Literature, Vari- 
eties of Literature, Literary Amuse- 
ments, a volume of Miscellanies, 
a Sketch of the Times, an Essay 
on the Literan' Character, and the 
luxuriant and patlietic Tale of Mej- 
ncun. Hie p>oems under consider- 
ation, will not detract from the fa- 
irourable opiuion which we h&v 

formed of the talents of Disraeli. 
ITie Narrative Poems are entitled, 
" The Cai^der and the Carrier".... 
" A Tale addressed to a Sybarite.** 
All of these poems are exemplifica-' 
tions of the passion of love.. ..their 
plans are extremely simple, and 
such as do not afford great interest 
in narration....they are however 
told very poetically. The first 
narrative describes an affection 
which subsisted between two per- 
sons in an humble station in life.... 
their intercourse and their conver- 
sation....and their innocent sport in 
the garden, by which one of the lo- 
vers was deprived of life. The 
narrative continues to unfold the 
suspicion which was fixed on the 
surviving maid, as the destroyer of 
her lover Pasquil, her accusation, 
and her condemnation. It close* 
with the following speech of the 
mrtid to her accusers, and tlie ac- 
count of her death,... 

" Too well we Igv'd in separate life 

to grieve, 
Or live a day when Love has ceased to 

Born in Desire and nursed by chas(c 

Our infant Love the stranger eye 

would fri^'ht; 
The child of Sohtudc and Fear Would 


Nor to the world would trust its in- 

Think not, yc Rich ! in Poverty's rude 

We feel no rapture from a heart tliat's 
dear ; 

Think not, ye Delicate ! wc take no 

In all the tender magic of the Heart. 

Such happiness not Envy could for- 
give ; 

Nor in one house, can Love and Pru- 
dence live. 

H;d in this copse we blest the gloom 

And gave the hour to privacy and love. 

Here Pasquil sate the fateful plant be- 

In sport he tasted and in sport he died^ 

Bowing her head, the plant of poi- 
sonous breath 
She sucked, and blest the vegetable 




Qmck thro' her veuis the flying poi- 
son's dart, 
And one cold tremor chills her beating 

She kneels, and winds her arms round 

Pasquil's breast, 
There, as 'twere life to tonch, she 

creeps to rest ; 
On him once more her opening eyes 

she raised, 
The light died on them as she fondly 

With quick short breath, catching at 

life, she tried 
To kiss his lips, and as she kissed, she 


O did the muse but know the learned 

To blast that fair-deceiving Plant to 

With mimic tints the vegetable child 
Low as the sage-plant crept along, 

and smiled. 
O never may it drink the golden light 
With laughing tints the Garden's 

Hypocrite ! 
Ye colder Botanists the Plant describe, 
Gaze on the spectre-form* and class 

the tribe! 
But ye sweet-souled, whose pensive 

bosoms glow 
With the soft images of amorous woe, 
From you the muse one tender tear 

would claim ; 
One shudder, at the plant voitbout a 


Loved of the Muse, thou self- 
devoted Maid ! 
(A verse is music to a Lover's shade) 
For thee she bids a silver lily wave, 
Planting the emblem on a Virgin's 

On Love's immortal scroll with ten- 

derest claim. 
Inscribes a Carder** with a Carrier's 

The second tale was to us the 
most interesting in the volume. It 
bears some resemblance to Gold- 
smith's Hermit, and to a tale in the 
Spectator, entitled Tlieodosius and 
Constantia. As we intend to give 
this tale entire in the poetical de- 
partment, we shall pass it over with- 
out any further comment. 

• In an Hortu* Siccui,„4bat tepulcbre 

TOL. I....NO. l* 

The third tale, addressed to a Sy-» 
barite, is a very pleasing improve- 
ment upon the well-known story of 
Pygmalion and tlie Statue. It has. 
also taken a- hint from an incident 
contained in the "Winter Tale." 
The argument of this performance 
is as follows...«Anasilis is a youth 
of the town of Sybacis, unrivalled iu 
beautv. He excites the love and ri- 
valship of all the females of theplace^ 
but he remained unmoved by their 
sighs, and unconquered by their 
charms,..,or in the figurative lan- 
guage of the poet. . . . 

*♦ This bird on fluttering wings re- 
fused the cage, 
Nor lost a feather in his sprightly agej 
From the soiled nets of beauty fiew 

No touch could lime him, and no 
< glance secure." 

This day of freedom, however, 
does not always last. In a solitude 
not far from the town, an hoary 
lover kept secluded from public 
view, a child-like maiden called 
Aglaia, under the care of a woman 
named Myseida. This matron had 
been the nurse of Anasilis, and 
still retained for him maternal 
affedtion. She, in violation of her 
trust, permits him, while conceal- 
ed, to see Aglaia. He becomes 
instantly passionately enamoured 
of her. He prevails on Myseida 
to introduce into the apartment 
of the maid, a statue exquisite- 
ly executed, exactly resembling 
himself. Aglaia beholds this statue 
••••admires its surpassing beauty..*, 
calls it by the name of loYe....and 
her imagination dwells in rapturous 
fondness on its charms, Anasilis 
having thus far succeeded in his de- 
sign, withdraws the statue from 
Aglaia's chamber...,and unseen be- 
holds her warm tears, and hears 
her enamoured sighs. In a favour- 
able moment, he enters the bower, 
throws himself upon the ground, 
closes his Qyes, and seems to be 
locked in insensibility and slumber, 
Aglaia comes, beholds the youth 
in the arbour. She supposes him 
to be the statue. She runs d»* 



lighted to embrace him, and he 

awakens to life and to love 

Here, however, we shall let the 
author speak for himself, as the 
dose of this poem is one of Uie finest 
specimens of his poetry*,.* 

" Ti» love ! (»hc hardly breathes) the 

God is here ! 
Stept from his pedestal, a breathing 

Marble so lov'd relents, and like my- 
self is warm. 
Ah, not in vain th* ideal form I loved, 
Kot vain the silent tears, a picture 

moved ?.... 
Stilly she trod and all unbreathing 

Then tremulously kissed the hand she 

The Virgin Kiss imparts the finest 

The sweet sensation trembling thro' 

her frame ; 
Nor quits the hand, but half delirious 

To press it to her heart....and love 

awakes ! 

She kneels....Can anger in that soft- 
ness dwell ? 

Once having seen thee must I bid fare- 

Is love a crime ? then half the guilt be 

Blame thy seducing powers, thine 
eyes divine ! 

Think ere thou shak'st me from thy 
gentle arm 

How small the triumph o'er a virgin 

Anasilis in fond entrancement hears. 

Bends o'er the Nymph and kissed 
away her fears. 

Then thus.... An innocent deceit for- 
give ; 

Smile on thy picture and the form 
shall live. 

She then, " Unskill'd how features 

are abroad," 
First of thy Race, to me thou art a 

How oft when idle Fancy idly roved 

For uncreated shapes, ...'twas thee I 

loved ! 
And if I may not mate with thee I diet 
Oh, be not twice a Statue to my sigh! 

With meek surrender and a timorous 

The boy, each soft retiring grace en- 
chants i 

While to his bosom all the virgin stole. 

Kissed w^ith adoring lips, and gazed 
his soul. 

Then triumphed Love, with Natnie 
for his dower, 

And time with silvery feathers winged 
the hour. 

To thee, young Sybarite! the tale 

wc give. 
If once thou sigh'st for graces that 

will live. 
To one dear Nymph thy spotless Youth 

And Love's Eternity shall all be thine! 
To modest Beauty, Fate decrees the 

To raise with fond delay, the amorous 

Who knows a soft Aglaia's heart to 

To her shall be.. ..the tender Power of 

Love ! 

It will be observed by the Critical 
Reader of these -Narrative Poems, 
that the author endeavours to apply 
words in a singular and original 
manner, and that though he is 
somethnes happy in his attempt, 
yet it sometimes leads into ob- 
scurity. We think that he is ra- 
ther too rapid in his narration, that 
he leaves too much to be supplied 
by the imagination of the reader, 
and that he would interest more, 
did he introduce more events, and 
dwell more minutely upon them. 
We fear that D*Israeli is rather 
verging too much on the borders of 
DeUa Cniscan and Darwinian po* 
etry; but with all his faults, we 
consider him as a writer who pos- 
sesses a rich and original €uicy«,.« 
who discovers an active and well 
furnished mind. 



For the Literary Magazine. 



Whbrb roves my sad romantic maidi 
Kind shepherds, can you tell \ 

Say have you seen her in the shade, 
The hill, or tangled dell ? 

Tell me, sweet stream thatbabblestby, 

Hast thou not listened to her sigh \ 

Sad echo, from thy mossy hall, 
Didst thou the wanderer see ; 

And didst thou answer to her call, 
And did she speak of me ? 

Soft gales of evening bath'd in dew, 

O ! have you seen her as you flew ? 

I seek her over hill and dale. 

O'er stream, thro' whisp'ring grove; 

I tell her name to every gale 

Breathed from the heart of love ; 

I call... but still no voice replies, 

I call... but still Olinda flies. 

The robe she wears, of azure hue. 

Floats loosely on the air ; 
Her eyes are of seraphic blue. 

Pale-brown her waving hair. 
Her steps are like the bounding roe. 
Her cheeks the ro8e,her forehead snow. 

The nightingale would cease to sing 

To listen to her lay, 
And zephyr spread his silken wing 

To bear the notes away : 
Her voice, her air, her face impart 
A mind, a genius, and a heart. 

Behold the sun withdraws his beam. 
And darkness shrouds the scene; 

The night-bird pours his hollow scream 
The night-wind sweeps the green. 

No pipe is heard on mead or rock, 

The shepherd homeward drives his 

O then return my peerless fair, 

Restrain thy eager Hight, 
The falling dews will drench thine 

Unwholesome is the night... 
Ill wind each thicket, beat each shade, 
Till I have found thee, wandering maid. 

I. O. 


Tw AS where La Trappe had raised 
his savage seat, 
Of grief and piety the last retreat ; 
And dark the rocks and dark the fo- 
rest lay. 
And shrill the wind blew o'er the Ab- 
bey grey. 
House of remorse, of penitence, and 

Its inmate grief, its architect despair ! • 

The shepherd frpm the stony pas- 

ture flies, 
No music warbles in those silent skies; 
Where in the wilderness the cypress 

The pale-eyed votaries hover round 

their graves; 
Silence and solitude perpetual reign 
Around this hermit-family of pain! 

M^rk the dread portal!.... who with- 
out a tear 
Forgets the murmuring earth to enter 


As the deep solitude more sternly 

grows, ^ 

With social tenderness the pilgrim 

glows ; 
And while he reads the awful lines 

Turns to his native vale and native ^ 


" Lo death, the pale instructor I 
giuirds this porch. 
And truth celestial waves her mighty 
torch ! 

• The founder, or ratlier reformer, 
of the severe order of the Monks of 
La Trappe, was the Abbe Rancc, 
whose romantic adventure with his 
mistress is so well known. As the 
last effort of despair he planned this 
institution : among the frightful auste- 
rities there practised, were those of 
perpetual silence, midnight prayers, 
manual labours, and digging their ow n 
graves. The story of Cominge may 
be found in a little novel, by Madame 



Far from the world's deceiving path And lo ! as the fair-handed Father 

we fly, 
To find a passage to Eternity ?"• 

AU are not sinners here ! these walls 

Much injured loves.. ..the men of soft- 
er vein '. 

Hope to their breast in fond delirium 

The laugher, while she charmed, con- 
cealed her wings ; 

Pale on the ey€ a woman-hermit 

steals ! 
All gaze with wonder, but Cominge 

with dread ; 
She dies, whom long his hopeleat 

heart thought dead ! 

Fathers, (she cries) my sex profanes 
your gown, 

And from heri.;;?; copious seed. I "-adejw yourgriefsn,y 

she threw. 
Which never to the eye of promise 


Here bade Cominge the world for ever 
close : 

Soothing his spirit with the dread re- 

He called it Peace ! while in the mid- 
night prayer. 

The bed of ashes and the cloth of hair, 


I loved Cominge ; my parents frowned, 
and power 

Long chained my lover in the tyrant'i 

Ah, could I live, and think Cominge 
for me 

Was worn by chains, and lost in mi- 
sery ? 

Those parents doomed me to a loveless 

Vainly his soul oblivion's charm would Not to their daughter but a stranger 
prove ! kind. 

Alas ! there's no oblivion in his love ! Ruthless ambition ! immolating sires 

Around the altar's shade the £xile With victim-children crowd thy Mo- 
trod; loch fires. 

The soul that lost its Mistress sought The early rose, by hands ungentle cast. 

its God ! 

Hark ? to that solemn ssxmd ! ....the 
passing bell 

Tolls, the still Friery catch the awful 

Loud as it bursts the message from the 

Why drops the human tear from ho- 
liest eyes ? 

The dying father bends ! they start! 

they trace 
A fine proportion and a slender grace ; 
Touched by the magic circle of his 


Feels o'er its youth of sweets the wast- 
ing blast ; 
Such wo the ransom of my lover paid. 
And sometimes more than constancy 

To me Cominge on love's swift pi- 
nions flew. 

No other use of liberty he knew 

" Be free in all but love !".... and here I 

" Can there be freedom without love ?*• 
he cried. 

" Was it for this I woke, O vision 

The heart that slept for years now Romantic fondness in a woman's 

wakes to sigh ; 

O sacred form of beauty ! sacred here ! 

Prevailing softness e'en in souls aus- 
tere ! 

As falls his cowl the lengthening 
tresses rest. 
Twine a white neck, and veil a rising 

• The following inscriprtion was 
placed on the gate of the Abbey : 
C'est ici que la morte et la verite, 
Elevent leur flambeaux terrible, 
C'est de cette demeure au monde 
ffvLt Ton passe a I'Etemite. 

And thought my painted heaven was 

true! to sigh 
My ruin'd feelings in thine altered eye. 
A woman's magic will but last its hour. 
Her heart a wandering wave, her fac* 

a short-lived flower!" 

How bitter in my soul his words I 

found ! 
He gave my wounded breast another 

He knew it not!.. ..the fond recital 

spare !.... 
Tormenting memory cease !».. my tears 




More than my words our fate....8ilent 
he stood. 

Looking at once reproach and grati- 
tude ! 

In vain we part....the peril still was 

The madness of sweet words had 

charmed the ear ; 
And while the last farewel was told so 

'Twas but an invitation still to meet. 
But sympathy, that softer kind of love. 
Would rack the breast it hardly seem- 
ed to move. 
Was this a crime ? ah, piteous fathers, 

From love's soft witcheries the virgin 

torn J 
Still let me plead, ye hallowed sons of 

The daughter's error was the father's 


My lord within an arbour's green 

My unblessed lover weeping at my feet me the fervent steel he 

Cominge, a living shield around me 

Warm on my breast I felt his welling 

My lover feU...the coward victor stood ! 

No transient vengeance fills so base 

a mind, 
His was no stream that trembles with 

the wind ; 
But dark and wild, his soul the Furies 

His soul was like a sea, blown by a 


Now frowned the dungeon's vault... 

there sunk so drear, 
Cold on my grate I pour'd the fruitless 

Esbch day more sharply felt the iron 

Inexorable, close the world around. 
The sun my sole companion ! and he 

With morning light.. ..the evening sets 

in tears. 
There the fresh breeze would melan- 
choly swell 
To pale-eyed beauty fading in a cell. 
The vermeil cheek, the golden tress"^ 

And love's delicious hour in youth's 

brief day. 
That drops such sweets and flies so 

swift away ! 

Yet could the cell the liberal soul de- 
tain ? 

It knows no solitude, it feels no chain; 

There its sweet habitudes like nature 

And what it doats on it will still pos- 

My lover's image in my slumbers stole; 

There love and fancy, painters of the 

In no weak tints their airy pencils 

Holding their pictures to the pillowed 

Again I live to hope, to love again. 
The hour my tyrant died, unbound my 

Twas for Cominge my pensive soul 

was gay. 
And sprung exulting to the life of day. 

With love's inventive mind Cominge 

I trace, 
And hope still changes with each 

changing place. 
Oft tracked yet never found.. stem 

No more the softness of my sex I 

share ; 
A restless exile in my native home, 
Love wav'd the torch of hope, and 

bade me roam. 
The verdant groves within whosc"^ 

shades I grew. 
The cherished mates my gayer 

childhood knew, 
All that a woman loves.. ..from 

these I flew. 

A novel sex I take.. ..the ruder air 

Yet ill conceals the woman's heart I 

No guide save love, thro' pathless 
ways for me. 

Earth was my couch, my canopy a tree! 

For still the mountain girl, the peasant 

The curious hamlet's cautious neigh- 

Frowned on the vagrant loitering at 
their door, 

Still are the poor suspicious of the poor. 
Oft by some river's brink, with wist* 
ful eyes. 

Leaning I viewed the soft inverted 
skies ; 

How oft, my spirit darkened by des- 

I breathed a sigh to find a passage 
there ! 

Yet then with sweet enchantment te 
my mind 



On earth's greeitlied some curious pi ant 

inclined ; 
Some tender bird the woodland song 

would troll, 
And leave the melting music in my 

Gazing on lovely nature while I grieve, 
I think on Nature's Author....fear and 


I hail the desert which religion chose. 
Severe, to build the wanderer's last sad 

house ; 
Grown weary of the worid's unpiteous 

Wailing for him who never heard the 

Fresh tears stood in my eyes, and 

sweetly stole, 
Melting the fears that shake a wo* 

man's soul. 

The air was still, the sleepy light 

was grey. 
When faint and sad I crossed my 

hands to pray ; 
h e evening star iUum'd her bashful 

The holy Abbey in the twilight gleam 
Breathed a celestial calm How rap- 

turous stole, 
The oraison from my delighted soul ! 
'Twas inspiration all, ecstatic prayer ! 
I bend, and lo ! a vision fills the air ! 
Heaven opens here, and here its Se- 
raphs dwell ! 
I hear your vesper's sweet responses 

swell ! 
Amid the choral symphonies ye sung, 
I hear the warblings of my lover's 

tongue ! 

Twas like a dream when madness 
shakes the brain ; 
The trembling pleasure fills my soul 
with pain. 

At length 'twas silence ; your lone 
gate I found. 

Strike the small bell, and tremble with 
the sound ; 

That gound so dear to many a pilgrim 

Who seeks the desert's hospitality. 

There without breath to form a sigh, 
I wait, 

While my heart bounded to the turn- 
ing gate ; 

And lo ! with downcast eyes a Father 
meek ! 

Scarce mounts the life-blood to hti 

ashy cheek : 
Ah, 'twas Cominge! tU' imperfect 

face inclined, 
Marked by the traces of a ruined mind. 

Twas then I vowed, the impious 

deed forgive, 
A woman vowed beneath your roof 

to live ! 
From silence, and from solitude, I 

Stillness of soul, and loneliness of 

But gives the holy spot a holy mind ? 
A saint is oft a criminal confined. 
The lifted torch that gilds the pomp of 

The antliem swelling in the gorgeous 

Think ye such forms can wing the sin- 
ner's soul. 
When passion bums beneath the 

saintly stole ? 

These frightful shades some tran- 
sient pleasures move ; 
How sweet to watch the motions of 

my love ! 
O'er his still griefs in secrecy to melt. 
And kneel on the same cushion where 

he knelt; 
Musing on him, to sit beneath the tree. 
Where a few minutes past he mused 
on me! 

With manual toil my slender frame 

is worn. 
The faggot gathered, and the water 

Faint where the gushing rock its cur- 
rent spread. 
The ponderous waters trembled on my 

Or toiling breathless in the winding 

Moaning beside the forming pile I 

Silent he viewed me with a pitying 

Bore half my vase, and bound with his 

my pile. 

Oft hovering near him has my flut- 
tering heart / 
Bade me my life's unfinished tale im- 
Once lost in frenzy at the solemn hour 
Ye dig your channels to death's silent 



And more than human in th' unnatural 

With hope and fear ye sit beside your 

I marked his eager hand sublimely 

The house sepulchral which himself 

must hold ; 
I hear the sullen spade with iron sound. 
Wild on his grave I shriek and wail 

Th' eternal silence broke !....he cen- 
sures mild 
A holy man with worldly sorrow wild. 
Hast thou not known (I cried) some 

human woe 
That lives beyond the tears it caused 

to flow?.... 
Deep was the groan the fond inquiry 

moved ; 
Deep was the groan that told how still 

he loved! 
He flies me, but to the recalling tone 
He turns! he hears a voice so loved, 

so known ! 
But ah, th* uncertain voice but fancy 

Starting like one half-wakeful in his 


Who with religion's pale atonement 

Leans on a thorn, and tho' supported 

bleeds ; 
She, the stem mother of each stubborn 

Scares its desponding eyes with terrors 

Vet a soft balm her seraph-hand can 

On hearts that pant not, and can love 

no more ; 
Me all ungracious, prayer nor penance 

My heart rebellious grasped the crime 

it loved. 
What though I dropt a tear before the 

shrine ? 
Thine was the image, and the tear was 

tbine / 
Ah, let thy voice but speak, thy hand 

bat wave ; 
Approach ! and hide the horror of the 

Cominge ! how chill my blood ! how 

dark my eye ! 
Ah, soon perhaps.... fare wel, Cominge 


She dies to alU but to Cominge !., 
kc pr«ct 

Once more his mistre#s to his hermit 
breast ; 

Love's sweet vibration woke his trem- 
bling soul ; 

Tears dropt his stony eyes, and mur- 
murs stole 

From his mute tongue....ah, poor dis- 
traction's child ! 

He holds with her who was, a con- 
verse wild; 

Distraction's child! still doat upon 
thy shade ! 

Still grasp a corse thou deem*st thy 
living maid. 

O could thy soul this little moment 

Gaze on cold eyes, and kiss th* unkiss- 
ing lip ! 

But all has past! Despair, and 

Thought, and Pain 

Rend the fine texture of the working 

Few hours shall part ye, and one tomb 

While Hermit-Lovers there, assem« 
bling grieve ! 

JFor the Literary Magazine* 


[An English Viscount has lately trans- 
lated from the Portuguese, several 
Canzonets and Sonnets of Camoens, 
who has been hitherto known to the 
English reader as the author of the 
Lusiad. These poems discover that 
their writer was a man of uncom- 
mon sensibility, that he was the en- 
thusiast of beauty, and a vivid 
painter of charms. They cannot 
fail to interest all whose eyes have 
melted with the tears, and whose 
bosoms have beat with the fervour 
of love. Two specimens will enable 
our readers to judge of these luxu- 
riant wild flowers of poesy.] 

" Quando o sol encuberto vay mo- 

*» Ao mundo a luz quieta," &c. 

When day has smil'd a soft farewel, 
And night-drops bathe each shutting 

And shadows sail along the green. 



And birds are stiU, and winds serene, 
I wander silently ; 

And while my lone steps print the dew, 
Dear arc the dreams that bless my 

To memory's eye the maid appears, 
For whom have sprung my sweetest 


So oft, so tenderly. 

I sec her, as with graceful care 
She binds her braids of sunny hair; 
1 feel her harp's melodious thrill 
Striketo my heart...and thence be still, 
Re-echo'd faithfully : 

I meet her mild and quiet eye. 
Drink the warm spirit of her sigh. 
See young love beating in her breast, 
And wish to mine its pulses prest, 

Ah, me ! how fervently. 

Such are my hours of dear delight. 
And morn but makes me long for night, 
And think how swift the minutes flew. 
When last amongst the dropping dew 
I wandcr'd silently. 

For the Literary Mag'fiine* 


" Polo meu aportamento 
** Se amazao," &c. 

I whisper'd her my last adieu, 

I gave a mournful kiss ; 

Cold showers of sorrow bath'd her 

And her poor heart was torn with 

sighs ; 
Yet.. .strange to tell.. .'twas then I 


Most perfect bliss. 

For love, at other times suppress'd. 

Was all betray 'd at this.... 

I saw him weeping in her eyes, 

I heard him breathe amongst her 

And every sob which shook her breast, 
Thrill'd mine with bliss. 

The sighs which keen affection clears, 
How can it judge amiss? 
To me it pictur'd hope ; and taught 
My spirit this consoling thought, 
That love's sun, though it rise in tears. 
May set in bliss ! 

jFor the Literary Magazine. 

The revival of the war between 
France and England, which took 
place at the close of tlie last vear, 
has not hitherto been productive of 
any very important events. It is, 
however, in many respects, the most 
remarkable that has ever hitherto 
occurred. France by the continu- 
ance of peace between her and her 
immediate neighbours, is at liberty 
to bend her whole force against 
F.ngland. England, by her insular 
sitUiition and by her great maritime 
force, puts her enemy at bay. 
France has no option but to aim an 
expedition against Great Britain, 
to embarrass theEnglii.hdbmmerce 
on the continent, and to Uhe what- 
ever territories on tlie continent 
belong to England. 

Tlie first object at present en- 
gages the attention of the First 
Cciihul a;id his ministers. Beats 

are constructing in all the ports and 
rivers of the republic : and a migh* 
ty army is Icvymg and equiping for 
tlie purpose of invading England. 
The English arc busy in preparing 
for this mvasion. A strong appre- 
hension of danger seems to prevail, 
and the preparations for defence 
are more formidable, than has ever 
taken place since the time of the 
Spanish armada. 

The minds of political enquirers 
are earnestly engaged in specula- 
ting on the possible events of the 
present state of things. The great 
force of the English at sea, and the 
extreme vigilance of their com- 
manders: and the heavy encum- 
bered, and defenceless state of the 
armaments of the invaders t the 
turbulence of the winds and Avaves, 
especially in autunm, are extreme- 
ly unfavourable to tlie landin|j of 



Che French in England. The zeal, 
union, and numbers of the English : 
the universal preparation made for 
arming and transporting the people 
to the scene of action : the fortifica- 
tions and signals on the coast most 
obnoxious to the attack, are cir- 
cumstances much insisted on by 
those who predict the speedy de- 
•truction of the French army should 
its landing be effected. 

On the other hand, there are some 
who insistupon the implacable hosti- 
lity of the French, which will 
prompt them to acts of the greatest 
temerity: on that caprice of fortune 
which sometimes delights in crown- 
ing with success, undertakin gs which 
have nothing to distinguish them 
bat their temerity: on the great 
number of points from which the in- 
vading armies will set out, and 
which, by dividing and distracting 
the adversary fleets, may insure a 
landing to some of them. These 
reasoners draw arguments in favour 
of the undertaking from the unex- 
ampled efforts which the British are 
making to defeat it, and the vigour- 
ous and sanguine efforts of the 
French, to carry it into execu- 

There is probably ne person in 
&igland or France, who sincerely 
believes in the ultimate success of 
the invasion ; that is, who believes it 
possible for France to make a con- 
quest of England. ITie great pow- 
ers of Europe, are too nearly balan- 
ced to allow to any one of them the 
hope of conquering the other. The 
great object of their warfare is, not 
to subdue^ but merely to annoy. 
How £ar this end will be accom- 
plished by France, in compelling 
the English to such vast and expen- 
sive preparations of defence by sea 
and by land ; on what side the ba- 
lance of benefits will fall, at the con- 
clusion of the year, should the 
French never leave their ports, or 
should they loose half a dozen bat- 
ties and fifty thousand of their troops 
in England, is a difficult question. 

The French, while ent^ged in 
these preparations^ have not been 
idle in annoying tlic English on the 

YQL. I....NO. 1. 

continent of Europe. They have 
hitherto succeeded in persuading 
their neighbours, Austria, Russia, 
and Prussia, to preserve their neu- 
trality. They have not succeeded in 
persuading any of them to join their 
party : and the diplomatic warfare 
which is eagerly carrying on at Vi- 
enna, Petersburg, Berlin, and Ma- 
drid, between France and England, 
has produced nothing hitherto but 
an equipoise of favour and inte- 

One of the first attempts of 
France, after the renewal of th« 
war, was to send an army into Ger- 
many and to take possession of Ha- 
nover. This territory is large, 
rich, and populous .: it is little infe- 
rior in extent and military force to 
Bavaria, Bohemia, or Saxony, and 
yet by some dreadful defect in its 
political system, a fine army, a thou- 
sand towns and villages, and a mil- 
lion of citizens, surrendered to the 
first summons of an inconsiderable 
detachment, with as much precipi- 
tation and facility as a petty and 
dilapidated fortress. 

It requires a better acquaintance 
with the subject than we at this dis- 
tance possessjto account for this sur- 
render. What circumstances have 
so far weakened the attachment 
of the Hanoverians to their prince 
and to their independence, as to 
induce them to give such ready 
entrance to an enemy who, the ex- 
perience of others might teach 
them, would not fail to treat their 
country as a conquered one, and as 
one of which the possession was to 
be precarious and brief, can only 
be explained by those who reside 
upon the spot. 

The intelligence which the pre- 
sent month has brought us, relates 
chiefly to tlie preparations, which 
are made in France and England 
for attack and defence ; to the 
journey of the first consul through 
the provinces of his empire ; to the 
capitulation of Hanover, and to the 
insurrection in Ireland. 

On the first head our intelligenc« 
does little more than confirm th« 
accounts which had been previous-* 



Iv received. On the second head, 
Uie principal circumstance is, an 
address said to have been made by 
Buonaparte, on his setting out upon 
his journey, on the twentietli of 

It is so very faitliful a statement 
of the probable views of his govern- 
ment, that we are inclined to doubt 
its authenticity. It is too candid a 
display of his sentiments to have 
been safely made in the maimer 
mentioned. It Is, however, valua- 
ble as an historical picture of the 
present state of France, and the sen- 
timents of its ruler.. ..He delivers 
himself in the following terms : 

*' Before I commence one of the 
most important joumics ever un- 
dertaken by the Chief of an Em- 
pire, I tliink it necessary to inform 
my Council of State, that I am per- 
fectly satisfied with their zeal and 

" A great entcrprize occupies my 
mind, gi*eat meliorations demand 
my attention. Without detailing 
to you, at this moment, a vast pro- 
ject, in which I shall require the as- 
sistance of your knowledge and 
your eflForts, I shall describe to you 
the different subjects on which 1 am 
desirous the Council should delibe- 
rate without delay. 

" \Vc cannot deny, that our inter- 
nal administration has not that uni- 
ty and activity which distiuguisli 

our external relations We are 

powerful and respected abroad, and 
at home we are tiimdlu irresolute 
••••obliged to consult public ofiinion^ 
witliout possessing the means of 
ccntrouling or directing it. 

*' Why our progress is thus em- 
barrassed I have not yet discoveied. 
Perhaps, enterprizes, which require 
boldness, have been conducted with 
too much circumspection.. ..perhaps 
too much imfiortance haa been gi- 
ven to public o/iinionin circumstan- 
ces in which it ought to have been 
opposed or disregarded, 1 know not 
but it appears to me to be necessary 
instantly to break all the habits 
which great bodies of the people 
have contractedby the revolution.... 
Thus conducted to obedience by 

firm measures, they vill feel lest 
interest in the changes which the 
return of order requires, and we 
shall at the same time be more at 
liberty to attempt these changes. 

'' The French are in general, of 
9Xi unquiet and discontented dispo- 
•ition. That levity with which tiney 
were reproached, and which som« 
skilful Alinisters have turned to 
their advantage, in establishing ab- 
solute authority, no longer exists. It 
is replaced by suspicion and restless- 
ness. I have received many reports 
on the manner in which the people 
view our administration, on what 
they hope,and on what they require. 
I have almost always observed a dis- 
content without any pretext, or by 
which tiiose which existed were ex- 
aggerated. We have not yet ad- 
vanced far enough from the chaos 
tov/hichjve succeeded, and the/irt- 
tenaiona which contributed not a 
little to produce it are but too wel| 
recollected. Indeed when I see the 
injustice with which our meliora- 
tions are received, and the liberty 
which is taken with our conduct, I 
am compelled to ask myself, whe- 
ther we have not been too gentle^ 
too conciliating and whether it if 
possible for this nation to accommo- 
date itself to a temperate autho^ 

" I am pretty well satisfied witf^ 
the rich proprietors. They have 
that respect for the government, 
which we are entitled to require of 
them. But, perhaps, they have net 
displayed sufficient conjidmce^ per- 
haps they have shewn little anxiety 
to involve themselves in its destiny, 
and finally, they, perhaps, made too 
few sacrifices for supporting it ii^ 
its embarrassment : but this is not 
tlie moment for investigating all 
these subjects of dissatisfaction. 
It is, however, necessary to discover 
the cause of this uncertainty and 
coldness in the public opinion, and 
to remedy it promptly by strong 
measures and vigorous institu- 

"I know, that in general, the 
new government is reproached for 
its expenses* If, however, ih.% 



people cauia reason when their 
irahts are in question, it would be 
cay to prove, that the expenses 
which are so disagreeable to them 
^ in a smaU proportion on the 
public treasury ; but we well know, 
that the multitude are incapable of 
entering into suck details. The 
Revolution has rendered them jea- 
lous of every thing connected with 
rank and splendor ; but to thaty it 
ia /iro/zer iheir minds should be ha-' 
bituated. As to the burden of taxes, 
I am of opinion tiiat it is not suffici- 
ently disguised, and that it may be 
aagmeuted without being so sensi- 
Wy felt. It is the opinion of finan- 
ciers, thnt too much is levied on 
iond. We must have recourse to 
indirect taxation ; but that requires 
an extended commerce ; and this 
war, which I could neitlier prevent 
nor delay, has deranged all my 
plans for the restoration of our in- 
dustry and navigation, I hope, 
however, that wiUi the aid of some 
regular tributes which we have a 
right to require Jrom our neighs 
boura^ either for the benefits which 
they have received, or which we 
grant them, it will be possible to di- 
minish the public charges ; but this 
resource is not yet fixed, though it 
has already firoduced much. But 
the 'measure in the execution of 
which I have experienced real ob- 
stacles, and open disaifection, is my 
attempt to increase the army to 
that degree of force which is pro- 
portionate to our influence in Eu- 
rope, and the expeditions I am pre- 

"VVe cannot support our power 
without a great military establish- 
ment. We cannot remain formi- 
dable, unless we present to astonish- 
ed Europe a gigantic army. Mili- 
tary glory has raised us to our pre- 
sent situation, and it is only by a 
display of military power, tliat we 
cin maintain ourselves in it. 

" I confess, that for constructing 
this formidable support of our gran- 
deur, I thought I perceived great 
facilities in the national character, 
In the warlike talents of the French 

people, and their thirst of glory and 
conquest, which success only serves 
to stimulate. In this, however, I 
have been a good deal deceived. 
The conscription was at first effect- 
ed with scarce any obstacle, but 
not without great murmurs; that 
institution which peculiarly belongs 
to France, seems about to fail coni- 
pletely. There is no ardour in this 
youth, much indisposition in the pa- 
rents The Government ought, 

therefore, to direct all its attention 
to an inquiry into the causes which 
have produced this apathy, and re- 
sistance. Vigorous measures are 
necessary to remedy those evils, par- 
ticularly, if I do not succeed in the 
efforts I still intend to make in m^ 
journey, for re-animatirig that war- 
like spirit which seems about to be 

" I must next notice those scenes 
ifrom which I have experienced an 
almost equal degree of anxiety, 
which fortunately, hov/ever, bes^in 
to diminish. I mean the crimes wliich 
some months ago still assjiilcd us. 
....That phrenzy of vengeance and 
pillage has long given mc g^eut un- 
easiness, and the special tribunals 
will never be able to protect usfroni 
its attempts. Here I must observe, 
that our judicial organization is bad ; 
the Judges are too independent of 
the Governmtut, Their places 
ought not to be for lifc^ and we 
ought to possess more means of sti- 
mulating them, when they arc inac- 
tive or timid, or of punishing them 
when they miiAuidt-rstAnd their du- 
ty. The institution of j\iries, v/hich 
1 have preserved out of respect to 
those who founded it, rather than 
from any regard to the public opi- 
nion, is useless wnd.never can be 7ia^ 
turalizcd among us. Popular in- 
stitutions will never suit France, 
Every thing which approximates 
to the people, soon becomes either 
the object of their contempt or indif- 
ference. We must have sc v t re j u- 
dicial forms, and inflexible juf'ges. 
Such a reform would be worth y of 
our meditations. You ought to pave 
the way for it by your speeche;ii*aid 



your writings.. ..Without it, there 
IS neither refioaefor U9^ nor securi- 
ty for the people." 

Cafiitulation of Hanover. 

The capitulation of Hanover, was 
made upon condition tliat the En- 
glish government should ratify the 
terms of it. The French minister 
appears to have lost no time in 
transmitting this instrument to the 
English court, and demanding the 
confirmation of it. The following 
reply was made by Lord Hawkes- 
bury, inJune 15, 1803. 

" I have his majesty's orders to 
inform you, that as he has always 
considered the character of Elec- 
tor of Hanover as distinct from his 
character of King of the United 
Kingdoms of Great Britain and 
Ireland, he cannot consent to acqui- 
esce in any act which might sanction 
the idea Uiathe is justly susceptible 
of being attacked in one capacity, 
for the conduct he may think it his 
duty to adopt in the other. It is not 
now that this principle has, for the 
first time, been advanced. It has 
been recognized by several powers 
of Europe, and more particularly 
by the French government, which, 
in 1796, in consequence of his ma- 
jesty's accession to the Treaty of 
Basle, recognized his neutrality in 
his capacity of Elector of Hanover, 
at the moment when it was at war 
with him in his quality of King of 
Great Britain. This principle had 
besides been confirmed by the con- 
duct of his majesty in reference to 
the Treaty of Luneville, and by the 
arrangements which have lately ta- 
ken place relative to the Germanic 
Indemnities, whose object must have 
been, to provide for the indepen- 
dence of the Empire, and which 
have been solemnly guaranteed by 
the principal Powers of Europe, 
but in which Iiis Majesty took no 
p irtr.ji King of Great Britain. 

'* In tliefcc circumstances, liis 
majesty, in his character of Elec- 
tor of Hanover, is resolved to aj)- 
peal to the Empire, and the Powers 
of Europe, who have guaranteed 
tiic Germanic Constitution, and 

consequently, his rights and posses* 
sions in quality of Prince of that 

<'In the mean time, until his ma- 
jesty shall be informed of their sen- 
timents, he has commanded me to 
state, in liis character of Elector of 
Hanover, he will scrupulously ab- 
stain from every act which can be 
considered as contravening the sti- 
pulations contained in the Conven- 
tion which was concluded on the 
3d of June, between the deputies 
appointed by the Regency of Hano» 
ver and the French Government. 

" General Mortier was then in- 
formed, that in consequence of the 
refusal of the ratification on the 
part of the King of England, the 
Convention of SubUngen was con- 
sidered as null, as the following let- 
ter from Mortier to Walmoden was 
the consequence of this informa- 

" I have the honour to inform 
your Excellency that the First Con- 
sul would have approved in its en- 
tire contents, the Convention of 
Sublingen, had the King of England 
himself consented to ratify it. It is 
therefore with pain I have to ac- 
quaint you that Lord Hawkesbury 
has informed Citizen Talle)Tand 
that his Britannic Majesty formal- 
ly refused that ratification. 

" Your Excellency will recollect 
that in 1757, a similar Convention 
was concluded at Closter Seven, be- 
tween M. de Richelieu and the 
Duke of Cumberland, and that the 
King of England not being disposed 
to adliereto it, gave orders to his 
array to recommence hostilities. 

" It is to avoid a renewal of the 
scenes which then took place, that 
Government charges me to inform 
your Excellency, that the refusal of 
his Britannic Majesty annuls the 
Convention of Sublingen. 

" I have empowered general 
Bcrthier, chief of the general stafi^ 
to coranTkunicate to you my propos- 
als. I must insist that your Excel- 
lency will have the goodness to 
give me a categorical answer in the 
space of twenty-four hours. The 
army whicli I have the honour ts 



command is ready, and waits only 
for the signalto action.*' 

The subsequent events are thus 
detailed by the French commander 
in a letter to his government. 

" On the 30th ult. I wrote to 
Marshal de Walmoden a letter, of 
which a copy is hereto subjoined. 
Baron de Bock, colonel in the regi- 
ment of guards, waited on me, on 
hi«» part, the following morning. 
Hct« "Id me that the proposal of mak- 
ing his army lay down their arms, 
for the purpose of being conducted 
prisoners into France, was of a na- 
ture so humiliating, that all of them 
would rather perish with arms in 
their hands ; that they had made a 
sufficient sacrifice for their country 
by the capitulation of Sublingen ; 
that it was now time to do something 
for their own honour ; that their of- 
ficers and their army were reduced 
to despair. M. de Bock then re- 
presented to me the extreme fideli- 
ty with which the Hanoverians had 
scrupulously executed all the arti- 
cles of the convention of Sublingen, 
which concerned them ; that their 
conduct in regard to us was exempt 
from all reproach, and ought by no 
means to draw upon them the mis- 
fortunes with which I menaced them. 
I, on my side, recriminated on the 
perfidy of the King of England, who 
had refused to ratify tlie Convention 
of the 3d of June ; that it was the 
Machiavelian policy of England 
alone that they had to accuse, and 
that it was manifest that Govern- 
ment would sacrifice them, as it had 
always sacrificed its friends on the 

" M. de Bock is a man full of ho- 
nour and generosity. He said, that 
If I could make admissible projwsi- 
tions, such as that of sending home 
a part of the army for six months 
in rotation, and keeping up a body 
of 5 or 6000 men in Lunenburg, 
that he conceived the ^^Hrsllal 
ini.^ht enter into an arrangement 
wiSi me. My answer was in the 
negative, and we parted. I had al- 
ready made every preparation for 
passing die river. A number of 
boats collected in the Elbe and the 

Esmenan furnished me with abun- 
dant means. The enemy occupied 
a position between Steknitz and 

" The general attack was to have 
taken place in the night of the 4th i 
The enemy had got some artillery 
of a large calibre at Ratzburg, and 
with this they mounted all the bat- 
teries on tlie Elbe. 1 had, on my 
side, erected counter-batteries ; my 
troops were well disposed, and eve- 
ry thing announced a fortunate is- 
sue, when M. de Walmoden com- 
municated to me the following pro- 

'* Citizen First Consul, the Hano- 
verian army were reduced to des- 
pair, they implored your clemen- 
cy. I thought that, abandoned by 
their king, you would treat them 
with kindness. In the middle of 
the Elbe I concluded the annexed 
capitulation with general Walmo- 
den. He signed it with bitterness 
of heart: you will there see that 
his army lays down their arms ; 
that his cavaliy are to be dismount- 
ed, aud to put into our hands nearly 
4000 excellent horses. The soldi- 
ers returning to their homes will 
devote themselves to the labours of 
apiculture, and need give us no 
kmd of uneasiness. They will l>cno 
longer under the orders of England. 

" Health and profound respect, 

(Sij^ned) E. MoRTiER." 

"P.S. It would be difficult to de- 
scribe to you the situation of the fine 
regiment of the king of England's 
guards, at the moment of their dis- 

"The King of England having 
refused to ratify the Convention of 
Sublingen,the First Consulhas been 
obliged to consider that Convention 
as null. In consequence thereof 
Lieutenant General Mortier, has 
agreed to the following capitulation, 
which shall be executLd, witJiout 
being submitted to the ratification 
of the two Governments. 

Article I. The Hanoverian ar- 
my shall lay down its arms ; they 
shall be given up with all its artille- 
ry, to the French army. 



IL An the horses of the Hano- 
verian cavalry and artillery shall 
be given up to the French army, by 
one of the members of the States. 
A Commissioner, appointed by the 
commander in chief to that effect, 
shall be instantly sent to take an ac- 
count of their state and number. 

in. The Hanoverian army shall 
be disbanded ; the troops shall re- 
pass tlie Elbe, and withdraw to their 
respective homes....They shall pre- 
viously give their parole not to car- 
ry arms against France and her al- 
lies until after having been ex- 
changed for those of equal rank by 
as many French military as maybe 
taken by the English in the course 
of thfe present war. 

rV. The Hanoverian generals 
and officers shall retire upon their 
parole to the places which they 
may choose for their abode, provi- 
ded they do not depart from the con- 
tment. Theyshallkeep their swords 
and take away witii them their 
horses, effects, and baggage. 

V. There shall be given to the 
commander in chief of the French 
army with the least possible delay, 
a nominal list of all the individuals 
of whom the Hanoverian army is 

VI. The Hanoverian soldiers 
sent to their respective homes shall 
not be allowed to wear tht'r uni- 

VII. Tfiey shall be provided 
vith subsistence until their return 
home, and forage shall also be 
granted to the horses of the officers. 

VIII. The 16th and irth aiti- 
desofthe Convention of Sublingen 
shall be applicable to the Hanoveri- 
an army. 

IX. The French troops shall 
immediately occupy that part of ihe 
Electorate of Hanover situated in 
the county of Lauenbui^. 

T7ie Inaurrcction in Ireland. 

The only particulars, of this im- 
portant event are contained in the 
following letters from Ireland* 
July 24. 

**At an early hour yesterday 
evening, a variety of inflaunmatory 

proclamations were distributed in 
every part of the town, calling on 
people to unite as before, in opposi- 
tion to English oppression, See. and 
at so early an hour as eight o'clock, 
a large party forced into the Lord 
mayor's, and seized all the arms 
and pikes, whish were in tlie house, 
and about ten o'clock a general en- 
gagement took place in the neigh- 
bourhood of James-street, Thomas- 
street, and in every purt of the liber- 
ty. Lord Kihvarden (the chief jus- 
tice of the king's bench) coming to 
town about 9 o'clock, was forced 
out of his carriage in Jame's-street, 
with his nephew, and were both 
killed by pikes. 

"Col. Brown of the 21st, and a 
few more officers, and several of 
the soldiery and yeomen have un- 
fortimately been killed, together 
with a grieat number who appear 
of tlie very lowest order. But what 
is the most alarming, is that their 
plots have been earned on witlisuch 
secrecy that they arc not yet disco- 
vered, notwithstanding several per- 
sons were taken. Mr. Clark, of 
Palmerston, cotton manufacturer, 
was shot on Arran quay, at b o'clock 
in the evenmg : and it appears 
there were several parties collect- 
ing, in different parts of the town, 
at a very early hour. The privjr 
council has been sitting at the cas- 
tle these two hours past, and it is 
expected martial law will be pro- 
claimed immediately. There arc 
several gallows's erected in differ- 
ent parts of the town, and the exe- 
cutions it is supposed will be innu- 
merable, as there are about one 
hundred prisoners taken. They do 
not seem to have any leaders of con- 
sequence ; tlie only one taken is a 
man of the name of M'Cabe, a pub- 
lican, at whose house about one 
thousand pikes and six hundred 
rounds of ball cartridge were found. 
We have not yet heard of any dis- 
turbance in the country, and all the 
coaches have arrived this morning. 
" The situation of the ciu is most 
awful. The drums beat to arms at 
ten o'clock at night and continued 
to twelve, when almost every citi- 

SiyyiilABT or ?0X.XTIC3. 


«e9 w^s under ^nn^. The engage- 
ment continued up til four o'clock, 
and within these two hours two of 
the 62d regiment have been killed 
in the nei^jhbourhood of the royal 

July 25. 

**On Saturday evening last, go- 
Tcmment having had intimation 
that a depot of pikes and other en- 
gines of destruction, had been made 
By a newly organized horde of in- 
surgents in tlie vicinity of Bridge- 
foot-street, a detachment 01 cavalry 
had been ordered by Gen. Dunn 
from the ban*acks, which were 
joined by a company of yeomen in- 
fentry,part of the Liberty Rangers, 
now under the command of the earl 
of Meath, arrived at the spct v/here 
their instructions directed tliem, 
after a skirmish of a few minutes 
with the populace, in which a few 
lives were lost, a great number of 
pikes were found, also several com- 
bustibles, parcels of nails, fragments 
of iron, glass, compost clay, oakum, 
and other materials. 

*'With these were discovered a 
onmber of deal balk, in pieces of 
various lengths, from seven to fif- 
teen feet in length, with a circular 
cairity in each of about three inches 
diameter, filled with gun-powder, 
to each aperture was applied a 
wooden plug, with a handle and 
vent hole, or receptacle for a fuze 
appear on the upper surface of the 
timber about the middle : This ma- 
chine was supposed to have been 
intended to aid the projected ope- 
rations of setting fire to Dublin Bar- 
racks.. ...Several kegs of powder 
were discovered, with parcels made 
off our musket balls in each, and a 
tin tube of about two inches long, 
through which fire was to have 
been communicated to whatever 
vehicle was constructed to discharge 

A suit of green uniform, with 
gold epaulets and a splendid cm- 
broidery was also found, and seve- 
ral papers, by which the train of 
operations fixed by these deluded 
people was discovered and will 
doi^Uess be prevented. Among 

the melanchply disasters of the 
night, might be reckoned the mur- 
der of Lord Kilwarden, chief jus- 
tice of the court of king's bench, 
and tbjc Rev. Arthur Wolfe, his 
nephew, who accompanied him 
with the ladies of his lordship's fa- 
mily, in a carriage to town. The 
wound he received was a large la- 
cerated one in the side, having tiie 
appearance of being inflicted by a 
shot from a blunderbuss. 

A privy council have been sitting 
yesterday at the castle, and did not 
break up until a late hourlast night ; 
a proclamation offering a regard of 
one hundred pounds for the disco- 
very of the murderers of Lord Kil- 
warden, and the Rev. Arthur 
Wolfe, had been issued, upwards 
of one hundi'ed prisoners had been 
lodged yesterday, in the new prison, 
in the barracks. A printed notice 
from the Lord Mayor and board of 
magistrates, was yesterday handing 
about, apprizing all the citizens of 
Dublin, that from the recent dis- 
turbances, they feel it incumbent 
on them to reinforce the insurrec- 
tion act, pursuant to which it be- 
came penal, during the last rebel- 
lion, for any citizen not on military 
duty, to be out later than eight 
o'clock in the evening." 
August 1. 

" We understand that the whole 
of the plan for insurrection, of 
which the affair of Saturday night 
was the commencement, has been 
developed. A general levy often 
men from every parish in Ireland 
had been agreed upon by the re- 
bels ; these were to form a body of 
thirty-eight thousand men, who 
were to make their way to Dublin, 
as privately as possible, in small 
bodies, where they were to be sup- 
plied with arms, and then to rise 
e7t masse, 

<< Lord Kilwarden had been sent 
for from his countr}'-house, and was 
on his way to the castle to attend a 
pri\7 council, when he was mur- 

" An Englishman and his wife, 
by the name of Cater, coming into 
town from Naas, tlie former was 



dragged out of the carriage, and 
piked in several places ; but the 
military appearing at a distance, 
the rebels left him half dead, after 
taking from him seven hundred 
pounds he happened to have in his 
pockets ; he is, however, stated to 
be in a fair way of recovery. 

** In one place in the Liberty was 
found a large quantity of gun-pow- 
der and seven hundred pikes. 

"On Sunday morning, the dead 
bodies of the rebels were taken up 
in the streets, and a great number 
of cars were employed in carrying 
them to the castle-yard for the pur- 
pose of having them identified. In 
the number were several women, 
who were found with pikes and 
stones in their hands. One corpse 
particularly attracted attention. 
It was the body of an old man, 
upwards of seventy, a shoe-ma- 
ker, well known in the liberty. 
He was bare-footed and bare-leg- 
ged. He had been shot through 
the body, and lay upon the ground 
with a large knife in each hand. 
The dead bodies appeared to be of 
the lowest orders of society." 


"The disafiected did not openly 
avow themselves here. It is weU 
known that their determination was 
to adopt the same rebellious pro- 
ceedings as their brethren in Dub- 
lin. The greatest exertions are 
making here by the magistracy, 
veomanry. Sec. to prevent surprise. 
Many men of good property are be- 
come inhabitants of our prisons, 
which are well guarded.... among 
these are the two Drianes, one of 
whom is said to be worth two hun- 
dred thousand pounds ; Simon Don- 
aven, and Todd Jones, of the Noith, 
whom I before mentioned ; Dr. Cal- 
lahan and his son, of Glognakcity ; 
no relation whatever to the worthy 
phvsiciaivof this city; a Mr. BucJc, 

from the West, who had been for 
some time agent to Arthur O'Con- 
nor, and a Mr. Finn. It does not 
follow because these persons are ta-* 
ken up, that they are guilty ; but 
consistently with the conduct of the 
present mild government, their 
conduct will be fairly investigated, 
and none but the guilty will suffer.^ 

« The insurrection in Ireland is 
stated to be completely queUed. 
This howevr is a point that still re- 
mains questionable : At best we sus- 
pect the flame is only smothered for 
a season. 

" Papers have fallen into the hands 
of government, from which we learn 
that the combination has been aug- 
menting for at least eight months, 
and arranged with the most syste- 
matic attention. A provincial go- 
vernment had been projected, which 
was to resign its functions as soon 
as a regular system of legislation 
should be adopted. 

" A manifesto has also been dis- 
covered, written in a very impres- 
sive style, setting forth the oppres- 
sions which the people of Ireland 
had long suffered, explaining their 
equal rights as men and citizens, 
the injustice of their being forced 
into an union with Great Britain, by 
which they sustained nothing but 
disadvantage, and the propriety of 
their rising up like one man, throw- 
ing off the yoke by which they were 
galled, separating from the country 
to which they were chained, and 
establishing themselves as an inde- 
pendent nation. 

" It is stated, that the plans of the 
insurgents were so well constructed, 
the attack on the castle having been 
arranged by midnight, that had it 
been concealed till that time, it 
might have been successfuL But 
the distribution of arm staking place 
in the evening followed by intoxica- 
tion, occasioned a premature disco- 





Saturday, between one and two 
o'clock, a most alarming tire broke 
out on the roof of the tower on the 
centre of Westminster Abbey, The 
accident arose from the scandalous 
negligence of thejoumeymen plum- 
crs employed at present on the ne- 
cessary repairs of the roof, who left 
their melting pot in an improper 
state. The catastrophe likely to be 
the result of such a conflagration oc- 
casioned a sensation in the public 
mind, which every one may readily 
conceive. The Abbey is the depo- 
sitory of the remains of many of our 
sovereigns, and of many of our 
most illustrious and celebrated 
countrymen and countrywomen, as 
well as of the chef d*xuvrca of our 
national skill in the art of sculpture ; 
endeared to the public mind by so 
many valuable and exalted consi- 
derations, it became the object of 
universal anxiety. As in too many 
other cases, so here, water could 
not be had for nearly two hours af- 
ter the fire commenced, in any 
quantity sufiBcient for the working 
of the engines. But, when it was 
procured in abuncli^ncc, after the 
utter exhaustion of all the water- 
tubs and cisterns in the neighbour- 
hood, it was used with great effect, 
and before six o'clock all entirely 
disappeared. We were extremely 
happy, on inspecting the state of 
the cathedral carefully, after the 
flames v.crc extinguished, to find so 
little injury sustained. What da- 
mage was done hi the interior, was 
occasioned by the burning of the 
roofof the tower (which communi- 
cates to the grand arches of wood- 
work which appear to support it 
from the inside), the fall ot which, 
by its violence, and by the commu- 
nication of the flames, destroyed a 
considerable portion of the seats 
and ornaments of the chcir. It has 
been gcnemlly supposed that the 
whole roofing of the arches of the 
church was of masonry; but our 

V0L.I....N0. I. 

readers will recollect that the 
church was greatly repaired about 
a century ago, under the direction 
of the great Sir C. Wren, when a 
considerable part of the roof was 
replaced by carpentry, to save the 
expenses. This tower was then 
intended as the basement of a 
magnificent spire, with which that 
architect had designed to decorate 
this noble and august temple of 
British valour and wisdom. Tlic ex- 
ertions of every description of per- 
sons emphatically demand the un- 
qualified praise of a British Journal- 
ist. Every one seemed to feel the 
fire in Westminster Abbey, as a 
common public concern. The sol- 
diers in tlie neighbourhood, the 
Westminster scholars, the clerg}'^ 
the volunteers, the lowest classes, 
vied together in the earnestness of 
their efforts to stop the progress of 
devastation. The corps of St. Mar- 
garet and St. John maintained the 
most perfect order and regularity, 
both within and without the Abbey, 
during the whole of this most seri- 
ous affair. We were extremely 
happy to find some of the most distin- 
guished members of parliament ta- 
king the lead, and sharing all the 
dangers and difficulties of the fire- 
men in their endeavours; among 
them Mr. Windham was very con- 
spicuous. Nothing escaped his ac- 
tivity, which was such that one 
could hardly distinguish his clothes 
from those of a common labourer 
after the bustle was over, in conse- 
quence of his exertions. Lord 
Westmoreland, the lord Chancellor 
and the dukes of Gloucester and 
Norfolk, likewise attended. 

We must conclude this account 
by congratulating the public on the 
speedy termination of a calamity, 
which, had it happened at night, 
would not only have consumed the 
choir and organ, but likewise all the 
valuable antiquities of a combustil^le 
nature in the Abbey ; and have de- 
faced the fairest productioas of cur 



science and skill, as well as have 
inflicted the keenest wounds on the 
feelings of the relations of all the 
brave and great who are there com* 
niemorated. The damage sustain- 
ed, may perhaps be estimated at 
four or five thousand pounds. 

A measure, in which the trade 
and navigation of this country 
(Great Britain) are incakulably in- 
terested, received last ni^ht the 
most wiUing concurrence of a com- 
mittee of the House of Commons. 
On the motion of Mr. Hawkins 
firowne, in the committee of sup- 
ply, twenty .thousand pounds were 
granted towards making a naviga- 
ble canal through the Highlands of 
Scotland from sea to sea. The ex- 
tent is fifty-nine miles, twenty of 
which are occupied by lakes of un- 
fathomable depth. The remaining 
are to be twenty feet deep, and of a 
proportionable breadth, so that sliips 
of the line may pass from the Baltic 
to the British channel. 

This would obviate all the diffi- 
culties of going round about by the 
Shetland and Orkney Isles ; a pas- 
sage of fourteen days in the calmest 
weatlier, and which in the windy 
season is rarely eflfected in less 
than three months : while, by the 
proposed canal, the passage in the 
most unfavourable weather, will not 
occupy more than twelve days, and 
frequently little more than half that 
period. It is calculated, that the 
whole expense of this canal wilj not 
exceed the loss sustained by ship- 
wrecks in the present course of na- 
vigation in five years. 

School for Deaf and Dumb* At 
the London tavern, on ITiursday, 
March 30, a respectable and nu- 
merous company of gentlemen met 
to celebrate the anniversary of this 
Institution, Sir Thomas Turton, 
baronet, one of the vice-presidents 
in the chair. After dinner, the 
Stewards, preceded by the Rev. 
Mr. Mason, as secretary, introdu- 
ced the children (forty-seven in 
number) at present under a course 
of instruction in language, writing, 
arithmetic, mechanic arts, morals 
and religion, who produced spcci- 
iQcns of their writing, &c. and some 

of them recited a few lines prepared 
for the occasion, with distinctness 
and emphasis, far surpassing the 
expectations of those who heard 
them, demonstrating to the most 
credulous, that the naturally deaf 
and dumb are here taught speech, 
so as to render it an intelligible ve- 
hicle of their thoughts* 

The Chairman announced from 
the best authority, that the funds 
are as yet unequal to relieve the 
numerous candidates for admission 
into an asylum* where alone there 
is relief for them. The impression 
made upon the company by these 
observations, and the scene they 
had just witnessed, produced some 
handsome donations and many an- 
nual subscriptions. 

The parish of Presteign, in Rad- 
norshire, in Wales, embraces a cir- 
cle of nineteen miles. The burials, 
on an average of seven years are 
only twenty -six persons a year ; and 
births for the same time forty-two. 
And of the burials, upwards of 
eighteen of the twenty-six, were of 
^persons from eighty to one hundred 
years old. 

DomeUic incidenta on board the 
American frigate JVew-Yorkm 
April 25th, IfiOS, off Sardinia.... 
early in the morning the gunner's 
mate had been returning the signal 
lanthorns into the gunner's store- 
room, as usual, and also the match 
which is kept burning during the 
night. He returned, and the gun- 
ner went immediately down into 
the cock-pit, and it seems took a 
light into the store-room to see if 
every thing was properly secured, 
when from the snuff of the candle 
or otherwise, fire was communica- 
ted to a considerable quantity of 
powder, upwards of an hundred 
weight. Tlie explosion took place 
precisely at three o'clock, those in 
the cock-pit suffered beyond concep- 
tion though most of them have sur- 
vived it. The gunner, Morril, 
died the following night and also a 
boy named Hamilton. Mr. Shults 
died ia about thirty-six hours. 
Burrior, captain's clerk, died since 
our arrival here (Malta). Dr.- 



Weeros is yet ill, though recover- 
ing iaaXj as are likewise Mr. Alex- 
is, midshipraan, Kennedy, purser's 
steward, and M^Gee, marine. Mr. 
Lewis, midshipman, and Mr. Israel 
welL The explosion blew the gun 
deck and quarter deck hatches up 
.... started the gun magazine, ward- 
room, and cabin bed heads. Exer- 
tion alone saved us. The fire was 
extinguished in one hour. 

GEORGE-TOWN, AUG. 10, 1803. 

The fetal effetts of the flux which 
rages with the utmost violence in 
this and the neighbouring coun- 
ties, exhibits a very distressing 
scene; upwards of five hundred 
porsons, it is thought, within a few 
weeks, have been swept oflF; and 
in some parts more than two-thirds 
of femilics have fallen a prey to 
this depopulating disorder. 


Two Indians were lately killed in 
Montgomery county by a white man, 
the particulars as £fir as has come 
witl^n our knowledge, are ; the 
white man was hunting and hap- 
pened to fall in with an Indian camp 
....the Indians appeared not very 
friendly, he left them.. -he had not 
went far on his way, when he saw 
two of the Indians a-head, and both 
taking aim at him, their guns flash- 
ed, the white man fired and killed 
one, and ran upon the other and dis- 
patched him with the but of his 
gun....It is said the white man has 
given himself up. 


I have just seen a British oflScer 
from Fort George, who informs me 
that they have discovered a conspi- 
racy that was to have taken place 
among the soldiers of that garrison 
this evening... their intentions were 
to have murdered the whole of the 
officers, burnt the garrison, and to 
have fled to the United States. This 
is a battalion of the forty-ninth 
Irish re^ment, about one hundred 
and fifty in number; the principals 
are sent to York, where an exam- 
ple will be made of them. Had they 
•fibred to come within reach of our 

cannon they would have met with 
a warm reception. 

Further information states, that 
there are a number of letters found 
with them from inhabitants of this 
state, oflering them assistance and 
protection, ^ould they prove suc- 
cessful. Does tills not shew the 
rascality of Demos f 


An expedition is- expected to 
leave this place shortly', under the 
direction of Capt William Clark 
and Mr. Lewis, (private secretary 
to the President) to proceed through 
the immense wilderness of Louisia- 
na to the Western or Pacific ocean. 
The particular objects of this un- 
dertaking are at present matters of 
conjecture only j but we have good 
reason to believe, that our govern- 
ment intend to encourage settle- 
ments, and establish sea ports, on 
the coast of the Pacific ocean, which 
would not only facilitate our whal- 
ing and sealing voyages, but enable 
our enterprising merchants to carry 
on a more direct and rapid trade 
with China and the East Indies. 


This day at twelve o'clock a duel 
was fought by Samuel Howard and 
Joseph Welcher, Esqrs. Tlje sub- 
ject of dispute arose in the city 
council, of which they were both 
mcmljcrs. Ho ward was dangerous- 
ly wounded by being shot through 
the belly. He fell on the spot, and 
was supposed to be dcad....He has 
been brought to town, his wounds 
examined, and it is expected he 
will recover. George D. Sweet 
w«as Howard's, and George M. 
Thromp, Wclchcr's second. The 
place of action was the Jews burj*- 
ing ground. 

Elizabeth-town, (M.) AUG. 31. 
On Wednesday the 24th, Peter 
Lights of Shaipsburgh, was ar- 
raigned at the bar of Washington 
county court, for making counter- 
feit dollars, and after a fair and im- 
partitil trial, was found guilty. On 
Thursday following, he wassenten- 
ccd to be wlupty pillored^aad cropt 



•••.which •entencc was accordingly and destroyed materials and appa* 

put into execution by the sheriff. rates to a consideraWc amount. 

*^ J^ew yorA:....The circumstances 

Portsmouth, (N. H.) auo. 27. ^hich have come to our knowledge, 

Sporting, or hunting the bear.... respecting the reported embezzle* 

A grand bear hunt is proposed on ment of money by a person inthe scr- 

., ., ._j «T-j_— J... :« r\^*,^\.^^ vice of the Manhattan company, are 

the' third Wednesday in October 
next, in the grand forest in Dcr- 
ryfield and Chester ; which will be 
conducted by surrounding the whole 
desert, and marching in a regular 
manner to the centre thereof, in 
order to enclose all the wild game 
in the woods. Any gentleman dis- 
posed to divert himself with a day's 
fatigue, is invited to repair to one 
of the places of rendezvous, on the 
morning of ssdd day, at eight o'clock, 
equipt with a good gun, powder and 
ball, provisions, canteen, &c. 

The above forest has been time 
out of mind, and now is an asylum for 
and a habitation of a swarm of 
bears, wolves, and other beasts of 
prey, which have been hunted by 
small parties, without success. 
Bears are almost daily seen, and« 
make frequent depredations on 
young cattfe and sheep, and have 
become a serious evil to the^nhabit- 
ants residing near the premises. 

In several parts of Massachu- 
setts, Cpnnecticut, and New-Hamp- 
shire, the dysentery, and other dis- 
eases prevail to a very afflicting de- 
gree. Many villages experience, 
in proportion to their relative num- 
bers, a mortality much greater 
than any of our devoted cities, by 
the fever. 

On the 28th, the bam of Henry 
P. Moore, of Poughkeepsie, in N. 
E. town was destroyed by fire, to- 
gether with the whole of his sum- 
mer crop of grain and hay* Also a 
sleigh, fanning-mill. Sec. &c. The 
barn was purposely set on fire by a 
boy wiio lived with Mr. Moore, by 
the name of Peter Canady. He is 
}odged in gaol and confessed the 
fact to a number of persons. 

PhiladelfiMa On Wednesday 

night, August 30, between ten and 
eleven o'clock, a fire broke out in 
the chemicallaboratory of Mr. Him- 
ter, in Second, below Walnut street. 
it consumed a part of the building, 

these : In consequence of the indis- 
position of Mr. Hunn (one of the tell- 
ers) and the absence cxf the first book- 
keeper, the situation of temporary 
teller, on Saturday the srth ult. de- 
volved upon Mr. Benjamin Brower, 
who had been received into the 
bank with very respectable recom- 
mendations, and at that time filled 
the office of second book-keeper to 
the entire satisfaction of the Direc- 
tors, whose opinion of his integrity 
was highly flattering. 

On the day above mentioned, Mr. 
Brower received, in his capacity of 
teller, upwards.of seventy thousand 
dollars. The money delivered by 
him to the cashier, in the evening, 
at the closing of the accounts, fell 
ten tliousand dollars short of this 
sum; but as the money and the 
ivritten statement of receipts had 
been made to correspond in the sum 
total, no suspicions of fraud werQ 
entertained. Mr. Brower was ab- 
sent from the bank on the Monday) 
Tuesday and Wednesday following ; 
still, from the general tenor of his 
former conduct, and from the sickly 
state of the city, no one entertained 
a sentiment injurious to his reputa« 
tion, or supposed his absence occa- 
sioned by any other circumstance 
than some derangement in his own 
health, or the health of his family. 
The adjustment of the accounts of 
the bank, preparatory to its re- 
moval to Greeuwich, took place on 
Wednesday evening, the 31st, when 
a deficiency to the amount above 
stated, was discovered ; " and the 
cup was found in Benjamin's sack.** 
An inquiry was immediately insti- 
tuted respecting Mr. Brower. The 
result was, that he had left the city 
on Sunday, with his family ; but no 
person could give information to 
what part of the country he had 
absconded. Messengers were dis- 
patched in diflferent directions, in 


•eardiof him; t>at,v« understand, bostoK) atjo. 30. 

•"<*^^^l«ace has hitherto been ^y^ „, ^fbAant. 

"xteManhattan Company have . <^.5'*; '^^V ^''** ""^^^^ht, the 

•Seted a reward of fivrhJindml »?I?''?^*' "^ fe '"'Z "^ ?"* 

doDars far his apprehension, and J^'* *^^ ?^ !>^ *"*• 9. * *^,1* 

ten per cent. npoSWh part of the fr^™ *"•* slumbers, tiie awfully 

e»b^ded property a« iay be re- distressing spectacle of Johnson> 

covered* *^ *^ ' ^ . Hotel at Nanant, enveloped m 

fiames, presented itself to their 

view, which, in a short period was 

Trenton, august 29, entirely cbnsumed. So rapid was 

. , the conflagration, that the family 

OnMondayeveninglaatadanng escaped only with their lives, not 

robbery was committed on the per- ^i^^ ^ble to preserve the smallest 

jon of a Dutch genUeman from article of furniture, or even of rai- 

Surinam, m the upper part of this ment. 

township, by a person of the name * sept. 1 

of Zdmlon Phares. The gcnUe- Came on before the hon.*J<iui 

manhad lately come into the coun- gjo^s Hobart, judge of the court of 

try for Uie benefit <J his heafth, and ^^ United Sutes for this district^ 

was on his way to the state of New- ^^ ^^al of a young man of the name 

York, m the mail stage, where ^f WiUiam H. Burredge, lately 

Phares came across him ; who, af- employed in the post-office of this 

ter mtroducmg himself by familiar ^ity. The charge was published 

conversation, very kindly invited ^^^ time since...,it was that of 

the gentleman to spend a day or purloining a letter, enclosing bank 

two at his house, which, he said, j^otes to the amount of 800 dollars^ 

was near Trenton, to which the ^j^^ property of Mr. John D. Mar- 

gentleman, after some hesitation, tj^. He pleaded guUty to the in- 

consented. On crossing the Dela- dictment. 

ware, they left the stage together, j^^ p'unishment was mitigated 

and walked five or six miles into ^^ account of the youth and contri- 

the country, when coming int6 a ^ion of the delinquent; he was sen- 

piece of woods m a by place, fenced to thirty stripes, and to suf- 

Phares caught the gentleman by the fer six months imprisonment. 

throat, and demanded his money, j^ ^j^y be of use to observe, that 

which he compelled him to give up, this crime of letter-stealing is one 

together with a numlw of triflmg ^i^j^h the laws of the United Stotes 

articles which he had about him, consider highly atrocious, and treat 

and a few pieces of wearing appa- ^5^ g^g^t severity. For the first 

ri* ^ , he immediately ^ff^^^ the punishment in extent is 

left the gentleman, Md disappeared thirty-nine lashes and ten years im- 

in the woods. The genUeman pHsonment; but a second convic 

sought an asyluin m the first house ^^j^ ^f robbing the mail, is punished 

he could find, which was that of Mr. ^ jth death. 

Israel Moore, where he lodged that ^j^^ following is the quantity of 

night. On the following morning a flour inspected in Fredericksburg, 

warrant was is^ed by Andrew (Virg.) from the 1st of September, 

Recder, Esquire, for the apprehen- j802, until the same date 1803, viz. 

sion of the perpetrator, and by the Superfine 41,62r 

activity of the people of the neigh- Yme: 12 944 

bourhcx)dhe wastaken in the course x MVdSin^\\V.V.V.'..l,'461 

of the day, and a number of the ar- ** .___ 

tides found upon him alleged to Total....56,033 
have been stolen ; he was of course 

committed to Flemington goal to kew-brunswick, sept. 1. 

take his trial at the next court of llie fallowing unfortunate cir-» 

Oyer and Terminer. cumstance happened at Matchipo- 



nix, Middlesex county, on Sunday 
morning last.... A well had been dug 
the week before on a farm belong- 
ing to Mr. Cornelius Johnson, fifty, 
one feet deep. On the morning 
above-mentioned, Samuel Garrit- 
son, a tenant on the place, who dug 
the well, attempted, with the as- 
sistance of his son, to let down his 
feon-in-law, William Brown, in a 
bucket, who, when he had descend- 
ed about twenty feet, called to those 
above to lower away; a few mo- 
ments after which they discovered 
that he had fallen out of the bucket 
to the bottom of the well....upon 
which Mr. Garritson was let down 
by his wife and son to the assistance 
of his son-in-law ; when he had got 
down about the same distance, he 
also called out to lower away ; he 
also fell out of the bucket when 
within about six feet of the bottom : 
a trial was then made with a lighted 
candle, which went out after it de- 
scended ten feet, and no person 
dare go down to their relief. Gar- 
ritson continued to groan for more 
than half an hour, but there was no 
possibility of getting him out ; they 
were afterwards taken up by grap- 
^ngs and their remains interred. 
Thus were two honest, industrious 
and respectable men, snatched from 
their families and connexions when 
least expected. 

\P/uladel/ihta.....The prosperity 
and growing wealth of our coun- 
try, must be evident to the most 
common observer who will view 
the surprising increase of our 
cities and villages within a few 
years, and the change that has 
taken place in the whole face of the 
country, including many new and 
extensive settlements, in parts that 
were lately wilderness. 

As an evidence of the monied 
wealth of Philadelphia alone, there 
have been lately established two 
new Insurance Companies, and a 
Bank, which will together embrace 
a sum of nearly two millions of dol- 

Under these circumstances, and 
as the wel£are of agriculture and 
eommerce mutually depend on each 

other, and as there is a competi* 
tion between the states of New- 
York and Maryland, for a partici- 
pation in the trade of Pennsylvania^ 
would it not be good policy in our 
citizens to endeavour to promote an 
union of town and country capitaL 
for the imftrtrvement of water car^ 
riage and roada generally^ either 
by a new establishment for that 
purpose, or by engrafting an in- 
creased capital and plan on some 
one of those already existing, with 
the consent of the present stock- 

This would produce a concert of 
measures, that might doubtless be 
highly beneficial to the whole trade* 

We are told that a fund ahd in- 
^tution of a private nature, some- 
what of the kind proposed, is in 
contemplation by a company of 
landholders, for the improvement 
of their back lands. Whatever 
may be proposed in this way, is no 
doubt intended to be done with the 
approbation of the legislature, and 
will be something more solid, than 
the wild schemes of the extrava- 
gant landjobbers of 1794 and 1795. 


On Wednesday last, this town 
was visited by the most violent 
storm of wind and rain, which has 
been experienced in many years* 
The day before, the appearance of 
the weather was extremely threat- 
ening; and about three o'clock in 
the moraing of Wednesday it be- 
came alarming. Many persons 
who had property on the wharves, 
saved it, but notwithstanding every 
precaution great damage was done. 
The greatest sufferers on this occa<* 
sion were Mr. Thomas Turner, 
and Mr. John Harvey ; the former 
had his warehouses carried off, 
which were filled with pork, and 
other articles of value, and the lat- 
ter, we learn, lost about sixteen 
hundred bushels of salt. Sec Se- 
veral vessels which attempted to go 
up the river, ran ashore, and it 
will be with great difficulty that 
some of them will be got off. 



The storm began about three 
o'clock In the morning;, with the 
wind at N. £. and continued with 
Increased fiiry, till about 4 o'clock 
in the evening, when the wind 
shifted to tlie westward, and check- 
ed its havock. It is supposed, that 
the water rose about ^nine feet per- 
pendicular. A small negro girl 
was drowned. 

SEPT. 7. 

In the late storm there have been 
^ve, vessels cast away in Edenton 
Sound, and none of the crews saved. 
There have been six dead bodies 
taken up, that floated on the beach, 
and some casks of wine ; the latter 
belonged to Robert Armistead of this 
place, and was shipped at Norfolk, 
but we know nothing more of the 
vessels, than that the hulls are seen 
floating about. There are some 
women's as well as men's clothes 
found floating. We have not heard 
from the bar yet, but it is thought 
there are a great many vessels cast 
away there." 
Frederick County^ Sefit. 4, 1803. 

On Friday, the 2d Inst, a most dar- 
ing murder and robbery were com- 
mitted on the main road from Stras- 
burg, (Virgiaia) to Staunton. From 
the papers found about the body of 
the person murdered, he is supposed 
to be from Philadelphia ; his name 
is William C. Simonton, or Sim- 
merton ; he rode in a chair which 
is marked on the back with the let- 
ter Sw The chair was drawn by a 
bay horse, on whom no brand was 
perceivable. The property left by 
the atrocious murderer, and found 
about the body of the deceased, is 
all consists of one him- 
dred and forty-iive dollars in bank 
notes, four dollars in silver, and 
£nur and a half pence ; a box of 
medicines, and some wearing ap- 
pareL It appears that he was tra- 
vcUing to the Sweet or Warm 
Springs* It would, perliups, be 
AJi act of benevolence to have the 
contents of this letter inserted in 
Uie public prints, in order that the 
relations of the deceased may know 
Ids unfortunate fate, and get the 
property which he has left. 

Being in Shenandoah county on 
Friday evening last, I was informed 
that a most atrocious murder and 
robbery had been committed on the 
body of a travelling gentleman, a 
little above Stoverstown, on the 
main road. Impelled by curiosity 
as well as duty, I rode with several 
gentlemen to view the body, early 
on yesterday morning. 

Upon examination, we found that 
he had received a violent blow upon 
the head, just above the left ear.... 
the contusion was as large as the 
palm of a man's hand. There were 
several other wounds on the head, 
and a bruise on the breast. The at- 
tack was made about nine o'clock, 
A. M. not more than two hundred 
and seventy paces from Mr. Jacob 
Snapp's, and he expired about 
twelve. He was found weltering 
in his blood, a few minutes af^r, 
by two Germans ; when they came 
up, they inquired '* what was the 
matter?" He replied, "that he 
had been robbed by a negro or mu« 
lutto man," and immediately faint- 
ed. One of these strangers ran to 
Mr. Snapp's, whilst the other re- 
mained with him. The alarm was 
immediately given, and notice sent 
to P. Spangler, a magistrate, who 
made use of every exertion to dis- 
cover the perpetrator of this horrid 
crime, but without effect. Two per- 
sons are suspected, one a mulatto 
fellow, who, it appears, was tra* 
veiling towards Rockingham, and 
lives at Holker's plantation, in this 
county ; the other calls himself 
James Scott, a free mulatto, who 
has lived some time near Middle- 
town. Pursuit was made after 
the first, but, by the information 
of some travellers, it appears, the 
fellow had left the road, and was 
not taken early yesterday morning. 
Scott was apprehended on suspicion, 
examined before two magistrates, 
and committed to jail : I however 
incline to think he is not guilty, and 
that it is more probable that the 
first mentioned fellow committed 
the murder. He is said to be a tall 
dark mulatto, stoops much in. his 
walk, blinds of an eye, and was 


dressed in coarse linen clothes; 
carried a budget, and a large club. 
The sUck with which the murder 
was committed, was a dead hickory. 
It was found near the deceascd^with 
the hair remaining to the big end 
from the violence of the btow. I 
am informed the above described 
fellow, was noticed to have used 
such a club as a walking-stick. 

I requested to examine the pa- 
pers in the pocket-book of the de- 
ceased, and found one hundred and 
forty-five dollars in bank notes, and 
four dollars and six cents in silver. 
It appears that his name was Wil- 
liam C. Simonton ; and that a com- 
mission of bankruptcy had issued 
against him in Philadelphia, in De- 
cember last ; that he was in a de- 
clining state of health, and on his 
way to the Sweet-Springs. It is 
highly probable that the assassin 
missed his object, and that he was 
routed before he could plunder his 
victim. He took nothing but a 
trunk, which was lashed behind 
the chair in which he travelled, 
probably containing nothing but 


K. B. An inquest was taken on 
tlie body, before Capt. Spangler's, 
yesterday, and the jury pronounced 
It a most atrocious, wilfol, and ma- 
licious murder, perpetrated by the 
hand of a mulatto man, by the in- 
formation of the deceased, but by 
which particular person was not 
known to the jurors. 

SEPT. 8. 

The foundation stone of St. John's 
Church, which is to be erected on 
the east side of Hudson-square, was 
laid by the right rev. Bishop Moore, 
in the presence of the members of 
the corporation of Trinity Church, 
the workmen who are to be employ- 
ed in the building, and many specta- 
tors who attended on the occasion. 
The ceremony of laying the stone 
was succeeded by a short address by 
Bishop Moore ; and the whole so- 
lemnity was concluded by prayer 
for tlic divine benediction on their 
.present undertaking. 


Tuesday came on the trial of ne» 
groes George and Charity, before 
Uie magistrates of Princess Ann 
county, under a charge of attempt- 
ing to poison the whole of the white 
family of Thomas Lawson, E«q. 
of said county; the charge being 
fully proven, they were condemned 
to be hanged on the seventh of 
October next* 

The negro fellow advertised in 
the late papers as a runaway, and 
committed totlie jail of this borough 
under the name of John (but whose 
real name is Peter) was yesterday 
delivered to a guard of citizens from 
Gates county, North-Carolina, to 
take his trial for the murder of a 
young man in the employ of Mr. 
Daniel Southall at Gates county 
court-house, about eight weeks 
since. He was outlawed by the go- 
vernment of that state, and a re- 
ward of seven hundred dollars of- 
fered for apprehending him and 
another black man, who is not yet 


This morning about half past four 
o'clock a fire broke out in the bake- 
house of Simon Frazer, inCliflfnear 
John street, which before it was ex- 
tinguished destroyed eleven front 
and four back buildings, four of 
which were brick. In consequence 
of the deserted state of the city, 
and particularly in that neighbour- 
hood, the fire had made great pro- 
gress before a sufficient number of 
firemen and citizens were collected 
to arrest its progress. Fortunately 
it was a perfect calm or its rava^ 
might have spread destruction 
to a much greater extent. Many 
families have lost their all....seve- 
ral of the occupants had removed to 
the country. We have not learnt 
all the names of the sufferers.. ..The 
following are among them : Simon 
Frazer, bake-house ; Mr. M'Kee, 
brick-house, grocer, comer of John 
and Cliff-streets ; Mr.Bukee, coop- 
er, dwelUng-hcuse, CliflF-strect ; 
Michael Bloomer, pilot, dwelling- 
house, corner of Cliff-street; Mr. 



Caimes, chair-makeri Cliff-^reet ; 
W. Kersheitt, ^ver-6mith, John- 
street; Mr. M'Cleod, dwelling-* 
house, Cliff^treet; Widow Baily, 
dwelling-house, do. Dr. Fargures, 
dweliing-^iouse, in John-street ; Mr. 
Hazlet, chair-maker's shop, do. 

On Wednesday evening last, as 
one of the hearse-men was entering 
the alms-house gate his attention 
was attracted by a bundle, which 
on examination he found to contain 
an infant mulatto child. He took 
it into the alms-house, and also an 
old negro woman who was near the 
spot, and who appeared from her 
actions to entertain no little con- 
cern for its fate. Great pains were 
taken to induce her to disclose the 
author of so brutal and unfeeling 
an act, but to no purpose. Tlie 
child is about a week old, and was 
very abundantly supplied with 

September 13. 
About eight o'clock, a smoke was 
discovered bursting out of the win- 
dows of the house lately occupied by 
Mr. Kelso, No. eighty-four, Fair- 
street. On entering the house a 
straw bed was found on lire in the 
middle of the floor of the lower room, 
and in a few minutes the house 
would have been enveloped in the 
flames. It has been evacuated for 
three weeks past by Mr. Kelso's fa- 
mily, and there remains no doubt 
of its being the work of some incen- 

Frost has been known in Hudson 
every month in the year excepting 
July : and a few days past was per- 
ceived in the vicinity of this city to 
have damaged some vegetables. 


On Monday evening last, myself 
and Underbill Budd,of Philipstown, 
discovered one Nathaniel Sear Is, 
who had passed two counterfeit dol- 
lars in said Budd's store. We im- 
mediately pursued and took the fel- 
low before esc;i*s. Neilson and Hor- 
tom, and on interrogating him, he 
brought out four others, whom we 
al50 pursued and took, and on Tues- 
di-y evening we committed three of 

vot. i....::o. I. 

them to jail at Poughkeepsie, but 
Natlianiel Searls and his brother 
Joseph Searls unfortunately made 
their escape. Natlianiel is about 
five feet three or four inches high, 
light complexion and light hair ; 
had on a light blue coat, red and 
brownish striped vest, and I think 
wears his hair tied. Joseph is about 
five feet six inches high. I cannot 
give a pailicular description of him, 
as he made his escape while I was 
securing the principal coiner in his 
chamber. After Mr* Budd and 
myself with a number of respecta- 
ble citizens descended a cave of 
about sixty feet, three quarters of a 
mile east of John Warrens in the 
high-lands, we had the good luck 
to discover and take a pair of bel- 
lows, and all the implements and 
contrivances those villains made use 
of for coining dollars, with a num- 
ber of dollars. A reward of fifty 
dollars will be paid with reasonable 
charges for securing both»the said 
Searls, and confining them in jail or 
delivering them to the authority in 
Duchess county. 

N. B. It is supposed they will 
go to the Neversink, or lurk in the 
mountainous country, in Smith's 


WINCHESTER, Sept. 13. 

Scott, the mulatto fellow, who 
was committed to Shenandoah 
county jail, on suspicion of murder- 
ing and robbing William C. Sim- 
merton, has partly confessed to be 
the perpetrator of that crime, by 
giving information where he had 
concealed those articles of clothing 
8cc. of which he had robbed Mr* 
S. and search having been made 
accordingly, found its statement to 
be correct. 


This day the sun entered the sign 
of Libra; at the same time the 
planets Mercury, Mars, Jupiter, 
and the Georj^ian planet or Hers- 
chel, are also in Libra; Venus and 
Saturn are both in the twenty -fourth 
degree of Virjro, but six degrees 
distant from the sun. Thus aU the 
planets are nearly in conjunctioa 



with the son, at the same period 
that the sun crosses the line* Ma* 
ny^ years must elapse before a simi* 
lar occurrence can take place. It 
is worthy of attention whether this 
singular phenomenon will produce 
any material effect on the weather* 

August 29* 
Interments in the different burying 
grounds of this city ^ for the week 
ending this morning at sun rise. 

Drowned, 1 

Cramp in the stomach, 1 

Casualty, 1 

Consumption, 2 

Croup, 1 

Intemperance, 1 

Bilious fever, 1 

Dr<^sy, 1 

Hooping ooug^y 1 

Worms, 1 

Mumps, 1 

Teething, 2 

Fits, 2 

Still-born, 3 

Hives, 1 

Cholera, 17 

Diseases unknown, 2 
Adnltff, 5 

ChiMren, 33 





Old age, 



Sudden death. 

Bilious fever, 





Disease unknown, 







September 12. 

Old age, 




Cramp in the stomachy 


Sudden death. 


Bilious fever. 




Teething, 2 

Hooping cough, 1 

Diseases unknown, 2 

Adults, 8 

Children, 12 



At a court of oyer and terminer, 
held in this town last week, came 
on the trial of John and James Ca* 
rothers, for manslaughter, in taking 
the life of James Carothers, senr. 
The trial commenced on Friday 
morning, and lasted until Saturday 
evening ; the Jury after remaining 
about an hour, returned a verdict, 
"Not Guilty." 


Kumber of interments in the burial 
grounds of the city and liberties 
of Philadelphia^ in the month of 
jiugust lasty viXm 

JduL ChiU 

1 Christ church 5 10 

2 St. Peter's ' 3 3 

3 St. Paul's 1 3 

4 German Lutheran, 8 18 

5 German Presbyterian, 3 9 

6 Society of Friends, 5 13 

7 St. Mary's, 5 12 

8 Holy Trinity, 3 7 

9 First Presbyterian, 1 3 

10 Second do. 1 6 

11 Third do. 4 7 

12 Fourth do. 1 4 
lo Scotch do. 5 

14 Associate do. 1 

15 Moravian, 1 

16 Swedes, 8 

17 Methodist, 1 2 

18 Society of Free Quakers, 6 % 

19 Baptists, 1 2 

20 Universalists, 

21 ews, 

22 African Episcopalians, 1 3 

23 African Methodists, 1 3 
i4 Kensington Burial 

Ground, 2 103 

25 Coats's Burial Ground, 

26 Public Burial Ground, 30 50 


122 182 

Of the above died of 
Bilious fever 


















Gout in the stomach 


Hooping coog^ 












Purging and yomiting 




Teeth and worms 


Sore throat 


Drowned and other casualties 


Diseases not mentioned 


Total 294 
• Of thb number fifty-three were 
orders from the Alms House, and 
three from the Pennsylvania Hos- 

The number of deatha in the fire" 
tent year., cofUraated with the 
deaths which occurred in theaame 
montha of 1802. 

1802. 1803. 

Adult 8. Chit. Tot. Ada. Ch. Tot. 















75 217 
60 170 
47 147 
SB 148 
59 141 
67 165 
129 132 261 
109 153 262 

Totals 85^ 651 1509 

42 110 
35 111 
41 107 
41 116 
41 110 
64 142 
78 127 205 
112 182 294 



£jctractfrom the correspondence of 
an American Traveller in J^yance. 

BORDEAUX, JUNE 23, 1798. 

IN my last, I gave you an account 
of some pf the melancholy occur- 
rences which took place during the 
revolution ; 1 have now to- describe 
son^e of those republican institutions, 
by which the Directory expect to 
make amends to the people for all 
the evils which accompanied tliis 
great political event. I this day 
witnessed one of their public fetes, 
called tlie fete of ag^ricidturei >vhich 

is celebrated on this day, as being 
the first of their month of Afeaaidor^ 
or the harvest^month. The name 
of Meaaidor applied to this montili 
shews that the usual harvest-month 
of France is from the 23d of June 
to the 23d of Julv, which is earlier^ 
I believe, by a fidl month than the 
harvest in England. This fete con- 
sisted of municipal officers, adorned 
with tri*coloured scarfs, marching 
in a procession, in the centre of 
which was a chariot drawn by oxen* 
In this chariot, which was covered 
and decorated with ^;reen boughs, 
twisted together to form a shade, 
were seated four old fiu>mers, hav- 
ing ears of com in their hats. This 
procession was attended by the mi- 
litary of Bordeaux, of which there 
are not more than 500 in tliis large 

When theprocession stopped in the 
public gardens, the military paraded 
round the chariot, and the band 
played the different republican airs. 
The lower orders of the people are 
miglitily pleased witli these proces- 
sions and fetes, while the higher 
orders seem to despise them as 
mountebank mummery, and the 
foppery of republicanism. The 
government, however, considers 
these institutions in the most seri- 
ous light ; they hope from them to 
attach the passions and pleasures 
of the people to the republican 
cause, and to republican ideas. 
With this view, they give them 
many republican holidays, set off 
with republican pomp and repub- 
lican music. 

These kind of holidays have, I 
believe, never been introduced be- 
fore in any coimtry. I remember 
notliing like them in ancient or 
moderu history ; if we except the 
annual rejoicincrs of the E^p- 
tians on the retiring of the waters 
of the Nile, and the annual custom 
of the Emperor of China holding 
t!ic plough, as an example' to his 
Mil/jccts, and as a mark of respect 
to Uie first of arts. It appears to 
me, that the idea cf thc^iC national 
holidays was Mir^f^ested to the 
French philusopjierji and litviud by 



Marmontel, in his historical ro- 
mance called the Incae of Peru. 
The Peruvians are there represent- 
ed as having annual feasts of the 
Kun ; fetes for youth, for marriage, 
and for old age* The Directory 
have instituted annual fetes for 
youth, and fetes for old age ; and 
as for marriages, having seen their 
republican marriages, I think the 
subject too important to pass it 
over without a particular descrip- 

I was in the cathedral last De- 
cade (which is the republican sab- 
bath) and saw ten or twelve couple 
married. A part of the church was 
inclosed for the purpose, with seats 
at each side, and an altar at the ex- 
tremity, to which one must ascend 
by steps. Upon the altar lay a 
basket of flowers, most of them the 
common flowers of the fields ; at 
one side sat the brides and their 
female friends, all in white, with 
garlands of white flowers (natural 
or artificial) on their heads, the 
same in their bosoms ; at the other 
side sat the bridegrooms and the 
male friends, l^he inclosure was 
taken iii> exclusively by the parties 
to be married and their friends; 
but from the outside of the inclosure, 
I saw distinctly what passed within* 
After the company liad been some 
time seated, the noise of the fife 
and drum at the church door, and 
the display of military standards, 
announced the arrival of the muni- 
pal officers. The appearance was 
not much superior to tliat of con- 
stables of the watch in England: 
they were distinguished by tri- 
coloured scarfs, and wore their hats 
on during the ceremony, which is 
considered by the law as a mere 
civil contract. 

Every couple knew the order that 
they were to go up in to the altar. 
At the si|2;nal, which is given by the 
roll of a drum, the first couple, \v ith 
two or three friends on either side, 
who attended as witnesses, went up 
to the altar and wgned tlie marriage 
contract ; they theii descended, and 
signed their names in two more 
books or registers, which lay upou 

a table in the centre of the incl«* 

They then salute the municipal 
officer; and a short republican 
hymn, appropriate to the occasion, 
is sung. That couple then retires 
from the church with their friends, 
and another roll of the drum givea 
the signal to th« second couple to 
come forward, and go through the 
same ceremonies. With such a 
display of militaiy standards and 
military music, you would almost 
suppose, that the government meant 
to consider marriage as a military 
institution; but the real cause is, 
that, of all sliews, a military shew 
is the least expensive, and govern- 
ment wishes to have as much shew 
as possible at a small cost. Before 
the ceremonv had begun, I particu- 
larly noticed among the females, 
who were within the inclosure, one 
of about nineteen years of age, who 
peculiarly attracted my attention by 
the superior fineness of her form 
and eyes, and the great degree of 
sensibility and soul which marked 
her countenance, which was n<^le 
and interesting in the extreme. 

She was, of all the females within 
the inclosure, the most carelessly 
dressed, not having tlic usual orna- 
ments of flowers in her hair. She 
was so remarkably unadorned (ex- 
cept by nature), that I rather won- 
dered at her coming to tliis feast 
witliout a wedding-garment. For 
a considerable time she seemed easy 
and careless, but a roll of the drum 
(awfol to her as the last trumpet) 
seemed to harrow up her whole soul; 
she stood up, burst into tears, and 
dropped down again upon her seat. 
It was with the utmost difficulty that 
she could be supported to the altar, 
where she stood drowned in tears, 
and hardly knowing where she was, 
or what was passing. From the 
men's side of the inclosure there 
hi^bbled out an old fonrnisseur^ or 
coatrRCtor of the army of Italy, who 
was to be her spouse. Then what 
there was before of mystery in her 
deep affliction became apparcn' ; 
then cme could trace her sorrow to 
its secret source, where it lay con- 

tN rftANCK* 


cealed among the warm wishes and 
natural desires of a young heart, 
formed for enjoying and communi- 
cating perfect happiness. 

She went to the church, and was 
sacrificed at the altar, in obedience 
to the advice of friends (which has 
more weight with the girls here 
than in England); but, when ar- 
rived at the altar, she could no 
longer govern her affliction, or re- 
strain her tears* I have seen dif- 
fe|*ent executions, and have, in dif- 
ferent countries, witnessed very 
barbarous military punishments, but 
never did I see any thing more af- 
fecting than this human sacrifice of 
a forced marriage. 

The old foumiaaeur was so stu- 
pid as to appear quite insensible of 
the great aversion of his young bride, 
and to consider her tears and agony 
as the meit; commcHi effects of youth- 
ful bashfulness and maiden modesty. 
In France, the tmmarried girls have 
usually not so much liberty as in 
England, while the married women 
take more : this makes young girls 
impatient to be married ; and, when 
marriages are made without much 
previous acquaintance, and without 
mutual affection, in acoimtry where 
gallantry is somewhat the fashion, 
husbands must be prepared for the 
consequences. This, I believe, is 
a principal cause which gives the 
French woman the reputation of 
being ratlier loose in respect to the 
point of female honour. I am con- 
vinced, that when they are united 
to a man fi-om choice and their own 
inclination, they are as affectionate 
and agreeable companions as any in 
the world, as constant, and as much 
attached, as ready to share his for- 
tunes, and to make any sacrifices or 
exertions for his interest. There 
are many persons here, who are 
not content with a republican mar- 
riage, but get themselves also pri- 
vately married by a priest, accord- 
ing to the forms ftf the Catholic re- 
ligion. This not "only satisfies every 
conscientious scruple, but makes the 
marriage binding in case of a coun- 
ter-revolation^ .which is a case, as 

they consider, by no means impos- 

The people here are, at present, 
very much divided between Decade 
and Sunday: government will not 
allow the shops to be shut on Sun- 
days, as they consider that a direct 
opposition to the republican calen- 
dar, which will not admit of the 
Christian era. The people, on the 
other hand, wiU not shut their shops 
on Decades^ or voluntarily acqui- 
esce in the new calender. The 
consequence of this opposition is, 
that the Bordeaux shopkeeper keeps 
no holiday, or day of rest, and 
drudges the whole year round. 

I have seen the celebrated Bar- 
rere, who appears very publicly 
here, and is much respected on ac- 
count of his private character, not- 
withstanding the places he held in 
the Committee of Public Safety. 
He is a smart well-looking little 
man ; his air and manners easy and 
genteel, his complexion, hair, and 
eyes dark, and his countenance ex- 
pressive of sensibility and imagina- 
tion.* The government must have 
connived at his escape from prison, 
or he would not venture to appear 
so pui)licly. Drouet, the celebrated 
post-master of Varennes, who stop- 
ped the royal family, and afterwards 
was taken prisoner, and lay many 
years in the Austrian dungeons, was 
suffered to escape at the same time. 
When he was taken by the Austri- 
an s, his friends, the Jacobins, had 
the government of France ; when 
he was released, he found his friends 
proscribed by the re-action which 
took place after the death of Robes- 
pierre, and, as an Austrian dungeon 
was no school of philosophy or po- 
litics, it was but reasonable to ex- 
pect that he would come out of it 
with the same political principles 
with which he entered it. 


THE act directed that a general 
enumeration should be made oh 
the 10th March, 1801, in England 
and Wales, and in Scotland as soon 
after as pos&ible. The summary 



of the enumeration appeared to be 
as follows : 

In England «,331,434 

— Wales 541,546 

^ Scotland 1,599,068 

— Army and Militia . . . 198,351 

— Navy and Marines . • 126,279 

— Merchant Seamen . • 144,558 

— Convicts 1,410 

Total.. ..10,942,646 

The total population of Great 
Bi itain is supposed to exceed the 
above number, as from some pa- 
rishes no returns were received. 

The number of houses in Ireland 
has been nearly ascertained, by the 
collection of the hearth-money tax, 
from which it has been computed 
that the population of that part of 
the United Kingdom somewhat ex- 
ceeds 4,000,000. 

The islands of Guernsey, Jersey, 
Aldemey, and Sark, the SciUy isl- 
ands, and the isle of Man, were not 
comprised in the enumeration. The 
totid population of these islands has 
been usually estimated at 80,000 

On these grounds, with a moder- 
ate allowance for omissions in the 
returns, the totrl population of the 
United Kingdom of Great Britain 
and Ireland, appears to be as fol- 

England and Wales • . . 8,872,980 

ScoUand 1,599,068 

Ireland 4,000,000 

Islands of Guernsey, &c. 80,000 
Allowance for omissions 77,354 

Soldiers . 
Sailors • . 







Tlie abstracts of the registers of 
baptisms,burial8, and marriages, all 
concur in shewing that there has 
been a gradual increase of tlie po- 
pulation during the last century. It 
appears from the above accounts, 
that the enumeration of 1801 a- 

mounts to. 8,872,980 pcrsonlf fof 
England and Wales, to which num- 
ber an appropriate share of the 
soldiers and marines is to be^dded. 
These appear to be about a thir- 
teenth pai't ; tlie existing population 
of England and Wales is therefore 
in the following table taken at 
9,168,000, and the population there- 
in attributed to the otlicr years is 
given in proportion to the avcx*age 
medium of baptisms at the respec- 
tive periods. 

Population of Elngland and Wales 
throughout the last century. 
In the year Population* 

1700..... 5,475,000 

1710....... .5,240,000 

1720. 5,565,000 

1730 5,796,000 

1740......... 6,064,000 

1750 6,467,000 

1760 6,736,000 

1770 ....7,428,000 

1780 7,953,000 

1790 8,675,000 

1801 9,168,000 

The following table for Scotland, 
is formed in the same manner, but 
is of much less authority, as found- 
ed on a collection of no more than 
99 registers from different parts of 
the countr)'. 

Population of Scotland through- 
out the last century. 

In the year Population 

1700 1,048,000 

1710... ........1,270,000 

1720 .....1,390,000 

1730 1,309,000 

1740 1,222,000 

1750 1,403,000 

1760 1,363,000 

1770 1,434,000 

1780 1,458,000 

1790 1,567,000 

1801 1,652,370 


IT has been a matter of some 
surprise among the curious, and of 
still gi'eater concern among the 
benevolent part of mankind, that 
the present lip;ht, airy, and liiglily 
unsuitable dresses should prevail 
among females at this inclement 



season of the year ; more especial- 
ly in a climate like our's, where we 
are subject to continual variations 
of weather, and sudden changes of 
temperature in the atmosphere. 

Whether these fantastic fashions 
have been adopted fitom the French, 
some doubt ; bat, if the supposition 
be admitted, I believe it may b6 
justly asserted, that they have been 
more pernicious and destructive 
in Aeir consequences, than even 
French principles. 

It is a well-known fact, that with 
us, by far the greater proportion of 
females die of consumption, or com- 
plaints in the chest, the foundations 
of which are commonly laid in colds, 
caught either by exposure to night- 
air, or perhaps, more frequently^ 
from the OTnissicm of due c loathing : 
these, so often repeated, seem to 
produce an aptitude to disease : we 
hear them complain of chilliness, 
cough, pain in the side, or similar 
symptoms, which at first are looked 
upon as slight indispositions, are 
lightly treated, or perhaps wholly 
disregarded* llius the insidious 
approaches of this direful malady 
are suffered to pass unnoticed. Dur- 
ing the succeeding summer, its ra- 
vages are probably suspended, and 
they are flattered with returning 
health; but, no sooner do nipping 
frosts, or chilling winds, set in, than 
disease appears in an aggravated 
form, and, after a tedious confine- 
ment and illness, the hapless female 
is cut off in the bloom of life ; or, 
should she be preserved bjr art 
through the cold months of wmter, 
it serves but to ensure her death on 
their return. This is not an exag- 
gerated picture, nor designed as a 
bug-bear to produce fear, but is 
every day seen verified in numbers 
of instances. Yet, whilst we see 
females of strong stamina, and ro- 
bust consitutions, who, in the natural 
course of things, might have lived 
many years, faU victims to their 
own imprudence ; we also observe 
others, who, with great delicacy of 
frame,' and even pre-disposition to 
disease, are, by the use of proper 
means (and of thqsC warm covering 

is a most essential one) safely con- 
ducted through the dangerous pe« 
riod of youth. 

The wearing of flannel under- 
dresses has of late been strongly 
recommended by some eminent men 
of the medical professsion, and the 
obvious advantages acciniing from 
this practice have fully justified 
their recommendation; but it un- 
fortunately happens, with many, the 
name of flannel carries witli it an 
idea of something coarse or uncom- 
fortable, when contrasted with tlie 
l^nen usually worn. This objection, 
however, exists but in imagination, 
and it requires only a trial to con- 
vince them that the wearing of it 
(particularly of the soft Welsh kind) 
is, of all other substances that come 
in contact with the skin, the most 
pleasant and genial. Without at 
all entering into a physical definition 
of its manner of acting, it need only 
be observed, that, by a constant 
transpiration from the surface of 
the body being kept up, an universal 
equable action is preserved between 
the superficial vessels, and those of 
the heart and large arteries; the 
functions of the organs essential to 
life are less liable to become disor- 
dered, and susceptibility to cold is 
considerably diminished. 

If, then, ye aimable part of man- 
kind, on the terms we have stipu- 
lated, the attacks of disease can 
be warded off, or rendered less fre- 
quent, your comfort can be secured, 
or your apprehensions allayed, list- 
en to the dictates of your reason, 
and suffer not the tyrannical sway 
of fashion to beguile you out of that 
most estimable of blessings......... 

« Health." 


JUSTICE and clemency are in 
all cases the fairest and firmest pil- 
lars of the throne ; and the prince, 
who, like Alexander the First, acts 
uniformly upon this principle, may 
rest securely upon the affections of 
his people. l*hc sliort period of 



his administration has been distin- 
guished already by the noblest ac- 
tions ; as a proof of which we have 
only to peruse his excellent edicts, 
which are so fiill of humanity, affa- 
bility, clemency, and justice ; and 
especially his ordinance by which 
he has granted an unlimited free- 
dom from informers and spies: He 
wishes his people to be informed 
and enlightened, and hates, there- 
fore, every species of controul. He 
is persuaded indeed that a supreme 
governor is as necessary to an en- 
lightened nation, as it is to a people 
in ignorance and error ; butjie knows 
that the former will venerate its so- 
vereign with a thousand times more 
affection than the latter* He knows 
that the best administration of a 
state, can only advance in a parallel 
direction with the best progress of 
sound reason. Let his imperial let- 
ter be attentively perused, which he 
lately wrote to one of his grandees, 
and which is one of the fairest jew- 
els of his crown* In what humane 
and paternal language does he there 
express himself on the degradation 
and slavish misery under which the 
Russian peasantry for the most part 
groan. He detests the idea of human 
creatures being bought and sold in 
the manner of cattle ; and is en- 
gaged seriously in making such ar- 
rangements as may set bounds to 
such abuses for the future. To 
himself, besides the occupation of 
government, he allows so few plea- 
sures or amusements, that the Em- 
peror might be taken for a private 
person. 'Of the simplest appear- 
ance, and generally dad in the 
strictest style of military uniform, 
he is seen almost every day on the 
parade, and receives the petitions 
of suppliants himself, or gives orders 
to his adjutant for that purpose. 
With the greatest affability, and a 
pleasing smile, he salutes every one 
that comes in his way, and gives 
audience to each of them himself. 
He then takes an airing on horse- 
back, attended only by a single ser- 
vant ; and when he meets with any 
of those persons whom he formerly * 
knew when Grand Duke, he enters 
inmediatelyinto familiar conversa- 

tion, and talks of past circumstances 
in the most engaging manner* Even 
those who are entire strangers to 
him, however disagreeable their 
subjects of conversation, and at 
times highly improper and imper- 
tinent, are frequently heard by him 
with the utmost composure, of which 
Uie two following are striking ex- 

A voung woman, of German ex- 
traction, waited once for the Em- 
peror on the stairs, by which he 
was accustomed to go down to the 
parade. When the monarch ap- 
peared, she met him on the steps 
with these words in her mouth*. *• 
" Please your Majesty, I have some- 
thing to say to you." " What is it ?" 
demanded the Emperor, and re- 
mained standing with all his at- 
tendants. " I wish to be married ; 
but I have no fortune ; if you would 

graciously give me a dowry " 

" Ah, my girl, (answered the mon- 
arch) were I to give dowries to all 
tlie young women in Petersburgh, 
where do you tliink I should find 
money?" The girl, however, by 
his order, received a present of 
fifty rubles. 

On another occasion, at the very 
moment when the Emperor had 
given the word of command, and 
the guard on the parade was just on 
the point of paying him the usual 
military honours, a fellow approach- 
ed him with ragged garments, with 
his hair in disorder, and a look of 
wildness, and gave him a slap on 
on the shoulder. The monarch, 
who was standing at that time with 
his face opposite to the military 
front, turned round immediately, 
and, beholding the ragamuffin, start- 
ed at the sight, and then asked him, 
with a look of astonishment, what 
he wanted. " I have something to 
say to you, Alexander Paulowitz," 
answered the stranger, in the Rus- 
sian language. " Say on then," 
said the Emperor, with a smile of 
encouragement, and laying his hands 
upon the vagabond's shoulders. A 
long solemn pause followed; the 
military gu ird stood still ; and no- 
body ventured by word or motion to 
disturb the Emperor iuthis singular 



• fntervlcw. The Grand Duke Con- 
stantine alone, whose attention had 
been excited by the unusual stop- 
page, advanced somewhat nearer, 
to his brother. The stranger now 
related) that he had been a captain 
in the Russian service, and had 
been present at the campaigns both 
in Italy and Switzerland ; but that 
he had been persecuted by his com- 
manding officer, and so misrepre- 
sented to Suwarf ow, that the latter 
had him turned out of the army. 
Without money and without friends, 
in a foreign country, he had after- 
wards served as a private soldier 
in the Russian army; and being 
wounded and mangled at Zurich 
• (and here he pulled his rags asun- 
der, and showed several gun-shot 
wounds) he had closed his campaign 
m a French prison. He had now 
begged all the way to Petersburg, 
to apply to the Emperor himself 
for justice, and to beg him to in- 
Quire into the reason of such a 
snameful degradation from his post. 
Tlie Emperor heard him to the 
end with patience ; and then asked, 
in a significant tone, " if there was 
no exaggeration in the story he had 
told ?" " Let me die under the 
knout, (said the officer) if I shall 
be found to have uttered one word 
of falshood!" The Emperor then 
beckoned to hisbrother, and charged 
him to conduct the stranger to the 
palace, while he turned about to the 
expecting crowd. The command- 
ing officer, who had behaved so 
shamefully, thoughof a good family, 
and a prince in rank, was repri* 
manded very severely ; while the 
brare warrior, whom he had un- 
justly persecuted, was reinstated in 
his former post, and had besides a 
considerable present from the Em- 

Every thing that savours of harsh- 
ness or cruelty is abhorent to the 
temper of this aimable Monarch: 
as an evidence of which we need 
only mention the well-known story 
of the torture inflicted on a poor 
Russian, who had fallen under the 
suspicion of having wilfully set fire 
to buildings. No sooner wa$ tlxs 

good-natured Emperor informed; 
that this poor wretch had, upon 
mere suspicion, been put to th« 
rack in the most inhuman manner ; 
that he had given up the ghost in 
the midst of torments, and asserted 
his innocence widi his last breath,, 
than he sent immediately an officer 
to Casan, to investigate the matter 
to the bottom ; and published at the 
same time that remarkable edict, 
in consequence of which, the term 
torture is for ever blotted out from 
tlie legal language of Russia. 


A new flexible tube for the gazes 
has been invented : it consists of a 
brass wire, twisted round a long thin 
cylinder, and covered with oiled 
silk, twice wrapped round, and, fas- 
tened, by means of thread, between 
the gi-ooves of the wire. It is then 
again varnished, and covered in a 
spiral manner with sheep-gut, slit 
longitudinally, and again seaired 
with thread. Lastly, to protect tlie 
whole from external injury, it is to 
be covered with leather in the same 
manner as the tubes of inhalers. 
These flexible tubes answer the 
same purpose as the ^ery costly 
ones of elastic gum, similar to the 
hollow bougies made for surgeons. 

Mr. E. Walker, in his experi- 
ments on the quantity of light af- 
forded by candles, observes, thac 
when a lighted candle is so y^laced, 
as neither to require snuffing, or 
produce smoke, it is reasonable to 
conclude, that the whole of the com- 
bustible matter which is consumed, 
is converted to tlie purpose of ge- 
nerating light; and that the inten- 
sities of light, generated in a given 
time by candles of diffi?rent dimen- 
sions, are directly as the quantities 
of njatter consumed; that is to say, 
when candles are made of the same 
materials, if one produce twice at 
much light as another, the former 
will, in the same time, lose twice as 
much weight as the latter. The fol- 
lowing general law Mr. Walker 
states a<* the result of many experi^ 
meats ; Where combustioo is com-? 


plete, the quantities of light pro- 
duced by tallow candles are in the 
duplicate ratio of their times of 
burning and weights of matter con- 
sumed. For, by experiment, it is 
found, that if their quantities of 
matter be equal, and times of burn- 
ing be the same, they will give equal 
quantities of light ; and, if the times 
of burning be equal, the quantities 
of light will be directly their weights 
expended : therefore, the light is 
universally in the compound ratio 
of the time of burning and weight 
of matter consumed* Mr. Walker 
concludes, with observing, that it is 
the sudden changes produced by 
snuffing, and not the light itself, 
that does w) much injury to the eye 
of the student and artist*, .an injury 
tliat may be easily prevented by lay- 
ing aside the snuffers, and, in the 
place of one large candle,, to make 
use of two* 

It has been ascertained by Mr.W. 
Wilson, that the shavings of wood, 
cut under certain circumstances, 
are strongly electrical. From sun- 
dry experiments, it appears, that 
where very dry wood is scraped 
with a piece of window-glass, the 
shavings are always positively elec- 
trified ; and, if chipped witlia knife, 
the chips are positively electrified, 
if the wood be hot, and the edge of 
the knife not very sharp ; but nega- 
tively electrified, if the wood be 
quite cold; if, however, the edge 
of the knife is very keen, the chips 
will be negatively electrified, whe- 
ther the wood be hot or cold* If a 
a piece of dry and warm wood is 
suddenly split asmider, the two sur- 
faces, which were contiguous, are 
electrified, one side positive, and 
the otlier negative. 

Mr. John Harriott has invented 
a new engine for raising and lower- 
ing weights, and for oilier pur])oses, 
by the action of a coUunn of water. 
llie principle of ilus engine con- 
sists in combining the power of Uie 
sjqphon witli the direct pressure of 
a column or stream of water, so 
that they may act together. It 
works by mea^s of tlie syphon con- 
stantly acting in concert with the 

feeding stream of water, so that 
each alternately act on the upper 
and lower part of a piston, within 
a cylinder, as it were, reversing the 
syphon at each change ; and the 
power is equal to a column of water 
of the same diameter as that of the 
cylinder, and equal in length to the 
height of the head above Uie tailr 
water. By this engine, it is said, 
that a boy can raise or lower goods 
of any weight, without other exer- 
tion than that of merely turning a 
cock to the stop-mark hi the index* 
It raises and lowers goods with 
thrice the velocity usually produced 
by manual labour. The ingenious 
inventor has pointed out a variety 
of other purposes to which this dis- 
covery may be applied. 

It is said, from evidence arising 
from long experience, that straw or 
loose twi es, scattei*ed over any plant 
or bed ofplants, preserve from frost 
better than a solid or close cover- 
ing ; and that nete, three or four 
thick, hung on a wall before fruit- 
trees in blossom, preserves them 
better than any substance that quite 
excludes the air in any direction* 

It has been found, that bags steep- 
ed in a solution of nitre will effectu- 
ally keep off the weavil, and other 
destructive insects, from com dur- 
ing Uie longest voyages. 

It is said, that olive-oil, gently 
boiled for a considerable time, in a 
copper vessel newly tinned, is an 
effectual cure for cancers. The oil 
roust be brought to the consistency 
of ointment, and then constantly 
rubbed on the part affected for two 
or three weeks or longer. 

A new and cheap polishing sub- 
stance has been found out. It con- 
sists of pieces of old hat (wliich arc 
dyed with iron) immersed for a 
few minutes in sulphuric acid : the 
iron passes to the state of red oxide, 
and they then become excellent 
pieces for giving the last polish to 
the hardest matters. 

The following is recommended as 
a simple and easy metluid of ob- 
taining water in almost imv situ.i- 
tion:— The ground is perforated 
by a borer. In llie perforation i% 


placed a wooden pipe) which is 
driven down ivith a mallet, after 
which the boring is continued, that 
the pipe may be driven still farther. 
In proportion as the cavity of the 
borer becomes loaded, it is drawn 
ttp and emptied, and in time, by the 
addition of new portions of wooden 
pipe, the boring is carriM t^ any 
depth, and water is generally ob- 

Tiie following arc the antiquitiea 
which have been collected in the 
excavations at Herculaneum, and 
presented to the French govern- 
ment : — In gold, a bulla, a collar, a 
pair of bracelets, a pair of ear- 
pendants, a ring with a stone (dia- 
mond), and asimple ring* In silver, 
a needle to hold the hair* In bronze, 
a small statue of Hercules, another 
of Mercury, a Priapus, a Tripod, a 
Patera, a Fracfericula, a gilt cup 
with two handles, a seal, two craters 
with feet, six candle-sticks, four 
lamps, a lamp-supporter, to which 
four lamps are suspended, a vessel 
lor oil, a patera for perfumes, four 
currying combs to be used in the 
baths, an oval vessel to throw water 
over the back, a casque, two pieces 
of armour for the defence of tlie 
legs, and part of the thighs, two 
pieces of armour for the defence of 
the lower part of the legs, an arm- 
our for the defence of the shoulders, 
and a frying pan. 

It appears, from some experi- 
ments made by Mr* £. Walker, 
that acoustic instruments may be 
constructed, for conversing at a 
distance, witliout the assistance of 
tubes to convey the sound* ^^ Ex* 1* 
I took a deal rod, sixteen feet long, 
and about an inch square^ and, after 
having fixed one end of it into the 
small end of a speaking trumpet, I 
laid it upon two props, in an hori- 
zontal position. One of the props 
was placed under the trumpet, 
about three inches from its wide 
end, and the other prop was placed 
near tlie ctUcr end of the rod : 
another speaking-trumpet was then 
laid across the rod, alxiut tur^^e 
inches from tlie end. The wide 
part of this trumpet re!>ted upon 
the. rod, but the other end was sus- 

pended by a riband* Tlie appa- 
ratus thus adjusted, I introduced a 
watch into tlie end of the trumpet, 
and, applying my ear to the ci*oss* 
trumpet, I heard l>eats much louder 
than if the watch had been at tJie 
distance of a few inches only. The 
sound appeared to come out of the 
cross-trumpet, although tlic watch 
was at the distance of seventeen 
feet and a half; and, when it wits 
laid into the cross-truinjiet, it was 
heard equally well at the end-trum- 
pet. Ex. 2. My assisti:nt in these 
experiments being seated at one 
end of tlie trumpet, and nn i>elf at 
tlie other, a conversation took place 
through tliis apparatus, but in whis- 
pers too low to be heard through 
the air at that distance. When the 
ear was placed in a certain position 
the words were heaixl as if they had 
been spoken by an inviKible i)cing 
within the trumpet j and the sound 
was more distinct, softer, and moi-c 
musical, than if they had been spo- 
ken through the air." Mr. Walker 
infers from these experiments, that, 
if a communication wsa made on 
this principle between a shop or 
warehouse, and the dining-room, 
&c. it might contribute to the dis- 
patch of business j and instiniments 
might be formed on the same prin- 
ciple, and introduced between the 
parlour and servants-hall, so that 
directions might be given to a do- 
mestic without his entering the 
room, and in whispers too low to 
disturb the company. 

Captain Wilson, the gentleman 
who was wrecked at the Pclew Isl- 
ands, is just returned from Cuina, 
and reports, that the Keys to the 
Chinese Languuge, lately i:ublish- 
ed in London by Dr. iia^cr, have 
been presented to the gentlemen of 
the Englisli tactory at Canton, and 
to some of tlie Chiiiese liter;\ti, ai.d 
that the work has met with thtir 
complete approbation. Several per- 
sons, and auiong tlicni a s(»n ofC'iip- 
tam Wilson, have been induced, by 
the aid of this introduction, to com- 
mence the study of the Chinese 
Language. Dr. Hager is now at 
Paris, pr Clearing for publication a 
Chinese andEreuchDicticnaiy, un- 



der the patronage of the French 
It has been found by Dr. Nauche, 
at Paris, that a person perfectly 
blind may be made to perceive very 
lively and nunverous flashes of light) 
by bringing one extremity of the 
voltaic pi e into communication witii 
the hand or foot, and the other with 
the face, skin of the head^ and even 
the neck. That reiterated appli- 
cations of Galvanism, when they 
comprehend the half trunk, produce 
in tlie person subjected to them 
great agitation, many reveries, in- 
voluntary tears, increased secration 
of the salivc), an acid alkaline taste, 
a great secr.ition of the urine, and 
increase of heat and transpiration, 
r.nd of perspiration hi the Galva- 
nised parts. That the action of the 
Galvanic fluid may be increased by 
drawing it off by a sharp point. 

Journey to Mcnt Bianc^,,,*M. 
Fomeret, of Lausanne, and the 
Baron de Dortheren, have under- 
takea a new journey to Mont Blanc 
After two day's travel, they arrived 
at the summit, when the tempestu- 
cus weatlier obliged tliem to sit roll- 
ed up together with their guiles, 
for fear of being precipitated. The 
cold which they felt here was six 
degrees beneath the freezing point ; 
the variety of the air, and the ex- 
treme pungency •f the cold, lace- 
rated their lungs in so cruel a man- 
ner, that they declared no motive 
should induce them ever to recom- 
mence so painful a journey. 

litip.nd. Manager of the Berlin 
theatre, equally distinguished as an 
actor and a dramatic- writer, has 
deserved well of the Stage, by pub* 
lishing a scries of tasteful theatri- 
cal decarations and costumes. He 
is the Talma of the Germans. The 
second number of this work has 
appeared, and, like the first, con- 
tains eight well executed plates in 
small folio, exhibiting scenes from 
tlie most favourite German dramas. 
No. 2. viz. Or. ntes, the Parthian 
AnibaKsador (m the tragedy of Ro- 
dogiine) is drawn with striking 
fidelity, according to the antique. 
Another old work, Dxdalus and his 

Statues, a pantomimic dance, (Aerw 
Un-slander) is deserving of honourw 
able mention. This ballet, the music 
to which was composed by Rhigioi^ 
was danced by the Court at Berlin, 
under the Erection of Mr. Hirt, 
the celebrated antiquarian. Daeda- 
lus is here supposed, under the guid^ 
ance^f Iflinerva, to have animated 
whole groups of ancient heroes^ 
There arc ten of these groups; 
and the whole is represented by 
Hummel, an artist of distinguished 
merit, in twelve excellently-design- 
ed and coloured copperplates. In 
the commentary, which accompa^r 
nies theprmls, Mr. Hirt intpoducea 
his fair readers dancing into a 
knowledge of the feiry-world of 

A method has been discovered 
and practised with success, by M. 
Bertrand, at Metz, of extracting a 
spirit from potatos. The process 
is as follows : Take 600 lbs. of pota- 
tos, and boil them in steam about 
three-quarters of an hour, till they 
will faU to pieces on being touched* 
The vessel in which they are boiled 
consists of a tub, somewhat inclined. 
In the lower pan of it are two holes, 
one for the purpose of bringing in 
the steam produced in another vessel 
over a coal fire, and the other made 
to carry off occasionally the con- 
densed water. After die potatos 
are boiled, they are crushed and 
diluted with hot water till they arc 
of a liquid consistence; then add 
twenty-five pounds of ground malt, 
and two quarts of wort ; the mix- 
ture is to be stirred, covered with a 
cloth, and kept to the temperature 
of 15** of Reaumur, or of 66® nearly 
of Fahrenheit. After fermentation, 
and the exhalation of the carbonic 
acid, the matter sinks down, and 
is fit for distillation. By means of 
two stills, this mass may be recti? 
fied in one day, and it will produce 
about forty -four quarts of spirit, 
worth a guinea and a half, while 
the whole cost, including coals and 
labour, is about twenty-three shil- 
lings and sixpence. The residuun^ 
is good food for hogs. 





Vol. L] 

NOVEiMBER, 1803. 

[No. 2. 




Student's Diary 81 

James Cook 82 

Legibility in Writing 83 

Disputation • 84 

Marriage ■ 85 

The PeruviaA Religion 87 

Mebrendorf Marriages 88 

The TraveUcr...^o. 2 89 

Critical Notices No. 2 91 

On the impropriety of looking 

into futurity ......•• 97 

Memoirs of Carwin the Biloquist 100 

Paine's Ruling Passion 104 

Wilson's History of the British 

Expedition 106 


Philanthropy A Prayer 110 

To Laura offended ib. 

Lines addressed to Dr. Jenner ib. 
Artaban the Robber... An extract 

from a manuscript poem ..... Ill 
Memoirs of Count de Parades 112 
Extracts from the correspondence 

of an American in France . . . 115 

Dr. Whitman's Aceoimt of the 

Greek Women. 118 

Dr. Whitman's account of the 

Turkish procession ib. 

List of Monthly Publications in 

London 119 

Account of Algiers ib. 

Specimens of Literary Resem- 
blance 124 

Extracts from Drake's Literary 

Hours 127 

Extract on Immortality, from 

Zollikofer's Sermons 130 

Abstract of the Report of the 

Secretary of the Treasury . . . 133 
Lett^ from William Cowper to 

LadyHesketh 137 

Account of Boethius 138 

Story of Cecilia* from Literary 

Leisure 141 

On the Arts called Imitative .... 144 

Remarkable Occurrences 152 

Literary Intelligence 158 

Note from the Editor ib. 


SANTS, RICHMORD; BEERES & HOWE, mew-haven; crow & q.UBRY» 






No. 3.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 1803. [Vol. I. 



We are often told that we may 
read an author's character in his 
works, and that of all modes of com- 
position, letter writing is the most 
characteristic and descriptive. A re 
these assertions true ? In what de- 
gree and respect are they tme? 
It is plain enough that books and 
letters are sufficient, and indeed, 
the only proofs of a capacity for 
writing books and letters, but this 
seems tobe all that they prove. They 
seem to let in but Httlc light upon 
the actual deportment of the v/ritcr, 
upon his temper, his favourite pur- 
suits, and his habits of talking and 

I am led to these remarks by 
reading over the letters of my de- 
ceased friend W \VhsX a 

difierence between his actual de- 
portment and any notion of that 
deportment to be collected by a 
stranger, from his letters. His let- 
ters to me are as unreserved and 
confidential as letters can be, yet 
they form a picture totally the re- 
verse of his conversation and his 

conduct. He had no small portion 
of wit, and this power was in in- 
cessant exercise in company. He 
could very seldom be prevailed upon 
to discuss any subject soberly, to 
reason or to speculate, or to moral- 
ize, but his whole s6cial life was one 
invariable effort to be witty, to ex- 
cite laughter : some good thing was 
forever in his mouth, and like all 
men who are habitually witty, he 
was nine times out often, extremely 
trite and duU, yet this man, the 
moment he took up tlie pen to write 
a letter or essay, forgot all his 
mirth and jest, and became pensive, 
sentimental, and poetical. To hear 
him talk, one would think he never 
had a serious moment in his life.... 
He literally sung himself to sleep 
and awoke in a burst of laughter. 
To see the effusions of his pen, 
one would imagine that he was a 
stranger to smiles, that he was 
forever steeped in tears and wrap- 
ped iii melancholy. 

In this, there was nothing that 
deserved to be called aflbetation or 



hypocrisy, since he corresponded 
only with those with whom lie was 
occasionally in the habit of convers- 
ing ; and his tongue regaled them 
with unceasing jests, with just as 
much fiicility as hia pen saddened 
them with its austerity or melted 
them with its pathos. 

His sonnets and letters talk al- 
most altogether of love, and ou this 
topic, no Petrarch was ever more 
refined, tender and pathetic. l"Ke 
youth was forever in love, and was 
all impassioned eloquence at the 
feet of an adored fair one; but his 
love Y/ns merely the exubenmce of 
health and an ardent constitution. 
Crnscquently his devotion was al- 
Wvi) s bestjowed upon the present 
object, antl never stood in the way 
of the most licentious indulgences. 

After receiving a letter full of the 
mcst doleiul eulogies of some divine 
but refractory creature, and hinting 
at hij resolutions to " shake rff the 
yoke of inauspicious stars," I have 
h?.rtcned tnliin charrbers to console 
h.irji, and fcuiiil him at a loj;-tal)lc, 
pivbiiiinj^* witli marks of iui-nite 
satisf-.i.tion, and iLccjJng tlicmotly 
crcvv thai: .*uri oiii.ded him inacoii- 
Btant v.'ar. Such was my friend, 
and such \v ere his letters ; his to i \ [rue 
and his pen, his actions and his 
written speculations were as oppo- 
site to each as the poles. 

Perhaps, indeed, this case may 
be deemed an exception to general 
rules. There is another remarka- 
ble instance, however, to the same 
effect in the letters lately published 
of the poet Cowper. They are 
almost all of them, to a certain 
degree, lively and witty. On one 
occasion, he appears conscious of 
this inconsistency and alludes with 
jome surprize to the opposition be- 
tween the sprightly tenor of his 
letters, and the dreadful gloom of 
his thoughts. 

A man may counterfeit senti- 
ments and feeiinga with more suc- 
cess in letters tlu;n hi.discourse,and 
though it should s^eeiu that letters, 
when written withcnit any ivoiives 
to deceive, afford n pretty"acc»irai.e 
criterion of character, yet we cer- 

tainly meet with many instances of 
men who write and ialk wider the 
dominion of haLits and feelings dia- 
metrically oppof ite to each other, 
and as a man's dUcourte is often at 
variance with his actions, so it 
ofterer hnj.^pens that his letters arc 
at variance wiUi both his actions 
and his discourse* 


I have just been conversing with 
a captain* who has spent all his 
life in long voyages. He has been 
regaling me with a very amusing 
account of his residence in Otaheite* 
Tlie novelty and elegance of Cook's, 
or rather of Hawkesworth's de- 
scri])tion of this island, has g:iven 
it the same kind of celebrity, which 
the same circumstances hsid previ- 
ously conferred upon Tinian and 
Juan Fernandez. Eloquent and 
circumstantial as Hawkesworth's 
narration is, I confess myself much 
better pleased, and mudi more ac- 
curately informed by this talk with 
my friend the captain ; he is very ob- 
ligingly communicative, his descrip- 
tions arc connected with the story 
of his personal adventures, and being 
at hand to answer all questions, his 
intelligence exactly meets my curi- 

After a good deal of talk he told 
me he would shew me a curiosity, 
and immediately called ^ James 
Cooh," into the cabin. A man im- 
mediately made his appearance, 
about tliirty years of age, of a mid- 
dle stature, and remarkably athletic 
in his make 2 he had a foce full of 
smiles and good humour, and every 
air and motion bespoke those feel- 
ings tliat flow from exuberant health 
and a total exemption from care... 
His complexion was nearly the same 
with that of an American Indian, 
and his hair, face, and figure, led 
me to suppose when I first ^anced 
my e} c at him, that he was cne of 
our own aboriginals. 

This man, the captain informed 
me, waij a native of Owhyhee. He 

. • Ship Ccmmerce, Ray, from Am- 




present whea a child, at the 
death of Captam Cook, and that 
extraordinary event had made an 
indeliable impression on his memo- 
ry ; he was one of a group of wo- 
men and children, who stood aloof, 
qiectators of the fray. 

In answer to my inquiries, the 
Captain told me, that this man and 
another he had taken onboai*d from 
another ship at sea : on what terms 
or with what motives they left their 
native country was not explained, 
but this one (he shortly after parted 
with the other) has been the mirror 
of good nature, cheerfulness and 
fidelity ever since. He has never 
betrayed the slightest uneasiness at 
his situation, nor expressed the 
least desire to i*etum. His country 
and all its concerns are to him like 
the dream of infancy ; they are sel- 
dom called back to remembrance, 
and appear to' produce no emotion 
when they are remembered. 

He made his appearance last 
winter on the New-York Theatre, 
in a drama, exhibiting the death of 
Captain Cook, and displayed with 
gi-eat applause, the peculiar dress, 
weapons, and exercises of his coun- 
try.—Here was an actor, such as 
fciUs to the lot of but few Managers 
to obtain. 

If it be a blessing to enjoy perfect 
health, a chearful temper, an aflbc- 
tionate heart, and a robust frame, 
'* James Cook" deserves to be en- 
vied. His understanding does not 
appear to be an improveabie one. 
He has more resemblance to Omai 
tlian to Prince Leboo, and joins the 
docility of a child to tiip vigjur of a 
man. * 

On board of thU ship, two hun- 
dred and fifty persons have resided 
four months, and traversed three 
thousand miles of ocean ; they are 
of all ages and sexes; many have 
been born on board: yet they all 
have enjoyed, within such narrow 
compass, with the recollections of 
an home forever abandoned, and 
with the prospect of years of ser- 
vitude to unkngwn miuiters in a 
strange land, as much chccrfuhiess, 


and more health than probably hat 
ever fallen to the lot of the same 
number of men in any situation for 
the same period. 

Such a thing is happiness, which 
the poet defines to be " health, 
peace, andrompetcnce," but which, 
if resolvable into any one thing, 
must be traced to a temper consti- 
tutionnUy cheerful. As to health, 
it is, at best, only certain degrees 
of it, that are necessary to tran* 
quiUity : as to peace, there is too 
much ambiguity in this expression 
if mental peace be meant, it amounts 
to no more than what had previously 
been said, " that happiness is h.ip- 
piness." Jf external circumstances 
be meant, it still amounts to nothing, 
for no term can be more vague and 
indeterminate, as descriptive of 
personal conditions. As to compe- 
tence, happiness su' ely consists in 
the fiumtit of competence rather 
than in the enjoyment, and the hap- 
piest faces are those animated by 
hope, and eager in the pursuit of 
a distant object. 

Among all my acquaintance, the 
poorest and most depeudt;nt, the 
least qualified for gaining aifluenoe 
and dignity among -a civilized ra(« 
of men, and, at the same time the 
man whose hours fly away in most 
gaiety of heart, is my friend Jaiue4 
Cook, the Owhyhee matt. 


I have just received an apj)lica- 
tion iu writing from a writing- 
m:ister, which it has erst me some 
trouble to decyplier. He piofcsi-es 
to teach inuny Vcthuible arts, and, 
among other things, *' a free, tasy 
and elegant h uid." This letter is, 
no doubt, dctjigned as a specimen 
of penmanship, and it cannot be 
denied to be free, easy and elei'jant. 
It is frcf^ th;it is, the strokes are 
almost horizontal, and the worda 
are very nedr to^:',ether, while ili^ 
lines and letters are \tivy v/i<]e 
apart ; it is < a«f/, inasmuch as the 
pen flew like a glance of lightninj*; 
from one side oi" the sheet to the 
other, ;'.nd what a ntau perforuMi 



with ease, he generally doea quick: 
it is elegant^ because the ink is 
very black and brilliant, and the 
strokes, at the same, time, are the 
most graceful curves, and are 
*< slender by degrees and beautiful- 
ly less^" Unluckily, however, and 
as the consequence of thi8 freedom, 
ease, and elegance, his words oc* 
cupy four times more space upon 
the paper than is necessary, and 
are scarcely legible. 

It is very strange that custom 
should thus consecrate a manifest 
defect, and that writing should be 
generally condemned, in propor- 
tion as it accomplishes the very 
end of writing, which consists 
in being read. To occupy as small 
a space as is consistent with dis- 
tinctness, and to adopt that size and 
form of letters which is most easily 
read, is the legitimate excellence of 
writing, and ought to be exclusive- 
ly studied by all teachers. Any other 
elegance than that arising from uni- 
formity is spurious and pernicious. 
Lines straight, parallel, and equal 
in width: and letters uniform in 
size, figure, and relation to each 
other, constitute the genuhie ele- 
gance of writing. 

I believe it wiUbe found that those 
who write with most exceUence, 
according to my notions of excel- 
lence, have taught themselves, be- 
cause such are most likely to copy 
printed books, and typographical 
characters are far superior, in ge- 
neral, to written ones, in the pro- 
perty of being legible. 

I have often been amused in 
observing the vast difference be- 
tween writing and printing. A 
miserable scrawling hand, never to 
be decyphercd but by the study of 
the context, ragged paper of all 
textures, colours, and sizes, filled 
with interlineations and blots, and 
the nice adjustment of points and 
capitals totally neglected, is meta- 
morphosed by tlidt magical ma- 
chine, the press, into the perfection 
of beauty, regularity, and accuracy. 
It is like the form of a Dorick 
temple, riiiing, at tlie waving of an 
omnitic wand, from a chaotic heap 
ef spairs and brick-bats: and the 

contents of a score of huge mishapen 
and gigJmtic pages are reduced to 
the limits of a few octodecimos^ as 
Milton's infernal giants were re- 
duced to pigmies. 

These wlio write for the press, 
have seldom any mercy upon the 
eves cf the poor devils, the printers. 
They, who are careless and hasty 
on other occasions, are doubly so 
on this, alleging, forsooth, that all 
pains are tlirown away upon a paper 
which is to be used for a few mi- 
nutes, and then cast away forever. 

Bad writers cannot write well, 
without more tlian usual delibera- 
tion and delay, and this is the great 
cause of their continuing to scrawl. 
I wish it were possible to convince 
them that, abstractedly co sidered, 
it is as easy to form characters cor- 
rectly as incorrectly, and that the 
most distinct and legible hand is 
written, by some persons, who are 
well instructed, with as much facility 
and expedition, as they themselves 
disp.ay. Habit is as necessary to 
make us write zig-zag lines and 
horizontal strokcb with dispatch, as 
on straight lines and upright letters. 


ALL the errors, and all the spi- 
rit of disputation, in cases where 
the parties have been limited to pen 
and ink, have been exemplified 
in the controversy which has been 
carried on for several years in the 
United States, on the origin and 
nature of the yellow fev er. During 
the present season the controversy 
appeared, at fir is t, to have languish- 
ed, but the example ofone of our ga- 
zettes gradually inflamed the rest, 
and the fever was not suffei cd whol- 
ly to pass without a renewal of the 
warfare. I have jubt been amused 
with the perusal cf a newspaper 
essay on this subject, in which the 
writer reasons with great force 
and ingenuity, in favour of foreign 
oririn, but in which lie is betrayed, 
by the strengh of his own con- 
viction, into the usual invectives 
against his adversaries. 

For instance.... Reference (says 
he) to these facts (those which he 
had just descanted on...*) are sufH- 



^nt to convince the mo9t incrtdu- 
huM vfko are detirotu that the truth 
MheiUd be eatabluhed* 

*' But," he thus proceeds, " not^ 
withstanding these undeniable and 
decisive firoofa^ there are some who 
•..•still deny their validity, and, 
with the obstinacy of fiends^ per- 
severe in their endeavours to esta- 
blish its domestic origin.*' 

After comparing the present and 
former condition of Philadelphia, 
in point of cleanliness, he inquires, 
** How any man, acquainted with 
the connection between cause and 
effect, or accustomed to reason on 
the nature and causes of events, 
can firesume to ascribe such a dis- 
ease to," &c. 

After the considerations enume- 
rated, he proceeds to exclaim.... 
" No man, fiosscssed of rational 
facul'ifSj can fiosnbly hcsifate in 
deciding to which doctrine, if truth 
xsere his object^ he ought to sub- 

He winds up his dissertation in 
the following style :.. .." If the facts 
which have been stated are au- 
thentic, no man who examines 
them disfiassionatelyy or whose 
mind is not under the dominion of 
the most extraordinary dflusion^ 
can /lossibly withhold his belirf" 
Sec. &c. How unnatural it is, or 
rather how perfectly natural it is 
for a reasoner of this kind to sign 
himself " A Disfiassionate PhiU- 

Such an arguer as this, places hjs 
adversary in a veiy v/himsical di- 
lemma. He dares not deny any of 
these undeniable positions, without 
incurring the charge of " being 
destitute of rational faculties".... 
•* of being under a most extraordi- 
nary delusion" " of wishing to 

establish falshood. " 

One would think that a man, de- 
urous of gaining converts, v/ould 
not begin with awaken in;?; tlie pre- 
judices of his opponents, by question- 
ing their understanding and their 
honesty. If we cannot hindf'r the 
heat of argument from inspiring us 
with doubts of the reason or inte- 
^xly of our opponents ; prudence 

or politeness, or a desire of con-^ 
vincing ought to induce us to con« 
ceal our doubts. There is nothing 
clearer than that acrimony and con- 
tempt only fortify the mind against 
conviction, and that the strongest 
arguments will only be thrown away 
upon those whom we charge as 
foolish or criminal for diroring 
from us. \ 


I have retired at a late hour 
to my lonely and quiet chamber, 
and taken up the pen as usual, 
to rescue some of the events of 
this day from oblivion. This 
solitude, seclusion and quiet, and 
the perfect Hbeijty they confer 
are not without nrany charms ; but, 
alas ! my mind is seldom in a state 
to relish these charms. This free- 
dom is servitude; tliis stillness is 
irksome ; this loneliness is dreary. 
My heart pants after a companion 
at such hours of retirement: an 
ear to drink in the effusions of my 
boundlessly communicative tongue : 
a tender bosom unlocking all its 
treasures of thought and feeling in 

This is happiness. It may not 
be the only species of felicity, and 
of all the kinds of terrestrial bliss, it 
may be the seldome&t enjoyed, and 
the most transitory and precarious 
in pNsssession, but to me, this is 
the highest bliss. 

Seldom, indeed, is marriage pro- 
ductive of an harmony and union 
like this ; if the wedded pair have 
equal understandings, and conse- 
quently feel and think in a manner 
intelligible to each o'ther, ten thou- 
sand chances to one, but some 
humour, some caprice, some fas* 
tidious delicacy on one side, or 
some h ihitual indecorum on the 
other, einl)itters their secluded mo- 
ments. Without taking into view 
the external ills of life, incident in 
some de;^rec to all, and doubled 
upon each devoted heart by com- 
munion and sympathy, there is a 
plenteous and inexhaustible source 
of miseiy in temfier. Jill are, in this 



respect, in lome deg^M defective, 
ttnd tempers, harmless by them- 
telves, are frequently pernicious by 
being unhappily sorted* 

This unhappiness, however, 
though occasionally intense, allows 
of bright intervals : there are for- 
tunate moments when such minds 
meet without collision; in which 
their thoughts and feelings are 
alike. To ijuch, therefore, happi- 
ness, though a rare visitant, and 
frequently turned out of door by 
humour and caprice, is not utterly 
a stranger. Pure and uiunterupted 
misery belongs only to a couple 
whose minds are uni mpai red : so un- 
equal to each other in capacity and 
dissimilar in feelings, that they are 
never permitted to recognize a kin- 
dred spirit, and to whom the compa- 
ny of each otlwr is the worst solitude. 
Nothing is more common than such 
marriages as this. Whetlier it be 
the incurable defect of human na- 
ture, which forbids men and women 
to resemble each other sufficiently 
for their mutual happiness, or the 
folly and precipitance of youth in 
the marriage choice, is a point easi- 
ly debated, but hard to decide. 

My friend J endeavours to 

console himself under his late dis- 
appcintment, by insisting on the 
imposjiibility of any permanent har- 
mony in marriage, or any sufficient 
coincidence between tlie tempers 
and understandings of men and 
women. He pretends not to set 
himself up as an immaculate ex- 
ample, but admits with facility, 
that his own temper and habits 
would be incompatible with matri- 
monial felicity. However vague 
and hollow the pleasures he derives 
from indulging a fertile imagina- 
tion on this topic, and creating a 
wife and a woman to his fancy, he 
thinks greater happiness is to be 
expected from this source thun 
from any actual marriage. In liis 
waking dreams, he can model his 
owh person and temper, and those 
of his wife and children as he 
pleases ; but the real w ife, and the 

real children, Mid bk own aetsd 

temper, and person, and manners, 
are beyond hw power to bend and 
mouM agreeably to any imaginary 

I spent this evening at C..«.«..'S| 
and had two amusing instances of 
matrimonial character before me. 
The lady was very unhappy. She 
could not rid herself for a moment 
of an air of apprehension and dis- 
quiet. On inquiry, I found that 
all this discomposure arose from the 
absence of her husband, who was 
gone ten miles out of town, and 
contrary to expectation was to stay 
the night abroad. How necessary, 
thought I, is the company of her 
hubband to this lady's happiness, 
since his absence for one night is 
so intolerable ; but I quickly ceased 
to wonder at this impatience, m hen 
she proceeded to infoi m me tliat 
this was the first night which they 
h.:d passed under separate roo&i 
during the eleven and an half years 
of their marriage. 

This lady *s impatience is no proof 
of attachment to her husband, nor 
of the happiness his company af- 
fords her. Were there no other 
proofs of their mutual affection and 
domestic harmony, I should more 
readily infer an unhappy, than an 
happy life, since many must be the 
occasions of repining to one, whom 
a day's absence of an husband makes 

I was much amused with the 
contrast which the lady's sentiments 
and ex])ericnce bore to tliose of 

captain L , who happened to 

be present. After expressing his 
surprise at her emotion, he shewed 
us a letter from his wife which 
breathed tlie utmost cheerfulness 
and good humour, though she had 
not seen him during the last eigh- 
teen months. In this time he hiid 
crossed the Atlantic several times, 
but always returnin.^^ to a port, dis- 
tant from his wife's resiclcnce, he 
found it most convenient to defer 
visiting her till his next voyage was 


Mfi. C. expressed her surprise, 
that any woman could endure such 
an absence from a man she loved* 

My wife (returned the captain) 
b a very excellent woman, and 
loves her husband as well as the 
common run of women. Thtre is 
not an happier couple breathing, 
when we are together. 

I suppose, said I, your interviews 
are' too short to allow you to be 
tired of each other. 

By no means* I have been at 
home above three weeka at a time. 

And pray, said I, what has been 
your longest absence from her ? 

Three years and an half is the 
very most....The captain proceed- 
ed to teU me, that he had had seven 
children, not one of whom he had 
ever seen, and explained this seem- 
ing paradox by observing, that each 
of his children had come into the 
world in his absence, and gone out 
of it again before his return ; one 
of them, it seems, was two years 
and an h^lf old at its death. 

What conceivable purpose of 
marHage was answered by an union 
of persons in these circumstances? 
It is commonly supposed, that peo- 
ple marry in order to live together ; 
and that marriage is a curse, instead 
of a blessing,to those who are obliged 
to be separate. 

An ill assorted couple, indeed, 
can only find their happiness in se- 
paration, and to such, absence and 
Ibrgctfttlness are the highest goods. 
But there are many well disposed 
men, among sailors, who seem to 
have much humanity and milkiness 
of disposition, and who are fortun- 
ate in tender and amiable wives, 
and yet find home insupportable. 
After being a few weeks on sliore, 
the uniformity and stillness of the 
acene becomes intoler^.b-e, und tliey 
pine after storms and billows with 
as much intensity, as seme other 
people sigh after a quiet fire-side, 
the caresses of a wife, and tiie clig- 
Aky and qom^Drts of home. 

For the Literary Magazine, 


To the Editor, life. 


I wish some of your correspondents 
woulid inform me where I must 
look for an accurate acquaintance 
with the Peruvian religion. The 
very brief abstract to be found in 
Dr. Robertson, serves rather to 
whet curiosity thsi to gratify it. 
The books to which the historian 
alludes, are chiefly Spanish, and 
some of these, perhaps, are trans*- 
lated, but which of them has been 
made accessible by an English trans-' 
lation, I am desirous of knowing. 

I should be still better pleased, if 
some ingenious scholar would sup- 
ply me and the world with an ac- 
count of this religion, compiled from 
ori^nal writers as fiilly and circum- 
stantially as these authorities would 
admit. Should he carry the spirit of 
Robertson into this subject he would 
produce a very interesting per- 

The Peruvian religion is the 
most extraordinary form of wor- 
ship known in the world. The 
nation, indeed, in every point of 
view, is the most singular and 
most like the creature of a roman- 
tic invention, of any to be found 
in the records of history, and 
deserves much more attention from 
philosophical inquirers than it has 
hitherto obtained. The true cir- 
cumstance in this religion, most 
worthy of note, appears to be the 
selection of the sun...." of this great 
world both eye and sour* the 
only object of worship, and the use 
of flowers and fi uils, ns oflferings 
to this divinity. Unbloody sacri- 
fices, and the ivdoration of the great 
himin .ry, is a species of idolatry 
thele.iFt absurd and pernicious that 
can be inia}::ined, and the influence 
of this rctit;i >n on the manners of 
Pe^u, jur'ciiies this opinion. 

I hc)*j:e F.'>me of your readers will 
attend to this request. 



For the Literary Magazine. 


MEnRKNDORF IS a barony of 
considerable extent in the Austrian 
territory, which, however, as to its 
internal economy, enjoys ?n entire 
independence. It has been for some 
centuries, the property of cne fami«- 
]v, who stand in a mere feudal rela- 
tion to tiie s^vereigns of Bohemia. 
In the travels of Sumlich of Vienna, 
there i^ a very curi«>us account of 
this little St itr which dcbcrves a 
translation i;:to Knr'i h- as well as 
anv book of the kiiil 1 have Ir.ttly 
iv*et with. It-is r.ot. liov.cvcr, likely 
to meet with tiiish'MKUvin Aiacrica, 
and we must, tlicrtt .'c, v.-iiit wiih 
piticnre, ti'i it f -lis into the ha. ids 
.of some of the fr.>tt n:ity at Pivis 
or LonHor : mc-mwhi c, 1 cinnot 
resist the i:irlin;;tinn of transcib- 
inp; sonic r a^^^ tT^>'» which, Mr. 
Editor, ifthv-v prr\e j*s intevesling 
to you I'.s to DC, \ ou will rbligc me 
by invcrling in your work- 
As rcnrirka'»le:' cirrumstc^nce as 
occurs in this acccnnt, is tlie l^w of 
the country r(srerting marri.'^c'cs. 
In this rcFprct, the people of Mcji- 
rcndr rf have morses and custr>ms 
altcrctlier r to themselves, 
and as nothinj; h is so much infiucnce 
on human happiness, as the terms 
rf this c-^ntract, it becomes a print 
of gmt c'irioi-itv to know the effects 
of their h\wp, en the happiness of 
tlic Mehi cndorfiaris. 

As thev fire c Uholics, the relative 
duties of hu'iband and \\ife are 
pretty much like those of all chris- 
tian countries.Thc same restrictions 
as to consanguinity prevail, and tlie 
same obligations to fidelity, but the 
points in which they bear little or 
no resemblance to the i est of the 
civilized world, are the following: 

No woman, says Sumlich, is per- 
mitted to marry wlio is under thirty 
years of a^;e, or above forty-five ; 
and no man can claim this privilege 
who is under thirtv-five, or above 


Nomi^n can m^u? ry a second tim.e. 

No woman can marry a second 
time, if vsxoro. than one child of the 

former marriage be alive, nor whhifl 
one year and an half af the death of 
her former husband.. In no case 
can she marry a third time. 

Marriages cannot be so far dis- 
solved, except by death, as to allow 
the parties to marry again, but 
parties may be separated for good 

Marriages can be solemnized onlf 
on two days in the year, the first 
day of J.muiiry, and tlie first day of 
July. The intentions of the parties 
must he laid bcfcyre the elders of the 
vi !hge at least six months before the 

The ciders are ten persons se- 
lected hy the lord for the internal 
jroxcrnment cf each district, witha 
jjowcr cf aj»]>eal in nK)bt cases to 
the lord hi^l^elf• 

it \s in tlic i)owcr cf the elders to 
refuse the privilege, if they shall 
think jiroper, e\ en if all the above 
conditions be fulhiled, but the lord 
oniy in his own chancery can dis- 
fer-pe with any of these conditions. 

All marriages ars solemnized in 
church, in the presence of the whole 
peqjle, and in the f )llowing man- 
ner.. . .The parties, after a brief and 
solemn desciint on the duties of mar- 
riage by the first of the elders, stand 
up, in the presence of the congre- 
gation, and pronounce their vows 
cf lo\e and fidelity, with the right 
hands joined to;;cther. The priest 
then steps forth and executes the 
f )rmulary of the church. 

On examining these miles, (says 
my author) tlie most obvious re- 
flection that occurs, is the (difficulty 
and delay which they create in the 
affair of marriage: this contract is 
loaded with more restrictions and 
conditions than in any other known 
community, and the consequence 
must be, that a greater proportion 
of the people remain unmarried here 
than elsewhere. A great deal of vice 
and a great deal of misery must like- 
wise be the consequence. The passi- 
on cf the sexes takes root and ex- 
pands i!!to maturity, fifteen and 
twenty je ars before the laws allow it 
to be gratified.The dictates of natuw 
are systematically thwarted and 



obstructed in this respect ; however 
snddenly the first marriage may 
terminate, and however ardentthe 
affection m. IV be which a second ob- 
ject m iv excite, nuirriage on the 
mm'sside is impoiisibic: tlie lady, 
indeed, enjoys the privilege of giv- 
lag her hand to a second lover, but 
bhc is subjected to a tedious widow- 
hood of eighteen months, and even 
then, if she has two or more chil- 
dren living by the former husband, 
she cannot marry. After all, witli 
all thei-e burdensome conditions 
realized, having attained the age 
of thirty lierself, and her lover 
reached the mnniiigable period of 
thirty-five, the parties are at the 
mercy of ten old fellows, who have 
probibly outlived all the feelings in- 
cident to youth and love. 

It seems, indeed, that the sole 
object cf the legislator was to dis- 
courage marriage, and of course 
to check population, two things, 
'Which, on account of their influence 
on private happiness and public 
prosperity, are fostered and encou- 
raged with the utmost care by or- 
dinary governors. With restraints 
like these, it is natural to suppose 
that great corniption of manners 
must prevail, since love, if it can- 
not gain its object by open and 
lawful means, is in danger of ac- 
complishing it by means illicit and 
circuitous. In the contest between 
arbitrary laws and those principles 
of our nature which are most pow- 
erful and universal, the former can 
scarcely be expected to obtain the 
victory, or if they succeed in this 
contest, it must be by such vigilance 
and such severity as will make the 
remedy far worse than the disease. 

These reflections, which occurred 
to Sumlich, will naturally occur to 
every reader, and I felt no small 
part of that curiosity which aetuiited 
Sumjich, in ex raining withhisown 
eyes the re il c'fccts of such institu- 
tions on the manners and c^indition 
of the people. He appears to h.«ve 
^pent several months in this pro- 
vince, and tiiuivc familiarly con- 
versed with all classes of the inha- 
bitants* In your next number I will 

give you the result of his inquiries, 
and meanwhile am, fccc. 


For the Literary Magazine* 


It has been the fate of the tra- 
veller to benl over the grave of a 
friend, to hehtilil the remains of a 
once ami ible, e.cgint, and hi:^h 
spiiitcd vouth deposited in the 
earth.. ..Tiiis event, while it elo- 
quently declared the inst ibility of 
life and of worldly pie isure, led . 
liim to indulge in the following;; me- 
ditation on passion wliich had 
received so severe a wound. # . 

Friendship springs from the nrost 
amiable dispositions of the mind, 
and betokens the absence of those 
selfish and discordant passions 
which disgrace our nature. The 
ancient writers and seme of the 
moderns, have ranked friendship 
among the number of the virtues, 
and if it be net a virtue, it is some- 
thing so nearly allied to it, that it 
can scarcely be distinguished from 
it. It is a source of a large portion 
of our happiness ; it is the tie of con- 
geni \\ souls. Amidst a world en- 
snaring and deccitfiil, where so wild 
and tumultuous are the passions and 
pursuits of men, where disinterest- 
edness is seldom found, and where 
justice often holds unequal scales, 
how necessary to our peace and 
comfort is that person who will 
join with us in our councils, who 
will rc])0£e in us hii confidence, 
who v/ill be the solace of our soli- 
tude, the partner of our prosperity, 
and the support of our adversitv... 
Let none say that friendship is fi)r- 
bidden, or not encouraged by the 

scii-turcs Keligion forbids no 

ratiDual ep.joymeiit... Religion would 
never pi cclude us from one cf the 
swcctt'.vt consob'.tions that h^^s ever 
been disco\ered fc-r tMe various 
afiliclions of lifvL»....ii/li^ion cxcitrii 
us to cu'iivate every jr^'ncrras and 
anii^blc jji-iiicii.^c, Mid alhn.'s us 
every indulj^ciicc n<;t incon>itrnt 
with duty....Thc examples in the 


tcriptares of the cultivation of this 
passion by great and good men are 
numerous* The souls of David and 
the princely Jonathan were knit 
together. The arm of death could 
only dissever their cords of love. 
The instances recorded of their 
attachment are m the highest degrc e 
striking and affecting. When Saul 
and Jonathan were slain, David 
seized his harp, and from a soulful! 
of sorrow poured forth his inimita- 
ble elegy, pursued with his sighs 
the spirit of his departed friend, 
and blasted the mountain of Gilboa 
in the language of poetical indig- 
nation The example of our Sa- 
viour, independent of all other 
instances, gives a sanction to the 

cultivation of friendship From 

the world and the number of his 
disciples, he selected John, on him 
bestowed his warmest affections, 
and admitted him to his freest com- 

The silence of scriptural precept 
coucerning friendship, permits no 
inference to be drawn against its 
lawfulness. To have made it the 
subject of divine command would 
have been absurd, for it cannot be 
called a duty, and similarity of dis- 
position and coincidence of senti- 
ment and afiection, on which 
friendship is founded, do not depend 
upon our choice, neither are they 
under the direction of our will. The 
propensity in our natures toward 
this passion is sufficiently strong 
and operative without the force of a 
command. The object of our Sa- 
viour was to inculcate the plain and 
pracical duties of piety and moral- 
ity, those duties which are indispen- 
sable, and impose universal obliga- 
tion, and which are necessary to our 
everlasting happiness in the future 

Let none say that the dictates of 
friendship are opposed to the duties 
of universal benevolence, that it 
lavishes on one object that kindness 
and affection which ought to be 
difiiised through the whole human 
race: thisobjection is certainly un- 

founded : we may discharge evciy 
tender office which friendship de- 
mands, and still be observant of 
the duties enjoined by revelation...* 
Various are the gradations of affec- 
tion corresponding with the different 
relations of life, and each contri* 
buting its share to that harmony 
which should reign throughout so* 
ciety. Parental tenderness, filial 
reverence, brotherly affeciion, arc 
all limited in their operation, and 
yet are the subjects of command* 
The desie^n of Christianity was not to 
extinguish these, but to regulate 
them, and to reduce them to their 
proper dimensions. As the sun is 
to the planetary system, so love for 
God, love for men, is the centre, 
round which all oar other affections 
founded on the world andmortality^ 
should revolve ; these are the only 
restrictions which Christianity im- 
poses upon our impartial attach- 
ments, and under these restrictions 
it excites us to indulge them. It 
strengthens the ties of Friendship, 
by holding out to our view immor- 
tality. ^' U revives (says an author) 
that union which death seems to 
dissolve, it restores us again to 
those whom we most dearly loved, 
in tiiat blessed society of just men 
made more perfect." 

Friendship subsisting between 
persons of a different sex, is of a 
nature still more refined than that 
which prevails between men. A 
brother feels more tenderness for 
his sister than he can for his bro- 
ther. There is in the female, more 
gentieness, more softened amiable- 
ness than men possess : she has more 
sensibility, more influence upon the 
heart, more eloquence of persua- 
sion. Man finds in her one who 
sooths him in desertion, who envi> 
gorates his hopes, and impels him 
to laudable enterprizes...«she finds 
in man a provider, a protector, and 
one who will for her encounter the 
roughness and jarrings of the 
world from which her nature would 

I. o. 

▼ IRGIL'4 aneis. 

/Vr the JUterary Magazine, 

I have bceii lately looking into 
the iEneiB of Virgil, and will hazard 
the declaration, that as a narrative 
poem it does not stand in the iirst 
rank. It has little originality as an 
epic; it is a copy both of the Iliad 
and'8 failure in pour- 
traying characters has been fre- 
quently remarked.. ..It's battles are 
but feebly described..,. it does not 
hurry the mind rapicU^^ alon^ with 
the onset of hosts, and it &ppjt:ars ito 
me that Maro, amidst his scenes 
of war, sighed for the beaclien- 
&hade beneath which Tit}rus 
reclined. Virgil was not a bard 
which Homer muing hi9 mighty 
youngs could train successfully to 
deeds of blood. I am not always 
pleased with his attempt to excite 
terror. I like not the prodigy which 
^Dc^as describes at his landing in 
Tlirace. The bleeding myrtles are 
not equal to Tasso's enchanted fo- 
rest. Could not the imagination 
have represented an omen more 
grand and terrific, which forbade 
die settlement of the Trojans vi 
that country. I find great fault 
with the character of .^Siea^....He 
is not an hero sufficiently interest- 
ing....His conduct on many occa- 
sions is base and detestible....He 
might, however, have answered a 
beathen's idea of excellence*. ..He 
falls vastly below Homer's Hector, 
Sarp^on and Achilles in interest. ..• 
Achilles, tliough more cruel than 
iBneas« still has more impos- 
ing qualities. 

l>r. Beattie has endeavoured to 
shew in his essays, that the hero of 
the Iliad Is the most perfect of 
epic characters : his arguments are 
grounded upon the following re- 
rpresentationa of the poet:.«,«A- 
chiUes was the bravest, the strong- 
est, the swiftest, the joiost beautifal 
of mortals.. .his friendship was ar- 
ident«*.«he'hadf the most vehement 
love for Ills father, and so grctit 
.waahismanianimity^^that although 
told that u he departed from th« 

VOL. I..««NO. II. 

siege of Troy, he should in old age 
fall peacefully into the grave.. ..yet 
he, notwithstanding he was wrong- 
ed by Agamemnon, refosed to go. 
I am not, however, satisfied with 
this reasoning of Dr. Beattie, and 
think the answer to it is sufficient. ••• 
tliat Hector, if not the universal, 
is the general favourite of the read- 
ers of Homer. The celebration of 
the games in the ^neid, I think a 
very feeble imitation of those of the 
Liad, indeed the copy appears to 
me to be servile, it may be an- 
swered, that notwithstanding these 
objections, the celebrity of the ^- 
neid is a confirming evidence of Ub 
excellence.. .that it has stood the test 
of years, and that one might as well 
deny its superiority to modern po- 
cm8,as well as the strength of a tower 
which has warred with the elements 
during the lapse of several centu- 
ries, and still bids defiance to their 
rage....Such an answer might carry 
conviction to the minds of many, 
and overthrow all that I could ur^ 
in opposition ; but still I will retam 
my opinion that Virgil, as a nar- 
rative poet, is surpassed by more 
than one of our modem wxiters.*.. 
Paradise L.ost...«.Fenelon's Tele- 
machus«««.Tas8o's Jerusalem De- 
livered, in this respect I place be- 
fore it;.«.*and were not the rust of 
years so very venerable, did not 
distance diminish errors and mag- 
nify excellencies, I think that my 
decision would be acknowledged as 
iust. The sixth book of the Jfeneid 
has been supposed by some critics 
to be ^c most precious remnant of 
antiquity. I am not disposed to 
make any formal dissent from this 
opinion. It certainly unfolds, in a 
satisfactory and pleasing manner, 
the Roman idea of the state of de- 
parted men, and leads to inquiries 
gratifying to the curious mind. The 
following picture of the Sibyl at the 
opening of tliis book is striking, 
and prepares us for the exposition 
which is to follow : 

All this with wondering eyes JEneas 
vicw'd : 
Ejch varxing object his delight re- 
new 'd. 



Eager to read the rest, Achates'^ She said no more : the trembling Tro- 

came, I jans hear: 

And by hia aide the mad divining I 0*«r8pread with a damp sweat, and 

dame ? | holy fear. 

The priestess of the god, Deiphobe I The prince himself, with a¥rful dread 

her name. J possess*d, 

Time suflfcrs not, she said, to feed His vows to great ApoUo thus ad- 

your eyes dress'd- 

IVith empty pleasures: haste the sa- Indulgent god, propitious pow'r to 

crifice. Troy, 

Sev'n bullocks yet unyok'd, for PhcE- Swift to relieve, unwilling to destroy : 

bus chuse, Directed by whose hand, the Dardan 
And for Diana scv*n unspotted dart 

ewes. Pierc*d the proud Grecian's only mor- 
This said, the servants urge the sa- tal part : 

cred rites ; Thus far, by fate*s decrees, and thj 
While to the temple she the prince commands, 

invites. Thro* ambient seas, and thro' devour- 
A spacious cave, within its farmost ing sands, 

part, Our exil'd crew has sought th' Auso- 
Washew'd and fashion 'd by laborious nian ground: 

art. And now, at length, the flying coast 
Thro* the hills hollow sides : before is found. 

the place. Thus far the fate of Troy, from place 
A hundred doors a hundred entries to place, 

grace : With fury has pursu*d her wand'ring 
As many voices issue ; and the sound race : 

Of Sibyrs words as many times re- Here cease ye pow'rs, and let your 

bound. vengeance end, 

Kow to the mouth they come : aloud Troy is no more, and can no more 

she cries, offend. 

This is the time, inquire your des- And thou, O sacred maid, inspir'd to 

tinies. see 

He comes, behold the god! Thus while Th* event of things in dark futurity; 

she said, Give me, what heav'n has promis*d to 
{And shiv'ring at the sacred entry my fate, 

staid) To conquer and command the Latian 
JHer colour chang*d, her face was not state : 

the same, To fix my wand'ring gods ; and find a 
And hollow groans from her deep place 

spirit cam e. For the long exiles of the Troj an race. 

Her hair stood up: convulsive rage Then shall my grateful hands a temple 

possess 'd rear 

Jler trembling limbs, and hcav'd her To the twin gods, with vows and so- 

lab'ring breast. lemn pray'r; 

Greater than human kind she seem'd And annual rites, and festivals, and 

to look : gp.mes. 

And with an accent, more than mcr- Shall be perform *d to their auspicioua 

tal, spoke. names. 

Her staring eyes with sparkling fury Nor shalt thou want thy honours in 

rovkl; hiy land. 

When all the god came rushing on For there thy faithful oracles shall 

her soul. stand, 

Swiftly she tum*d and foaming as she Preserv*d in shrines : and ev'ry sacred 

spoke, lay, 

Whythisdelay, shecry*d; the pow'rs Which by my mouth, Apollo shall 

invoke. convey. 

ThypTay*rs alone can open this abode. And shall be treasur*di« by a chotea 
Else vain are my demands, and dumb train 

the god. Of holy priests, and ever shall remain. 



But, oh ? commit not thf prophetic 

To flitting leaves, the sport of ev'ry 

Lest they disperse in air our empty 

Write not, but, what the pow'rs or- 
dain, relate. 
Struggling in vain, impatient of her 

And laboring underneath the pond'rous 

The more she strove to shake him 

firom her breast. 
With more and far superior force he 

press'd : 
Commands his entrance, and without 

Usurps her organs, and inspires her 

Now, with a furious blast, the hun-"' 

died doors 
Ope of themselves : a rushing 

whirlwind roars 
Within the cave ; and Sibyl's vojce 


The second and fourth books are 
the highest displays of Virgil's ^- 
Dius. They contain the most in- 
teresting narrations in the ^neid. 
The second book is the most mag- 
nificent, the fourth generally most 
tender. Next to these, no part of 
the work has pleased me more tlian 
th* Episode of Nisus and Euryalus. 
Whatever may be the defects of 
Virpl as an epic poet.... he, in the 
music of his numbers, in the selec- 
tion of his words, has never been 
excelled...«In judgment he stands 
before Homer, though he is very 
far behind him in genius....After 
these observations which have been 
adventurously, and perhaps too 
carlessly thrown out, I shall pro- 
ceed to suggest to the attention of 
the reader some extracts from the 
i£neid, which I have not seen par- 
ticularly noticed, and which to me 
were striking and above the com- 
mon level of Virgil's poetry.—For 
a vcrj sufficient reason I shall take 
all the passages from Dr>'dcn's 
translation • The portrait of JEueas, 
when first discovered to the eyes of 
pido, has been deservedly admired. 
In that description, however, there 
aie four lines which arc pre-emi- 

nent, and on which the finger of 
criticism has never rested: 
Scarce had he spoken, when the cloud 

gave way. 
The mists flew upward, and dissolv'4 

in day. 
The Trojan chief appear'd in open 

August in visage and serenely bright. 

In the second book, which is 
throughout excellent, few passages 
have pleased me more than the de- 
scription of the last efforts and the 
death of Priam«...Though it must 
be familiar to the scholar, ^et he 
will be pleased to see it in this way 
recalled to his remembrance....Thc 
translation of Dryden isfiillof his 
peculiarities and strength of phrase* 
Perhaps you may of Priam's fate in- 
He, when he saw his regal town on 

His ruin'd palace, and his ent'ring 

On ev'ry side inevitable woes; 
In arms, disus'd, invests his limb* 

Like them, with age ; a late and use- 
less aid. • 
His feeble shoulders scarce the"^ 

weight sustain : 
Loaded, not arm'd, he creeps along 

with pain s 
Despairing of success: ambitious 

to be slain ! 
Uncovcr'd but by heav'n, there stood 

in view 
An altar; near the hearth a laurel 

Dodder'd with age, whose boughs en- 
compass round 
The houshold gods, and shade th# 

holy ground. 
Here Hecuba, with all her helplesa 

Of dames, for shelter sought, but 

sought in vain. 
Driv'n like a flock of doves along th« 

Their images they hag, and to their 

altars fly. 
The queen, when she beheld her trem- 
bling lord, 
And hanging by his side a heavf 

What rage, she cry'd, hM seia'd my 

husband's mind ; 
What arms arc thes^ and to what 
use dcsi^'d I 


These times want other aids: were Just, and but bareljr, to the mark it 

Hector here, held, 

Ev'n Hector now in vain, like Priam And faintly tincki'd on the brazen 

would appear. shield. 

With us one common shelter thou Then Pyrrhus thus : Go thou from 

shah 6nd, mc to fate ; 

Or in one common fate with us be And to my father my foul deeds re- 

join'd. late. 

She said, and with a last salute em- Now die : with that he dragged the 

brac'd trembling sire, 

The poor old man, and by the laurel Slidd'ring thro' clotter'd blood and 

placed. holy mire. 

Behold Polites, one of Priam's sons, (The mingl'd paste his murder'd son 

Pursu'd by Pyrrhus, there for safety had made,) 

runs. Haul'd from beneath the violated 

Thro' swords, and foes, amaz'd and . shade ; 

hurt he flies And on the sacred pile, the royal vie- 
Thro' empty courts, and open galle- tim laid. 

ries: His right hand held his bloody fau- 

Him Pyrriius, urging with his lance, chion bare ; 

pursues ; His left he twisted in his hoary hair: 

And often reaches, and his thrusts Then, with a speeding thrust, his"^ 

renews. heart he found : 

The youth transfiz'd, with lamenta- The lukewarm blood came rushing 

ble dries thro' the wound. 

Expires, before his wretched }>arent'8 And sanguine streams disdain'd the 

eyes. sacred ground. 

Whom, gasping at his fe6t, when Thus Priam fell : and shar'd one com- 

Priam saw, mon fate 

The fear of death gave place to na- With Troy in ashes, and his ruin'd 

ture's law. state: 

Attd shaking more with anger, than He, who the sceptre of all Asia 

with age, sway'd. 

The gods, said he, requite thy brutal Whom monarchs Hke domestic slaves 

rage : obey'd. 

As sure they will, barbarian, sure On the bleak shore now lies th'aban- 

they must, don'd king. 

If there be gods in heav'n, and gods • A headless carcase and a nametes 

be just : thing. 
Who tak'st in wrongs an insolent 

delight I ^ , . ^ ^ ^ , The foUowing picture fipom the 

With a son's death t' mfect a father's ^^ ^00^ j^ ^'^..^^ ^^ must gra- 

■KT-.* tf ' u .u J 1 • ^ tify all who are ftwKi of minuteness 

coisl^rt™ ly»n«fame i^description. Dryden, by his bold 

To call thee his ; not he. thy vaunted P?!^' has stren^encd the Unes 

gjfg^ which are discoverable m the ori- 

Thus us'd my wretched age j the gods g*"^- 

The itws^of 'nature and of nations In shady woods we pass the tedious 

heard. ^^S^^> 

He cheer'd my sorrows, and for sums Where bellowini sounds and groans 

of gold our souls affright. 

The bloodless carcase of my Hector ^^ ^!"J** "**» ""*« " ^ff*^*"'^ ^^ ^^« 

sold; «g^^- 

Pity'd the woes a parent underwent, ^^^ \^ «»« ^^^ ^*» ^»ndlcd in the 

And sent me back in safety from his „ ^^^ ' . , , 

f^^i Now could the moon her borrow d 

This said, his feeble hand a javlin ^'*S*»* supply : 

Which flutt'ring, seem'dto loiter as * This whole line is taken from 

it flew : Sir John Denham. 



For misty 'clouds involv*d the firma- 
The stars were muffled, and the moon 

was pent. 
Scarce had the rising sun the day 

reveal *d ; 
Scarce had his heat the peariy daws 

dispeird ; 
When from the woods there bolts, 

before our sight, 
Somewhat betwixt a mortal and a 

So thin, so ghastly meagre, and sowan, 
So bare of flesh, he scarce resembled 

This thing, aU tatter'd, seem'd from 

far t* implore, 
Our pious aid, and pointed to the 

shore. • 
We look behind ; then view his shaggy 

His clothes were tagg'd with thorns, 

and filth his limbs besmeared : 
The rest, in mien, in habit, and in 

Appear'd a Greek, and such indeed 

he was. 
He cast on us, from far, a frightful 

\V'T)om soon for Trojans and for foes 

he knew; 
Stood still, and paused; then all at 

once began 
To stretch his limbs, and trembled as 

he ran« 
Soon as approach'd, upon his knees 

he falls. 
And thus with tears and sighs for pity 

Kow by the pow'rs above, and what 

we share 
From nature's common gift this vital 

O Trojans take me hence : I beg no 

But bear me far from this unhappy 


The representation of a battle- 
niarch, contained in the following 
lines, is both beautiful and magni* 
iicent, and the comparison true and 
illu^jtrative : 

The horsemen march ; the gates are 
open*d wide ; 
^neas at their head. Achates by his 

Next these the Trojan leaders rode 

X.ast, follows in the rear, th' Arca- 
dian throng. 

Young Pallas shone conspicuous o'er 

the rest; 
Guilded his arms, embroider'd was 

his vest; 
So, from the seas, exalts his radiant, 

The star, by whom the lights of hea-r 

vcn are led ; 
Shakes from his rosy locks the pearly 

dews ; 
Dispels the darkness, and the day, 

The trembling wives, the walls and 

turrets crowd : 
And follow, with their eyes, the 

dusty cloud ; 
Which winds disperse by fits; and 

shew from far 
The blaze of arms, and shields, and 

shinning war, 
The troops, drawn up in beautiful 

O'er heathy plains pursue the ready. 

Repeated peals of shouts are heard'1 

around ; 
The neighing coursers answer to ' 

the sound. 
And shake with homy hoofs the I 

solid ground. 

Will the reader excuse me for 
offerinj^ to his attention the subse- 
quent long passage from the Epi- 
sode of Nisus and Eun^alus. I 
could not curtail it without present- 
ing it in an injured form, and it will 
reward the minutest examination 
which can be bestowed upon it. 
The lines marked in italics appear 
to me uncommonly excellent. 

The speedy horse all passages belay. 
And spur their smoking steeds to cros» 

their way ; 
And viotcb each entrance of the xoirdini^ 

Black toat the foreit, thick fsith beech 

it ttood: 
Horrid vrith fem^ and intricate fsith 

Few paths of human feet or track* of 

beaat» vsere worn. 
The darkness of the shades, his heavy 

And fear, misled the younger from 

his way. 
But Nisus hit the turns, with happier 

And thoughtless of his friend, the 

forest pass'd ; 

96 riRGIL's JLNEIS. 

And Alban plains, from Alba's name Pierc'd his thin armonr, drank hl» 

so call'd, vital blood, 

Where king Latinus then his oxen And in bis body left the broken wood. 

stalled. He staggers round, his eye-balls roll 

Till turning at the length, he stood in death, 

his ground. And with short sobs he gasps away 

And miss'd his friend, and cast his his breath. 

eyes around ; All stand amaz'd, a second javlin 

Ah wretch, he cry'd where have I left flies, 

behind With equal strength, and quivers thro* 

Th' unhapppy youth, where shall I the skies ; 

hope to find ? This thro' thy temples, Tagus, forc*d 

Or what way take! Again he ventures the way, 

back And in the brain-pan warmly bury'd 

And treads the mazes of his former lay. 

track. Fierce Volscens foam with rage, and 

He winds the wood, and list'ning gazing round, 

hears the noise Descry'd not him who gave the fatal 

Of trampling coursers, and the rider's woudd ; 

voice. Nor knew to fix revenge ; but thou. 

The sound approach'd, and suddenly he cries, 

he view'd Shalt pay for both, and at the prisoner 

The foes enclosing, and his friend flies, 

pursued ; With his drawn sword. Then struck 

Forlay*d and taken, while he strove with deep despair, 

in vain. That cruel sight the lover could not 

The shelter of the friendly shades to bear ; 

gain. But from his covert rush'd in c^en 

What should he next attempt ! what view, 

arms employ, And sent his voice before him as he 

What fruitless force to free the cap- flew. 

tive boy ? Me, me, he cry'd, turn all your 

Or desperate should he rush and lose swords alone 

his life. On me; the fact confess'd, this fault 

With odds oppress'd, in such unequal my own, 

strife I He neither could, nor durst, the guilt- 

Resolv'd at length, his pointed spear less youth ; 

he shook ; Ye moon and stars bear witness to the 

And casting on the moon a mournful truth ! 

luck. His only crime, (if friendship can 

Guardian of groves, and goddess of ofi'end,) 

the night ; Is too much love to his unhappy 

Fair queen, he said, direct my dart friend, 

aright ; Too late he speaks; the sword, which 

If e'er my pious father for my sake fury guides. 

Did grateful off 'rings on thy altars Driv'n with full force, had pierc'd hi» 

make; tender sides. 

Or I increas'd them with my sylvan Down fell the beauteous youth ; the 

toils, yawning wound 

And hung thy holy roofs with savage Gusli'd out a purple stream, and stain'd 

spoils; the ground. 

Give me to scatter these. Then from His snowy neck reclines upon his 

his car breast, 

He pois'd, and aim'd, and launch 'd Like a fair fiow'r by the keen share 

the trembling spear. oppress'd ; 

The deadly weapon, hissing from the Like a white poppy sinking on the 

grove, plain, 

Impecuous on the back of Sulmo Whohc heavy head iioyerdiarg'd with 

drove : rain. 



Alter I have extracted one more 
passage from the ^neid, I shall 
close the present No. of Critical 
Notices, with a few short sentences 
on the comparative merits of the 
versification of Dryden and Pope in 
tiieir respective epic translations. 

The two following extracts de- 
scribe the inquietudes and tortures 
of a dreamful sleep. The terrible 
apparition, commonly called the 
night-mare, has been variously de- 
scribed by poets, as it assumes dif- 
ferent shapes. Darwin's luxuriant 
pencil has attempted its portrait 

-with considerable success but 

bolder and more original outlines 
sse to be found in the pidture which 
Sotheby has given in his translation 
of Wieland's Oberon, of this mid- 
night hag. 

And as when heavy sleep has clos'd 

the sight, 
The sickly fancy labours in the night ; 
We seem to run ; and, destitute of 

Our sinking limbs forsake us in the 

In vain we heave for breath; in"^ 

vain we cry : 
The nerves unbrac'd, their usual 

strength deny ; 
And, on the tongue the falt'ring 

accents die. 

The critical world is divided in 
opinion concerning the merits of 
Dryden's and Pope's translation. I 
think it must be acknowledged, that 
the versification of the former is less 
regular and less magnificent, but 
more forcible and natural than that 
of the latter. Pope has less vigour,less 
variety, but more harmony and more 
uniform magnificence than Dryden. 
ITie first book of the Iliad, trans- 
lated by Dryden, is not equal to the 
same book translated by Pope.. 
has however some parallel passages 
superior. The excellencies of Pope 
are more glaring than those of 
Dryden. The latter must be read 
and examined with attention before 
we can become familiar with his 
beauties. His mind was a rich soil, 
out of which sprang weeds as well 
as amaranthine flowers, and oaks of 
great growth. ITie mind of Pope 

was a sou not so rich, but it was 
cultivated with more care, it was 
a luxuriant garden in which were 
permitted to spring but few or n» 

jPor the Literary Magazine. 


" In human hearts, what bolder 

thought can rise 
Than man's presumption on 

to-morrow's dawn ? 
Where is to-morrow ? iK 

ANOTHER world!" 

Aspiring mortal !....«..wheii 
wilt thou learn thy duty, and 
act consistently with the sense of 
it in thy own breast? When will 
thy arrogance meet with its just 
sentence....when wilt thou be ren- 
dered more dignified in thy nature 
and thy actions, by the practice of 
humility, by an acceptance of thy 
own good, and a proper condemna- 
tion of that censurable curiosity, 
which leads thee to be dissatisfied 
with the present, and seek to de- 
velope that which is not in thy 
power, the future state of events ? 
Leave fiiturity to Him, who, only, 

is capable of regulating it,. who 

*' rides on the whirlwind, and di- 
rects the storm!" Perform thy 
duty, and no evil shall befal thee : 
as the sacred language of Him, 
from whose lips flow eternal wis- 
dom and truth, pronounces! Why 
seek to entangle thyself in the laby- 
rinth of metaphysical research? 
yet if thou muat'h^ inquisitive.... 
if thy restless spirit, ever on the 
wing, despises all controul, seek 
those things which will be produc- 
tive of everlasting benefit, before 
the decree shall be announced, 
which hides them from thy eager 
view, and bids the unavailing sigh 
of remorse to arise in thy bosomi 
never to be repressed. 

It is evident, even to the super- 
ficial observer cf causes and effects^ 



that there arc immerotts mjrsteries, 
vhich are beyond the power of man 
in his most perfect state^ with the 
fiill enjoyment of his corporeal and 
mental nculties, to disclose; and 
it is likewise manifest, that an in- 
quiry into these things, which are 
in their elucidation, superior to the 
cfibrts of the most energetic reason, 
must be highly improper: for this 
rash endeavour only serves to mis- 
lead £he mind of man, and excite, 
either doubts to shake his faith, or 
a belief in the truth of Uiose mis- 
taken precepts which declare him 
to be equal to the angels of light ; 
and consequently produces the most 
arrogant and supercilious conduct* 
He can, nevertheless, by acontrarv 
line; by endeavouring to investi- 
gate the nature of objects that are 
within the narrow sphere around 
him, gain accurate, as well as en- 
larged and comprehensive infor- 
matioB; such a degree of know- 
ledge at least, as may render him 
tue/ul m life : tliis, indeed, ought 
to be tlie purpose for which he seeks 
it; vain is every other intention! 
hence it will be sufficiently extend- 
€dy if it is commensurate with this 
noble end. Investigations into the 
jiature of future events, therefore, 
must be criminal and absurd ; for 
•we possess no data which may serve 
to direct them : and to refrain from 
tlicm, our reason, limited as it is, 
informs us is proper : for into His 
hands, who sways the sceptre of in- 
finite power, are aU thmgs to he His mercy, must 

every tiling be confided! And 

whatsoever the great and compre- 
Jiensive plan may be, by which He 
rules the natural and moral uni- 
verse, whatsoever wise pui*pose 
His intention serves to fulfil, in 
secreting from our eyes certain 
events which it concerns us not to 
know, let us endeavour to act con- 
sistently witli it, by consulting those 
feelings which have been placed 
within our bosoms: a resistance 
renders us guilty ; and as such, will 
surely attract the lightnings of 
ctenial majesty, and draw down 
tlie vengeance of heaven, to burst 

like terrific thunder o'er OBr bead^ 
Let us, with pious resignation to 
that will which is guided by lovs, 
and uncootrouIaUe by the weak at- 
tempts of man, with stedlast confi- 
dence ia the execution of justtoe 
tempered by mercy, and with ft 
rigid fidelity in performing our 
moral, civil, and religiotts obii^- 
tions, refraiii from seeking to in- 
quire too de^y into those truths, 
on the nature of which our reason 
owns itself incompetent to decide; 
and which inquiry, it declares to be 
rash, culpable, presunptuons ! Tiie 
duty of man is loiown to man : if he 
peirorras it, every event will ooin-r 
cide in a g^ood, though incompre- 
hensible design; if a r^ectioh is 
persevered in, the oppoute conse- 
quences will likewise be inevitable, 
nor will tliat benevolent design be 
frustrated: " Providence is not 
cQimteracted by any means, which 
Providence puts into our power* ;" 
and it may please Him, in order to 
preserve tlie general good, to in- 
iict particular eviL 

Tlie present is a changeable state 
of being, but the foture, permanent* 
Yet on thU varying scene of exist- 
ence, depends the ultimate condi- 
tion, to which we are all hastening 
with rapid steps. Who, then, can 
dare to lift the voice of censure to 
the arraign His 
wisdom, His justice, or His bene- 
volence, while here He affords 
man, free agency* 

Suffer, tlien, ye sophists of the 
age, who delight to pervert your 
faculties to the most base purposes, 
suffer Reason, your boasted divini- 
ty, to evince her decision: and 
though unaided**.».unillumined by 
that light, whose guidance you wiU 
not permit her to follow, she will 
declare the truth ; and present to 
your averted eyes the black cata- 
logue of crimes, which in a future 
day shall, by the power of con- 
science, be made to glow as a fur- 
nace in your breasts: when ima- 
gination, di£tcnipcred and frantic^ 
sliall be forced by that inward mo- 

•J)r. Johnson, 



Idtor, to cDiifiire vp in yoot view, 
gcenes, the terrors of 'which die is 
fM>w unable and unwilling to con- 

Presume not^ then, to scan the 
intricate and unsearchable designs 
of Providence ; nor impiously dare 
to trace the dark events of futurity : 
these are enveloped in a shade, 
which human reason can never be 
able to illuminate; their recesses 
no one can describe with any de- 
gree of certainty, notwithstanding 
those aids which we possess in the 
■acred writings. The ordainment 
of the Deity, in secreting them from 
our narrow conceptions, is, no doubt, 
in the highest degree, wise and be- 
nevolent ; and from this considera- 
tion, which is verified by daily ex- 
perience, it is made manifest, that 
the whole duty of man in the pre- 
sent state of' existence, is a per- 
formance of that, which the witness 
within his breast declares to be 
right, in opposition to the .vain wis- 
dom of this world ; and to leave to 
the providence and direction of a 
superior being, those events, which 
he neither can prevent, hasten, nor 

When we view objects around us 
in their proper light, we find that 
the prospects of st/ileasinff fiiturity 
may be blas^ted, and our expecta- 
tions be disappointed, long before 
the time in which the mind supposes 
they would have been realised,... 
Were a certain knowledge of cir- 
cumstances,the occurrence of wh^ch 
is now in the womb of future times, 
given to us, how miserably Would 
life slide on l..««f6r,ontheone hand, 
if it presented a perspective replete 
with unutterable horror, what pre- 
vious pleasure could balance the 
sad condition, and afford any satis- 
faction ?.«.onthe other, if happiness 
should dwell in the mental eye, how 
would impatience to seize it, conti- 
nually prevent us from the due and 
rational enjoyment of this life ?••••. 
But, if this anticipated state was, 
nevcrtlicless, liable to f)c chani^d 
lhron«5h our own misconduct, what 
multiplied danj^ers surround, and 
tlirc&ten it with irreparable rnin ! 

VOL, I....NO. II. 

This last is our ntoation ; and rea-> 
son declares it to be stamped with 
the seal of divine wisdom : for as 
we know the consequences resulting 
from our evil actions, their opera- 
tion is given into our hands, either 
to remove the effect by destroying 
the cause, or let it act, unopposed* 
In this, as well as in other instances 
which press with vigour on the 
mind, the intentions of the Author 
of Good are elucidated in their pur- 
est lustre, to the prejudiced, and 
the dissatisfied. 

To a mind which professes to be 
actuated by principles deduced from 
reflection, man appears a candidate 
for an office of high calling; and 
according with the conduct which 
he pursues in this life, will his un* 
alterable portion be allotted to him^ 
from the hands of Eternal Justice ; 
which, a% governed by an infinitely 
wise, though inscrutable spirit, must 
be stretched forth, uncontrouled by 
any power which dares to act in 
opposition to it ; yet let us also re- 
collect, that the eye of Mercy views, 
her influence modifies, the decision* 
Here, therefore, a noble, glorious 
prospect opens to the mind, in beau- 
ty unparalleled !...... in simplicity 

unequaled!....Adoration of the dis- 
poser of this system, will be the in- 
separable attendant of a just view 
of its tendency : and a coincidence 
with the plan of creation, the please 
ing result. Will man, with bright 
realities before him, reject these, to 
accept others far inferior in their 
natures and ends ? Will he permitt 
that heavenly spark, wisdom...that 
clear, though limited illumination 
of the mind, reason, to be reduced^ 
to an ignoble subjection to his pas- 
sions, and his prejudices ? Surely, 
KoI....If ever he sinks to so great) 

a depth.... .if ever he acts so oppo^ 

sitely to the intention of his creator, 
which is the advancement and pro- 
motion of his glory, by the exercise 
of tficse agents in conjunction with 
religion, what hope can remain of 
his refraininjj from the fnistation 
of that principle, implanted in hu- 
man bosoms for the support of civil 
and moral socict)', order ? Tlutl 



expectation wears, indeed, but the 
semblance i>i reality 1 it is vain... it is 
presumptuous ! 

Can we not, therefore, allow rea- 
son and religion, " those heavenly 
guards that round us wait," to as- 
sume their proper dominion over 
us ? If the former is not perverted, 
it will invariably act in coincidence 
-with the latter....the bright, unsul- 
lied emanation from the Creator.... 
the delightful communion, tt'Ao«^ na- 
ture cannot be described ! 



' I w A s the second son of a farmer, 
whose place of residence was a west- 
ern district of Penns> Ivania. My eld- 
est brother seemed fitted oy nature 
for thvi emjiloyment to which he 
^vfis destined. His wishes never 
led hini astray from the hay-stack 
i;tuI the furrow. His ideas never 
langcd beyond tlie sphere of his 
\ ision, or sugj^csted the possibility 
that to-morrow could differ from to- 
day. He could read and write, be- 
c:iuse he had nu alternative between 
learning the lesson prescribed to 
him, and punishment. He was di- 
ligent, as long as fear urged him 
fi'rward, but his exertions ceased 
with the cessation of this motive. 
The limits of his acquirements con- 
sisted in signing his name, and spel- 
ling out a chapter hi the bible. 

My character was the reverse 
of his. My thii-st of knowlcJj^e 
was augmented in proixirlion as it 
was supplied with gratification. 
The more I heard or read, the 
more restless and unconquerable 
my curiosity became. My senses 
vtre perpetually alive to novelty, 
my f.-incy teemed with visions of 
the future, and my attention fas- 
tened upon every thing mysterious 
or unknown. 

My fither Intended that my 
knowledge sliouid keep pace with 
tiiat of my brother, but conceived 
that all beyond the mere c^piicity 

to write and read was useless or 
pernicious. He took as much pains 
to keep me within these limits, as 
to make the acquisitions of my bro- 
ther come up to them, but his eflforts 
were not equally successful in both 
cases. The most vigilant and jeal- 
ous scrutiny was exerted in vain : 
Reproaches and blows, painful pri- 
vations and ignominious penances 
had no power to slacken my zeal 
and abate my perseverance. He 
might cnjoinupon me the most labo- 
rious tasks, set the envy of my bro- 
ther to watch me during the per- 
formance, make the most diligent 
search after my books, and destroy 
them without mercy, when they 
were found ; but he could not out- 
root my darling propensity. I ex- 
erted all my powers to elude his 
watclifulness. Censures and stripes 
were sufficiently unpleasingto make 
me strive to avoid them. To af- 
fect this desirable end, I was in- 
cessantly employed in tlie invention 
of stratagems and the execution of 

My passion was surely not de- 
serving of blame, and I have fre- 
quently lamented the hardships to 
which it subjected me; yet, per- 
haps, the claims which were made 
upon my ingenuity and fortitude 
were not without beneficial effects 
upon my character. 

Tills contention lasted from the 
sixth to the fourteenth } car of my 
age. M)' father's opposition to my 
schemes was incited by a sincere 
though unenlightened desire for my 
happiness. ThataU his efforts were 
secretly eluded or .obstinately re- 
pelled, was a source of the bitterest 
regret. He has often lamented, 
witli tears, what he called my in- 
corrigible depravity, and encou- 
raged himself to perseverance by 
the notion of the ruin that would 
inevitably overt- Jic me if I were 
allowed to persist in my pre^ent 
career. Peiha',s the suffirings 
which arose to him from the dis- 
appointment, were equal to those 
which he inflicted on me. 

In my fourteenth year, events 
happened which ascertained my 



future destiny- One evening I had 
been sent to bring cows from a 
meadow, some miles distant from 
my lather's mansion. My time was 
limited, and I was menrced with 
severe chastisement if, according 
to my custom, I should stay beyond 
the period assigned. 

For some time these menaces 
rung in ray ears, and I went on my 
way with speed. I arrived at the 
meadow, but the cattle had broken 
the fence and escaped. It was my 
duty to carry home the earliest 
tidings of this accident, but the first 
suggestion was to examine the 
cause and manner of this escape. 
The field was bourided by cedur 
railing. Five of these rails were 
!:;id horizontally from post to post. 
The upper one had been broken 
in the middle, but the rest hnd 
merely been drawn out of the holes 
on one side, and rested with their 
ends on the ground. The means 
which had been used for this end, 
the reason why one only was broken, 
and that one the uppermost, how a 
pair of horns could be so managed 
as to effect that which the hands of 
man would have found difficult, sup- 
plied a theme of meditation. 

Some accident recalled me from 
this reverie, and reminded me how 
much time had thus been consumed. 
I was terrified at the consequences 
of my delav, and sought with eager- 
ness how they might be obviated. I 
asked myselJF if there were not a 
way back shorter than that by which 
I had come. The beaten road was 
rendered circuitous by a precipice 
that projected into a neighbouring 
stream, and closed up a passage by 
which the length of the way would 
have been diminished one half: at 
the foot of the cliff the water was 
of considerable depth, and agitated 
by an eddy* I could not estimate 
the danger which I should incur by 
plunging into it, but I was resolved 
to make the attempt. I have reason 
to think, that this experiment, if it 
had been tried, would have proved 
ibtal, and my father, while he la- 

mented my untimely fate, would 
have been wholly unconscious that 
his own unreasonable demands had 
occasioned it. 

I turned my steps towards the 
spot. To reach the edge of the 
stream was by no means an easy 
undertaking, so many abinipt points 
and gloomy hoUows were interpos- 
ed. I had frequently skirted and 
penetrated this tract, but had never 
been so completely entangled in the 
maze as now : hence I had remain- 
ed unacquainted with a narrow pass, 
which, at the distance of an hun- 
dred yards from the river, would 
conduct me, though hot without 
danger and toil, to the opposite side 
of the ridge. 

This glen was now discovered, 
and this discovery induced me to 
change my plan. If a passage could 
be here effected, it would be shorter 
and safer than that which led 
through the stream, and its prac- 
ticability was to be known only by 
experiment. The path was narrow, 
steep, and overshadowed by rocks. 
The sun was nearly set, and the 
shadow of the cliff alx)ve, obscured 
the passage almost as much as mid- 
night would have done : I was ac- 
customed to despise danger when it 
presented itself in a sensible form, 
but, by a defect common in every 
one's education, goblins and spec- 
tres were to me the objects of the 
most violent apprehensions. These 
were unavoidably connected with 
soHtude and darkness, and were 
present to my fears when I entered 
this gloomy recess. 

These ^errors are always lessen- 
ed by calling the attention away to 
some indifferent object. 1 now made 
use of this expedient, and began to 
amuse myself by hallowing as loud 
as organs of unusual compass and 
vigour would enable me. 1 uttcncd 
the words which chanced to oct in- 
to mc, and repeated in the Khrill 
tones of a Mohock savage. .." Cow ! 
cow I come home ! home !"...Thcic 
notes were cf course reverberated 
from llic rocks which on eithcy bide 



towered aloft, but the echo was 
confused and indistinct. 

I continued, for some time, thus 
to beguile the way, till I reached a 
6pace more than commonly abrupt, 
and which required all my attention* 
My rude ditty was suspended till I 
had surmounted this impediment. 
In a few minutes I was at leisure to 
renew iti After finishing the strain, 
I paused. In a few seconds a voice 
as I then imagined, uttered the same 
cry from the point of a rock some 
hundred feet behind me ; the same 
words, witli equal distinctness and 
deliberation, and in tlie same tone, 
appeared to be spoken. I was 
atartied by this incident, and cast a 
fearful glance behind, to discover by 
whom it was uttered. The s;x)t 
where I stood was buned in dusk, 
but tlie eminences were slill invest- 
ed with a luminous and vivid twi« 
Ught. The speaker, however, was 
concealed from my view* 

I had scai^iy begun to wonder at 
this occui'rence, when a new occa« 
sion lor wonder, was afforded me. 
A few seconds, in like mancei. 
iblapsed, when my ditty was again 
rehearsed, with a no less perfect 
imitation, in a different quarter..... 
To this quarter I eagerly turned 
my eyes, but no one was visible.... 
The station, indeed, which this 
new speaker seemed to occupy, was 
inaccessible to man or beast. 

If I were surprized at tliis second 
repetition of my words, judge how 
mucli my surprise must have been 
augmeatcd, when the same calls 
were a third time repeated, and 
coming still in a new direction. Five 
times was tliis ditty successively 
resounded, at intervals nearly equal, 
always from a new quarter, and 
with little abatement of its original 
distinctness and force. 

A little reflection was sufficient 
to shew that this was no more than 
an echo of an extraordinary kind. 
My terrors were quickly supplanted 
by delight. The motives to dis- 
patch were forgotten, and I amused 
myself for an hour, wltli talking to 

these cliffs: Iplacedmyidf innew 
positions, and exhausted my lung* 
and my invention in new cla« 

The pleasures of this new disco* 
very were an ample compensation 
for the ill treatment which I expect* 
cd on my return. By some caprice 
in my father I escaped merely with 
a few re2>roiiches. 1 seized the first 
opportunity of again visiting this 
recess, and repeating my amuse^ 
ment ; time, and incessant repeti* 
tion, could scarcely lessen its channa 
or exhaust the variety produced by 
new tones and new positions* 

The hours in which I was xnost 
free from interruption and restraint 
were those of moonlight. My brother 
and I occupied a small room above 
the kitchen, disconnected, in some 
degree, with the rest of the house. It 
was the rural custom to retire etuv 
ly to bed and to anticipate the rising 
of the sun. When the moonUght 
was strong enough to permit me to 
read, it was my custom to escape 
fi*om bed, and hie witli my book to 
some neighbouring eminence, where 
I would remain stretched on tlie 
mossy rock, till tlie sinking or be- 
clouded moon, forbade me to con^ 
tinue my employment. I was in- 
debted for books to a friendly jier- 
son in the neighbourhood, whose 
compliance with my solicitations was 
promptedpartly by benevolence and 
partly by enmity to my father, whom 
he could not more egregiously of« 
fend than by gratifying my perverse 
and pernicious curiosity. 

In leaving my chamber I wa# 
obliged to use the utmost cautii n to 
avoid rousing my brother, whose 
temper disposed liim to thwart me 
in the least of my gratifications* M jr 
purpose was surely laudable, and 
yet on leaving the house and ret urn- 
ing to it, I was obliged to use- the 
vigilance and circumspection of a 

One night I left my bed with this 
view. I posted first to my vocal 
glen, and thence scrambling up |i 
neighbouring steep, which overlook* 

THE Bii^qtrif t« 


'od a wide exteojt ei thk romantic 
fXNftBtry, gave myself up to conteia- 
platum, sui4 the perusal of Milton'9 

My refiectioDS were naturally sug- 
gested by the singularity of this echo. 
To hear my own voice speak at a 
distance would have been formerly 
regarded as prodigious. To hear 
too, that voice, not uttered by an- 
other, by whom it might easily be 
mimicked, but by myself I I cannot 
now recollect the transition which 
led me to the notion of sounds, simi- 
lar to these, but produced by other 
means tiian reverberation. Could 
I not so dispose my organs as to 
make my voice appear at a dis- 
tance ? 

From speculation I proceeded to 
experiment. The idea of a dis- 
tant voice, like my own> was inti- 
mately present to my fimcy. I ex- 
erted myself with a most ardent de- 
sire, and with something like a per- 
4nasion that I should succeed. I 
•started with surprise, for it seemed 
as if success had crowned my at- 
tempts, f repeated the eflbrt, but 
failed* A certain position of the 
organs took place on the first at- 
tempt, altogether new, unexampled 
and as it were, by accident, for I 
could not attain it on the second ex- 

You will not wonder that I exert- 
ed myself with indefJEttigable zeal to 
regain what had once, though for 
so short a space, been in my pow- 
er. Your own ears have witnessed 
the success of these efforts. By per- 
petual exertion J gained it a second 
time, and now was a diligent observ- 
.er of the circumstances attending 
it. Gradually I subjected these finer 
and more subtle motions to the com- 
mand of my will. What was at 
first difficult by exercise and habit, 
was rendered easy. I learned to 
accommodate my voice to all the 
varieties of distance and direc- 

It canxkot be denied that this fa- 
culty is wonderful and rare, but 
when we consider the possible modi- 
fications of muscular motion^ how 

few of these ax« usuaQy exerted, 
how imperfectly they are subjected 
to the will, and yet that the will b 
capable of being rendered unlimit- 
ed and absolute, will not our Yfopr 
der cease ? 

We have seen men who could 
hide their tongues so perfectly that 
even an Anatomist, after the most 
accurate inspection that a living sub- 
ject could admit, has affirmed the 
organ to be wanting, but this was 
effected by the exertion of muscles 
' unknown and faicredible to the great- 
er part of mankind. 

The concurrence of teeth, palate 
and tongue, in the formation of 
speech should seem to be indispen- 
sable, and yet men have spoken dis- 
tinctly though wanting a tongue, and 
to whom, therefore, teeth andpalate 
were superfluous. The tribe of mo- 
tions requisite to this end, are wholly 
latent and unknown, to those who 
possess that organ. 

I mean not to be more explicit. 
I have no reason to suppose a pe- 
culiar conformation or activity in 
mv own organs, or that the power 
which I possess may not, witli suita- 
ble directions and by steady efibrts, 
be obtained by others, but I will do 
nothing to facilitate the acquisi- 
tion. It is by far, too liable to per- 
version for a good man to desire 
to possess it, or to teach it to an- 

There remained but one thing to 
render this instrument as powerful 
in my hands as it was capable of 
being. From my childhood, I was 
remarkably skilful at imitation. 
There were few voices whether of 
men or birds or beasts which I could 
not imitate with success. To add 
my ancient, to my newly acquired 
skill, to talk from a distance, and at 
the same time, in the accents of 
another, was the object of mv en- 
deavours, and this object, alter a 
certain number of trials, I finally 

In ray present situation every 
thing that denoted intellectual ex- 
ertion was a crime, and exposed me 
to invectives if not ta stripes. This 



circumstance induced me to be si- 
lent to all others, on the subject of 
my discovery. But, added to this, 
-was a confused belief, that it might 
be made, in some way instrumental 
to my relief from the hardships and 

restraints of my pi^sent condition* 
For some time I was not aware of 
the mode in which it might be ren- 
dered subservient to tliis end. 
ITo be continued,] 


The Rulinj^ Passion: an occamonal 
poem. IVritten by (he apfiointment 
of the Society of tfie <I> B K, and 
sfioken^ on their jinniversary^ in 
the Cliafiel of the Univerhity^ 
Cambridgey July 20, 1797, By 
Thomas Patne, a. m. PubUshed 
according to act of Congress, 
Boston,.„Manning and Loring, 

The interest with which we read 
this poem, was increased by the 
recent and melancholy termination 
of the author's lifc.Mr* Paine was 
considered and respected by those 
who knew him, as a scholar and a 
poet. Several circumstances tended 
to embitter his life ; and over his 
death, those who have most injured 
him, will have most cause to lament. 
It is, however, not our province or 
desire to dwell on his history, nor 
are we possessed of sufficient infor- 
mation concerning him, to become 
his just and satisfactory biogra- 

The Poem before us was printed 
in Boston , 1 797. As we do mean to 
confine our attention entirely in our 
reviews to recent performances, 
we shall, from time to time, give 
some account of selected works 
which we deem above the common 
level of American poetiy....In this 
class, we have no hesitation in 
placing the " Ruling Passion."..... 
It discovers in its author very con- 
siderable talents at satire, and a 
pupil who has studied in the school 
of Pope. Notwithstanding the me- 
rits of this poem, and its just title 
to the notice of criticisms, we have 
never seen it mentioned in the 
American prints. 

Mr. P. in his Riding Passion, 
after representing man as a world 
of wonders in himself, and in some 
respects inexplorable, then endea- 
vours to descrilje him as he seems 
to be^ and draws several pictures 
of persons actuated by a predomi- 
nant passion... .Some of tiiese dis- 
cover strong and vivid touches of 
a keen and harmonious pencil.. ..• 

Though some of the characters are 
of the same nature with those 
painted by Pope in his first moral 
epistle, yet they bear not the least 
impression of imitation.. ..we trust 

that our readers will acknowledge 
the propriety of our commendation, 
when they have read and examined 
the following extracts......Mr. P. 

after comparing men to animals, 
represents life as a Print-shop, 
where we may trace different out- 
lines in everv face. ..he paints the 
beau as fashion's gossamer ^ and 
then in a rapid transition, presents 
before us a character of a very dif- 
ferent description : this is a Pedant 
deefi and duU^grax^e tvithout senscj 
o*erfiovnngy yet not fuU* 

In embodying this character, the 
poet thus proceeds : 
" See, the lank book-worm, pil'd 

with lumbering lore, 
Wrinkled in Latin, and in Greek 

With toil incessant, tbumbt the an- 
cient page. 
Now blot9 a hero, now turn* down a 

0*er learning's field, with leaden eye 

he strays, 
'Mid busts of, and msnumenti 

of praise. 
With Gothic foot, he treads onfimrrt 

of taste. 



Yet stoops to pick* the pebble* from the 

Profound in triilcs, he can tell, how 

"Were iEsop*s legs.. Urg^ was 

Tully's wart; 
And, scal'd by Gunter, marks, with 

joy absurd. 
The cut of Homek's cloak, and Eu« 

clid's beard! 

Thus through the weary watch of 

sleepless night, 
This learned ploughman plods in 

piteous plight; 
Till the dim taper takes French leave 

to doze. 
And the fat folio tumbles on his 


The following picture of the 
Miser, we think deserving of high 

« Next comes the MxsER....palsied, 
jealous, lean. 
He looks tiie very skeleton of 


'Mid forests drear, ht haunts, in spec- 

tred gloom. 
Some desert abbey, or some Druid's 

tomb ; 
Where, hcrs*d in earth, his occult 

riches lay, 
Fleeced from the world, and buried 

from the day. 
With crutch in hand, he points his 

mineral rod, 
Limps to the spot, and turns the well- 
known sod ; 
While there, involv'd in night, he 

counts his store. 
By the soft tinklingsof the golden ore, 
He shakes with terror, lest the moon 

should spy, 
And the brc*eze whisper, where his 

treasm-es lie. 

This wretch, who, dyings would not 

take one piJl, 
If, iivihj^t he nnist pay a doctor's bill, 
btjll cliiigs to lite, of every joy bereft ; 
i/.j GoJ iu gUdy ami his i^le i^ioh ileft ! 
And, as ot vorc, when mudcni vice 

V atj srrai.;:^e, 
C'juld U itlfcrn iiK>jiey pass on 'Change, 
Hts lepjle soul, v.hoic reaooniiig 

pi>wciik arc jicnc 

V/lt..»t» iUl- lo^k bwUhds of CEXT PER 

Would %ooxitT coin bis eari, than stocks 

should fall. 
And cheat the pillory, than not cheat 


The last extract which we shall 
offer from this meritorious poem, is 
the description of the Savoyard on 
his native hills ; and while we offer 
it, we assert with confidence, that 
it is equal to any similar represen- 
tation contained In the celebrated 
Pleasures of Memory^ 

•* To fame unknown, to happier 
fortune born, 

The blythe Savoyard haiU the peep 
of mom ; 

And while tht fluid gold his eye sur- 

The hoary Glaciers fling their dia- 
mond blaze ; 

Geneva's broad lake rushes from its 

Arve gently murmurs, and the rough 
Rhone roars. 

Mid the cleft Alps, his cabin peers 
from high, 

Hang^ o*er the clouds, and perches on 
the sky. 
> O'er fields of ice, across tha headlong 

From dill to cli.f he bounds in fearless 

While, far beneath, a night of tem- 
pest lies, 

Deep thunder mutters, harmless light- 
ning flies ; 

While, far above, from battlements 
of snow. 

Loud torrents tumble on the world 
below ; 

On rustic reed he wakes a merrier 

Than the lark warbles on the " Idet 

Far oft, let Glory's clarion shrilly 
swell ; 

Ife loves the music o£ his pipe as well. 

Let shouting millions cro\\n the he- 
roe's Iwad, 

And Pride her tessellated pavement 
tread ; 

More hap;>y far, this denizen of air 

Enjoys vha- Na'iurc condescends t» 
sjiare :.... 

His da) s are jocund, undisturbed his 
nighls ; 

His spi. use coiv.ent% him, and his mv/* 
(itii' h-.s'. " 



The poem closes with a just tri- 
bute to the memory of the greatest 
character which this country, or 
this age has produced*. .to our peer- 
less Washington ; who, greater 
than the Cobham of Pope, deserves 
the celebration of k bard, as pre- 
eminent in the walks of poetrv, as 
he Vas in the military and political 

For the Literary Magaxme* 

History of the British Ejc/iedition 
to EgyfU ; to vfhich is subjoined^ 
a sketch of the present state of 
that country audits means ofde^ 
fence. Illustrated vrithmafis^and 
a portrait of Sir Ralph Mer^ 
trcmbym By Robert Thomas 

Wilson^ lieutenant colonel of ca^ 
vairy in his Britannic Majesty's 
serine e J and knight <ft)ie Impe'- 
rial Military Order qf Maria 


IngcnB, Insigne, Recens, adhuc 
Indictum ore alio. Hor. 

Philadelphia: published by Cor- 
rady isf Co.-~nonsal ksf Mlcs^ 
Printers^ fVilmingtonm^^p. p. 

This narrative is drawn up by 
An oiBcer, whose education and 
pursuits appear to have been chiefly 
confined to military affairs. His 
professed object indeed is the British 
expedition to £g>pt> and though a 
soldier has abundant opportunities 
of indulging a liberal curiosity in the 
scene of his exploits, and has some- 
times more advantages for literary 
and scientific rescrxrchesthfin other 
men, Colonel Wilscn appears to 
^ee little beside the movements of 
the army and records little beside 
their movemements. He is actu- 
ated likewise by the national :ind 
professional spirit, and is not slow 
to asiert and vindicate the reputa- 
ticn of the troc4)8 to whica he be- 

It is to be expected that on^ 
knowledge of Egypt will be greatly 
enlarged by the rejjorts of British 
travellers, whom the temporary do* 
minion of their nation in that coun- 
try, will have enabled to inquire 
'and examine for themselves* Co- 
lonel Wilson gives us reason to fornn 
expectations of this kind. He men- 
tions several persons who penetrat- 
ed much farther than anjr of the 
French, into Nubia and mto the 
western deserts. By these the world 
will probably be furnished with the 
means of corroborating or correct^ 
ing the accounts of the French, and 
thus, whatever evils have befallen 
humanity in the Egyptian war, Eu- 
ropean curiosity will be greatly in- 
debted to it. 

This militar)"^ narrative is plain 
and distinct. It is adorned with no 
flowers of rhetoric, and enlivened 
by few of those minute circumstan- 
ces, which give interest and colour* 
ing to a picture. On this account^ 
though, perhaps, less amusing to 
the general i*eader, it is more in- 
'structivetothe military one. 

Among the articles of general 
interest, the following; account of 
Rosetta and the Nile, » one of the 
most striking, as it shews the dif- 
ferent lights in which the same ob- 
ject will present itself to .different 
spectators : 

" The ofTiccrs of tlie English ar- 
my who went to Rosetta, expected 
to find Savary's glowing description 
of its beauties realized, as they had 
found some justice in his remarks 
on that Desert, which separates 
Aboukir and Alexandria. Their 
mortification was extreme, to dis- 
cover that the boasted delights of 
this city only consisted in compari- 
son. The sight of verdure after 
that ban*en waste is a gratifying 
n'5vclty,which pleases and fascinates 
the eye, in projjortion to the pre- 
vious suffering of tlie traveller, re- 
lieving his despondency, and charm- 
ing the seniics. For two or three 
miles immediately on the bank of 
the Nile, towards St. Julicn, is cer- 
tainly u luxui'iant vegetuliouy but 



htytmH tibaft, ind over in the Delta, 
the scenery is bleak. To the south, 
hiils of sand are only to be seen. 

<' Rosetu is built of a dingy red 
brick ; a great part of the town is 
In itiina, many of the houses having 
been puDed down by the French for 
Ibel : the streets are not more than 
two yards wide, and full of wretches, 
which the pride of civilized man 
revolts at, to acknowledge human. 
The number of blind is prodigious ; 
nearly every fifth inhabitant has 
-loat, or has some humour in Ills 
eyes ; the erysipelas, the dropsy, the 
lepro^, the elephantiasis, idl kinds 
Off extraordinary contortions, and 
hisus nature, constantly oflfend the 

^ Filth, musquitos of the most 
dreadful sort, vermin of every kind, 
women so ugly, that, fortunately 
lor Europeans, their faces are con- 
cealed by a black cloth veil, in which 
two eye holes are cut, stench into> 
lerable,houses almost uninhabitable, 
form fhc charms of Rosetta and 8a- 
Tary's garden of Eden. ITie quay 
is alone a handsome object, and this 
certainly mig^t be made noble. On 
it General D*Estaign had fitted up 
a bouse in the Italian style, in whidi 
were the only dean apartments in 
the city, excepting a house belong- 
ing to Mrs^D'Arcy. 

"The Nile, the celebrated Nile, 
afforded, uncombined with its boun- 
ties and wonderfiil properties, no 
pleasure to the sight ; the muddy 
stream , rotten banks, putrify in g with 
the fatness of the slime, left from 
the waters ; its narrow breadth, not 
toeing more than a hundred yards 
across, impressed with no idea of 
majes^ ; hut a reflection on the 
miraculous qualities of this river, 
ananticipation of the luxuries which 
the very kennelly waters would af- 
ford, rendered it an object of con- 
aderable gratification. 

«' The baths at Rosetta were es- 
teemed very fine, and Savary de- 
scribes them as such; therefore 
they must be mentioned. Tlie cu- 
rious stranger enters first into a 
large saleon, where many people 
are laying naked in bed, or getting 

VOL. 1....N0. II. ^ 

up, having perfemied their aUui* 
tions ; he then passes through nar« 
row passages, smelling offensive^ 
ft^m the abuses allowed in theooif 
whilst each becomes gradually 
warmer, till theateam heat is almost 
intolerable ; when he arrives in the 
room where the baths are, he sees 
a number of naked people, in vari^; 
ous attitudes, some in the water^ 
others rubbing down by the atteni* 
dants, with gloves filled with coU 
ton. Their horrid squalled figures^ 
with their bald heads, excepting a 
little tuft of hair on the crown, and 
bristly black beards, made the place 
resemble a den of satyrs. No scene 
could be more disgusting; and 
it is astonishing how any person 
could remain five minutes, since 
the air is so tainted and oppressive* 
Hundreds of English, attracted by 
the description, attempted to getaa 
far as the baths, but were oblige^ 
to turn back when they had advanc- 
ed a little way. The Mosaic pave*' 
ment, witli which, however, the 
floors are paved, is really beautiful^ 
and repays some inconvenience." . 

Among the many accounts %e 
have received of tlie Egyptian pea- 
sants, the following deserve^ a con- 
spicuous place : 

^<A11 language is insufficient to 
give a just idea of the misery of an 
Egyptian village; but those who 
have been in Ireland may best sup- 
pose the degree, when an Irish hut 
is described as a palace, in compari- 
son to an Arab's stye, for it can be 
called by no other name. 

^^ Each habitation is built of mudt 
even the roof, and resembles in 
sliape an oven : within is only one 
apartment, generally of about ton 
feet square. The door does not ad- 
mit of a man's entering upright; 
but as the bottom is dug out about 
two feet, when in the room, an erect 
posture is possible. A mat, some 
large vessels to hold water, which 
it is the constant occupation of the 
women to fetch, a pitcher made of 
fine porous clay, found best in Up^ 
per Eg>-pt, near Cunie, and in whi^]^ 
the water is kept very cwA^ a r{^ 
pan, and coffee-pot, ar^all the qj^ 



Baments andutenrilt. Here then 
a whole fkmily eat and sleep, with- 
out any consideration of decency or 
deanlinesB, being in regard to the 
latter, worse even than thebcastv of 
the field, who naturally respect their 
own tenements* It was scarcely 
possible to witness this disgusting 
scene, to behold men, women, and 
children so wretched, so hideous, 
and so abject, without reflections 
not very conforming to doctrines, 
which for the happiness of tlie world 
should be inculcated ; and the beau- 
tiful reasoning of the philosopher 
and poet, was scarce suihcient to 
check tlie presumptuous discon- 

" All the villages have high mud 
walls, flanked with little towers of 
the same material, to protect tliem 
from the Bedouin Arabs. At night 
a const .nt guard is mounted, and 
the faithful dog, who in Egypt is 
treated with such barbarity, pro- 
tects the thankless roaster's proper- 
ty ; for the magazines of corn are 
formed on the outside of the walls, 
otherwise they would be too extend- 
ed for the inhabitants to defend. 
•ITie property of eacb village is de- 
posited m one place, every iudi* 
vidual owner heaping up his own 
rick) and keeping it distinct from 
his neighbours, by preserving a path 
ronnd. l^us the depot resembles 
a com field in England, only more 
compressed, previously to its pro- 
duce being carried into the bams : 
but the interior regulations of these 
little independent states, and gene- 
ral system of government in the 
country, are beyond the limits of 
• this work ; nor could they be so well 
described as General Keynier has 
succeeded in doinp^, who has exem- 
plified these details in a very in- 
structive and able manner, since his 
knowledge and talents were not, as 
in his Military History, fettered 
with prejudice. A perusal of his 
work is well worth tlic attention of 
every man to whom legiblulion is in- 

The following picture of Cairo is 
another u**tiju«ce uf ihediffeient im- 

pressions excited in diflferent naoAB 
by the same objects : 

** The inspection of Grand Cairo 
was no less big with dinappointinent* 
The French had anticipated on their 
arrival the sight of magnificent 
buildings, grand squares, sumpto- 
ous decorations, a general appear- 
ance of wealth and riches, of com- 
merce, the enjoyment of every lux^ 
ury in all the profusion of eastern 
splendor, in short, a capital wheie 
their recreations would amply com* 
pensate them for the misery they 
had suflfcred on their route tliither. 
This city they fondly fancied to have 
been the emporium, which was the 
object of the expedition, and the re- 
ward of France to them for their 
services in Europe. Great there- 
fore was their disappointment, whea 
tliey saw none of Uiese expectations 
realized, but on the contrary, the 
desperate certainty that they were 
involved in a wretchedness, from 
which they could not escape. 

** The English, instructed by their 
error, expected little, yet did not 
reduce their ideas low enough. 

" ITie town of Boulac, which it 
the great suburb of C:aro, was one 
heap of ruins, having been destroy- 
ed by the French during the siege 
in the insurrection in the year 17^. 
A few wretched hovels, and two or 
three barracks, were the only re- 
maining buildings of tliis once large 
and populous fauxbourg. 

" The city of Cairo itself is also 
very much shattered at tlie diflfer- 
ent entrances ; the streets are about 
two yards wide, the houses very 
high, and built of brick, like those 
of Rosetta. 

" The palaces of the Beya are 
large ; two or three of them are 
very fine buildings; particularly 
Cassan Bey's, where the Institute 
was held, and the house in Place Be- 
quicr, in which Kleber lived, and 
in the garden of which he was mu!-- 

• He was stabbed whilst walking on 
a terrace, and several drops of his 
blood still mark the railing against 
which he staggtreU. 



" Place Bequier is a large open 
sqnare, where most of the 2e)'s re- 
sided, but many of their houses have 
been destroyed by the French ; in- 
deed, one whole side is in ruins. 
This place has, however, been 
otherwise improved by them, trees 
being planted on cacli side of the 
roads, which cross the square at 
right angles, and fosses having been 
dug to retain the water, with the 
view of checking the dreadful quan- 
tity of dust wliich flics from the 
sand and ruins always in the even- 

'* To conceive the true n^iture of 
this insufferable nuisance, the whirl- 
wind of other countries must l)e ima- 
gined as occurring every evening, 
and fillin,^ the whole atmosphere of 
I^pt with burning dust, and the 
light particles of rubbish. Thus the 
only part of the day which is tolera- 
ble from the diminution of heat, can- 
not be taken advantage of as the op- 
portunity for exercise, ♦ 

" llie French had intended to 
have opened the streets of Cairo, 
and formed through Place Bequier 
a magnificent road from the citadel 
to Giza ; but the distraction of the 
tiroes did not allow of these im- 
provements being attended to, and 
thus the city bears irretrievable 
monuments of their ravages, with 
very few indeed of their benefits. 
The bairas or exchanges, which the 
merchants occupy, are large square 
buildings, divided into little shops, in 
which the treasures of tlie caravans 
were deposited. Since the aiTival 
of the French, none had come from 
Arabia, and even an unwashed 
shawl was not to be bought. 

" Th« citadel, in which the P^- 
cha was always kept as a kind of 

• Independent of this general state 
«f the atmosphere, large pillars of dust 
and wind arc always visible. Some- 
times in the circle of the horizon %v.'cn- 
% are to be seen, and scarcely ever 
fewer than four or live. ' Their force 
19 very great, and the tents were in- 
^antiy blown into the air by them- 

state prisoner, is a miserable paltry 
castle and the avenue of houses lead« 
ing to it is horrible. In the citadel 
is the celebrated well called Joseph's, 
being dug in the time of a Vizir 
bearing that name. It is excavat- 
ed in the rock, is two hundred and 
eighty feet deep, and forty-two in 
circumference. Winding stairs lead 
gradually to the bottom, and some 
way down, oxen are employed ih 
turning the wheels to raise the wa- 
ter, which is very brackish. 

*• l^he circumference of the city 
of Cairo, including the suburb of 
I3oulac, is six miles } and yet this 
place, till lately, whs considered in 
the east, and partially through Ei^- 
rope, as tlie largest capital in the 

" Th« people were excessively 
dirty, mostly affected in their eyes ; 
and swarms of beggars, distort- 
ed, or unnatural formed wretches, 
crowded the streets. The manners 
and customs of the inhabitants arc 
so well delineated in the Arabian 
Nights Entertainments, that every 
one has been agreeably made ac- 
quainted with them." 

The sequel of this work con- 
tains some valuable particulars re- 
specting the disensesof Egypt. The 
author maintains that the plague is 
local, occasioned by a corrupted at- 
mosphere, and never introduced by 
contagion* This appears to be the 
creed of the French physicians, and 
is made at least plausible by the facts 
enumerated by the author. Indeed 
the metUcal science is that branch 
of knowledge which will be most 
indebted to the campaigns in Egpyt. 

The catalogue of major and mi- 
nor x>lagues to which Eg}'pt is suIj- 
Ject, is a terr^bl^; list. T^^y ^X^ 
sucli as to deter any reasonable 
being froni ev^r residingan the coun- 
try, who has the choice of lca\ ing 
it ; but we are not thoroughly ap- 
prized of those advantages which 
belong to the country, and of the 
influence of custom to inure us t^ 
physical and moral cyils^ 



i'bf the Literary Magazine* 

O for the heart whose snaicious arms 

Can bear the world along ; 
Whose ear, no jarring note alarms, 

In Nature's general song! 

Who hears from all that be, arise 
The harmonies of praise, 
. And Echo bring them from the skies. 
As in primaeval days : 

Like him that made, preseires and 

The scene abroad displayed : 
O ! for the mind, whose eye extends 

To all that He has made ! 

That can the boon divine bestow 

Of universal love. 
And boundless praise ( since all bx- 


. For the Literary Migazine. 

Thxeb days had passed with linger- 
ing steps away, 
While I to narrow verge confined. 
To body's pain and solitude a prey. 
And sad unrest of mind. 

The fourth serene and painless rose, 

I hie me to thy door; 
It opens, but thy altered aspect shews 

An open heart no more. 

A ttranger I, thou hail^d'st me Friend 
no more ; 
Nor welcome sweet bestowed : 
No questions that the absent past ex- 
In tender accents flow'd. 

A brow, -alas! severely bent, was 

Reluctant was thy hand; 
Thy eyes, that so serenely us'd to 

Their sternest |^lance command. 

To tedious exile from thy conrerte, I* 
By sickly blasts consigned, 

A respite from the long-drawn, loneljf 
At some time hoped to find. 

Ah, Laura, wilt thou snatch that hop« 
And lost must I believe thee \ 
Not merely take from life its deareat 
Of life itself bereave me. 

For the Literary Magaiine. 


JENNER, permit a muse unknown 

to fame 
To twine a scanty wreath around thf 

Proceed and prosper in the generouB 

Of mitigating woes of suffering roan. 
While gentler gales exhale their fra- 
grant breath 
'TIS thine to blunt another dart of 

death ; 
In Pity's service bear a noble part. 
Nor check the ardor of thy glowing 

To quench the burning pang, the fe- 
verish groan. 
Most sure be incense sweet at Mercy's 

Go on, secure that heaven thy viewB 

will bless. 
And crown thy efforts with the wish'd 

At length the slaughterous rage of 

war must cease. 
Ah! then go forward in the works of 

In foremost rank with spotless fla^ 

Publish thy mission to a listening 

Behold ! our plains luxuriant catch tl^ 

And spread with joy the grateful tid» 

ings round ; 
'Midst hardy sons of northern lands 

They reach the climes that own % 

burning kon. 



€ytt tlic blue mutt of AUcghany rise. His stride is dreadful to the fields of 
Mingling with purest airs of western strife, 

skies; And his bright armour fear-strik«a 

Down the bold stream of fair Ohio hosts of men. 

roll. He like a God by all his clan is fearedi 

And fill with pleasingawe the farmer's His nod, his look, is by them all 

toul ; obeyed. 

Diffusing balmy comfort far and wide One who had dared to question his 
Float <m the waves of Missisippi's tide. command 

Even 'midst the forest's dark and Was piece-meal hewn by his indignant 

gloomy round, sword, 

Where yet the woodman's axe must And thrown to blood-hounds to regale 

not resound, their thirst. 

The future mothers, as their babes He has withstood the threats and 

they kiss, power of kings. 

Shall breathe a prayer to heaven for And plans to seize him ft«quently hat 

p« D« • Many strange tales concerning him 
are told 
Expressive of his fierce and wayward 

Jenner's bliss. 
December^ 1801. 

A band of men his lofiely steps had 

Far from his mountains to a hoUow 

Within their grasp they thought their 

prey secure, 
And £IIed the air with saucy shouts 

of joy. 
But as they cagcriy press'd on to seize 
SKIRTING the north a chain of The mighty robber in his hollow nook, 
mountains spreads. He disappointed all their hopes of 

That with their blue heads pierce the triumph. 

F^r the IMerary Magazmcm 


An. Extract fivm a Mamucri/it 

passing clouds. 
No culture tames the fierceness of 

their soil ; 
The larch-tree climbs their steep and 

rocky sides, . 
In which with toil some miSan-hordes 

have deivod 
Some wild and darksome dens; from 

which they come 
At night's still hour, in search of 

food and spoil 
And urged by thirst of blood. These 

bands are led 
3yARTABANofgiant-port, and skilled 

Collecting all his strength, he dashed 

to earth 
The foremost who advanced, and with 

a bound 
Flew o'er the heads of those who yet 

press'd on, 
And swift as lightning disappeafed 

from view; 
Nor could their search discover his 

A pilgrim clambering o*^r the rocks 

Sought shelter from the storm within 

his cave, 

In wiles, and all the robber's artifice. Artaban^ then was prowling on the 

His arm desc(^nds like some high-fall- plains. 

ing tmver The stranger wearied threw hinrself 

On the sad stranger wandering in the to rest 

dark, On some dry-leaves, and closed hts 

And, like a whirlwind, in his wrath, eyes in sleep. 

he sweeps He had not slumbered long when he 

Unsheltered viUages,ung\iardedfiocks. was roused. 

Grim visaged man ! none but tlie By the loud blast of an approaching 

brave can meet horn. 

The terrors of his dark and flashing And by the entrance of the scowling- 
eye, thief. 

Or mark the bend of his o*ershado>V' The pilgrim started from his bed of 

iag brows..., leavts. 



AsTABATc's dress, his manners and Rov'd o*er the figure of the trembling 

his looks man ; 

Told what he was : and the affrighted But when he saw him poor, in tat- 

man tered cloths 

Waited in terror his descending With age worn down» he gently bade 

blow. him stay, 

The chief of robbers when his eyes Rest on his leaves and fear from him 

first met no harm. 

The stranger sheltered in his rugged When morning came he led him on 

cave his way, 

ynsheathed his sword, and with his And him in peace and betur garb dia« 

•yes on fire, missed. i. o. 



This man. being of an ardent 
«pirit and an enterprising soul, by 
the eccentricity of his character 
divided the opinion of the world.... 
By some he was supposed equal to 
the highest enterprises; while others 
regarded hin^ as a desperate ad- 
venturer: but by his wit and the 
lively display of his talents, he had 
gained the confidence of M. de 
bartine and the Count de Maurepas, 
who afterwards employed him in 
^\c most dangerous attempts. 

l\)wards the close of the year 
1774^ Parades completed his tour 
through Swisserland and the lower 
Valais, where making himself a- 
greeable to several persons of sci- 
ence and distinction, he was em- 
ployed as an engineer; in which 
capacity he formed the superb pix)- 
jcct of opening, by means of a canal 
from the Rhone, a communication 
between Geneva and the Vircntin, 
the object of which was to render 
France mistress of an imnicnj»e 
commerce. This plan was laid be- 
fore the Marquis de Vergcnnes, 
then ambassador to the Swiss Can- 
tons, who judging it of the highest 
importance, sent the projector, 
with letters of recommendation, to 
the Comte de Vergcnnes at Paris, 
where he ftrri\'ed early in the year 
3 778, and took the title of the Comte 
«le Parades, fir the first time. 

UsifortuHH-lclv for the kingdom of 
France, and the honour and advan- 
tage of the engineer,this scheme was 

laid aside : but France then being im 
a state of fermentation, in expect- 
ancy of a war with England, Parades 
entertained hopes of being once 
more actively employed. Having 
well weighed the probabilities of 
his future fortune, he resolved to 
]>a88 over into England, to acquire 
an accurate knowledge of the 
strength of Great-Britain ; of her 
forces by sea and land ; of her ma- 
ritime fortifications; with such 
other information as might form the 
basis of his future exaltation. 

He put his design into execution, 
and early in February arrived in 
England, where he visited all the 
principal towns ; examining every 
tiling worthy of notice, and digesting 
his remarks into a memorial, with 
which he arrivedat Paris in March. 
This memorial was presented to 
M. de Sartine, who praising his 
zeal expressed his satisfaction, and 
recommended another journey into 
Kngland, entirely for the purpose 
of jjrocuring correct plans of every 
sea-port ; to learn the separate sta- 
tions of the Britisli navy ; the num- 
ber of ships of war ready for sea, 
with those refitting and building; 
the condition of the magazines and 
dock-yards ; and, in short, of every 
thing connected with the English 
maritime resources. 

Parades accordingly quitted Ver- 
Riillcs a second time, and soon after 
arrivcvtl in England, whore he mo^ 
strictly fulfilled his commission: he 

xsMoiRS or cotrvT ss paxasbs. 


ttieB returned to Paris, tad was 
still more warmly i^ceired by the 
minifiters of France* 

M« de Sartine wishing to establish 
fiuthliil agents (or rather spiesO &t 
every port of consequence, sent 
Parades a third time to England, 
with 35,000 livres, to be properly 
disposed of^ This indefatigable par- 
tizan, after several dlsappoint- 
ments, at length discovered a per* 
ton who exactly suited his purpose ; 
and this person agreed to procure 
him all the information he required, 
on condition of receiving a stated 
worn as adeposite, and 100/. sterling 
per month* All being agreed oi>, 
thb traitor to his country introduced 
him to two Jews, in whom (he said) 
Parades might confide, and with 
whom he set oif for London; a 
journey more interesting, but in- 
iiniteiy more dangerous, than the 
two he had undertaken before. 

By means of these conductors, 
and the letters of recommendation 
he was furnished with, (added to 
a complete knowledge of the En- 
glish language,) Parades got ad- 
mittance into every place he wished 
to visit. He received uivitations 
to dine from persons entrusted with 
the dock-yards, and other places of 
importance; where every move- 
ment was closely observed by him, 
and privately noted down. 

An adventure he met with in his 
third tour to Plymouth is so extra- 
ordinary, that it deserves record- 
ing, and shall be given in his own 

*• We entered Plymouth at mid- 
night, and though I had taken no 
rest during several days, yet I de- 
clined going to bed. My design was 
to reconnoitre bv break of day the 
citadel, which i had only imper- 
fectly viewed in my last two voy- 

^^ I took as my conductor, a la- 
bourer whom 1 met in the street, 
and arrived at the glacis a little after 
the opening of the gates. The two 
first centinels suffered us to pass 
freely, and when we had entered 
the place, I turned to the left up 
tkt slope that leads to iheramparU; : 

havingquickly traversed those parts 
of the fortification that overlooked 
the country, I repaired to the saliant 
angle of the bastion en the right of 
the road, where I took such sketched 
as were necessary. In about aa 
hour, I wished to change my situa* 
tion to the left bastion ; but in pas* 
sing aloni; the curtiiin, (for it l^ 
necessary to observe that no centiv 
nel is placed on the rampart in th0 
whole circuit of the place,) I was 
observed by a soldier mounting 
guard at a short distance ; this 
centinel, astonished to see two 
strangers on the ramparts at so 
early an hour, and whom he hsui 
not observed to pass, alarmed those 
at the guard-house: a serjeant 
and two fusileers approaching di« 
rectly towards me, nothing remain- 
ed but to set a rood face on the 
matter. I therefore leisurely de- 
scended the slope from the ram- 
parts, as though my walk had been 
finished, and met them on the plain s 
the Serjeant demanded my business 
in that place, where I ought to 
know that entrance is forbidden. I 
replied, tliat being a stranger, I 
was ignorant of the prohibition ; and 
tliat tlie man who was my conductor 
ought to have informed me of it, as 
he belonged to the town and might 
be expected to know how far it was 
proper to go. " Seize the rascal 
(cries the Serjeant,) and convey him 
to the guard-house." The soldiers 
seized my conductor by the collar 
and were dragging him along, when 
I immediately pulled out six guineas 
and presented them to the serjeant, 
saying in a low voice, " Let this 
poor devil go ; he has done wrong 
to be sure, but it is tlirough igno- 
rance." He pocketed my money, 
and tuniint; to the soldiers, called 
aloud, " Drive that rascal out, and 
take care he comes here no more." 
Afterwards addressing himself to 
me iu a softened tone, he said, 
" Perhaps your honour would wish 
to see the fortress; if so, I will 
conduct you over it; I will only 
leave my fiisil at the guard-housi-, 
and be with you in a moment." 
Placing no great confidence ia his^ 



word, I got rid of mf pipers by 
thnudng diem into the mouth of a 
camioD 1 aeemingljr examined ; hot 
I had no canae for distrust: my 
friend the Serjeant, after escorting 
me twice round the ramparts, de- 
scended with me into the batteries 
that command the Sound and the 
entrances of Cutwater and Ha- 
nioaze; the most complete works 
of their kind I ever beheld. 

^ After remaining nine hours in 
the citadel, where I took notes of 
all i saw, I thought it time to retire ; 
the Serjeant accompanying me to 
way inn, f there gratified him witli a 
present of two guineas more for his 
trouble. He then took leave, after 
assuring me, that he should be de- 
voted to me as Icmg as he lived* 
Previously to this I had withdrawn 
my papers from the cannon, finding 
that the danger was over. It wtU 
be seen in the sequence of what 
further utility this. man was of to 
me, and with what fidelity he served 

" I found ray two Jews at the inn, 
flatly alarmed at my long absence; 
and as the object of our journey was 
completely accomplished, we im- 
medlr.tely set out for London.'* 

So far M. Parades ; whose agent, 
not less active than himself, had 
made an agreement with a person 
dtsaflected to government and over- 
whelmed with debts, for the use of 
his vessel, which was to be under 
the direction and at the disposal of 
the French ministry, on the condi- 
tions of the owner's receiving 80(V. 
sterling per month, and the pro- 
duce ofall captures from the French 
and Americans. 

This vessel was occasionally em- 
ployed by Parades as a contraban- 
dier or smuggler, under whicli de- 
scription he got acquainted with the 
officers of Hurst Castle, and landed 
two cargoes of spirits at the garri- 
son; by which means he made 
himself fully ncxiuainted with the 
strength of that key to the Needles, 
and cnnccived the project of de- 
stroy in?; the British fleet at Spithead, 
by sending fire ships through tliis 
pafisagCi und also others &oxn the 

eastward from St« Heleoi, wowmt$ 
attack the fleet at each extremity; 
this plan was frnstrated by the cnv^ 
of his rivals, who, jealoos of his 
credit with the minister of marine, 
pretended to demonstrate the im- 
practicability of this scheme, which 
was in consequence laid aude. 

Parades having received adrioe 
from his trusty agent, that ordera 
were issued for die equipment of 
twelve sail of the line at Plymouth, 
under the command of Admiral 
Byron, whose destination was Ame* 
rica, despatched a courier to inform 
M. de Sartine: tliough the destina* 
tion of this armament was kept 
secret, Parades found means to 
inform the French minister of the 
progress made in its fitting out, and 
the day that was fixed for its de- 

l*he English minister having re« 
ceived advice of the sailing of 2S 
ships of war from Brest, was afraid 
they had quitted that port with aa 
intention of attacking iSyron's squa- 
drcR ; in consequence of which, 
orders were dispatched to Admiral 
Keppel to sail immediately, with 
such ships as were then ready, tO 
reconnoitre the French fleet, but 
not to engage without urgent neces- 
sity ; to favour by his maneuvreSftbe 
progress of Byron, and not to lose 
sight of the enemy till he was sure 
Byron had gained a secure distance 
in the Atlantic ; after which he was 
to return to Portsmouth, where all 
the ships at that port were prepar- 
ing for sea with tlie utmost dis- 

Parades had judged of the desti- 
nation of these two British arma- 
ments, though it was kept secret in 
England, by Byron's squadron being 
quite complete and victualled for 
seven months; whereas Keppel's 
had provisions for only twenty days, 
and was greatly deficient in its 
complement of men ; and time 
evinced that he judged right* 

His advices and conduct were so 
satisfactory to M. de Sartine, that 
he promised him a pensicm of 6000 
livrcs from the king, to prompt him 
to further exertion. 



Admiral Kq)pel having sailed 
Brom Portsmouth pursuant to his 
orders, in quest of tlie French fleet, 
ibU in with it in the channel ; tnit 
as his orders ivere notto engage, he 
kept at a certain distance. 

The two fleets remained several 
days in sight of each other. The 
Count d'Orviliiers made no prepa- 
rations for attack, fearing to engage 
32 sail of the line, instead of 20, as he 
had expected ; and because he want- 
ed confidence ui the accounts with 
which Parades supplied him: so 
while those two fleets were watching 
each others motions, Byron's squa- 
dron escaped into the Western 
ocean. Keppel having fully ejie- 
cuted his orders, returned to Ports- 
mouth, carrying with him the two 
French frigates PallaisandLicome, 
which were taken by advancing too 
near to reconnoitre. 

From this distT-ust of Parades, 
the timeforattackingeither of these 
squadrons singly, and preventing 
Admiral Byron fulfilling his mission, 
was irretrievably lost, and its con- 
sequences felt during the whole 
course of the war. 

ETtractBfrom the corresfiondence 
qfan American in France, 

Aftek having made a stay of 
six weeks in Bourdeaux, I resolved 
Upon visiting Paris. Having ap- 
plied for and obtained my passport, 
I proceeded to make inquiries about 
the different modes of travelling. 
The distance from Bourdeaux to 
Paris is about one hundred and 
fifty leagues, which is only fifty 
leagues short of the entire length 
of France. The common Diligence 
makes the journey in six days, tra- 
vels very little in the night, and 
allows its passengers sufficient time 
for deep and refreshment. The 
Courier, which carnes the post,gocs 
from Bourdeaux to Paris in little 
more than four days. This car- 
riage admits but one passenger wlio 
is more hurried than a traveller 
would wish to be in a cx)uiitry so 
worthy of observation as France. 

TOL* !«•... NO. iz. 

It is so unusal to travel post here, 
that their post carriages, or cadrio" 
letsy are horrid machines, and un- 
safe conveyances. The inns on the 
road are so little accustomed to be 
visited by persons travelling post, 
that they are not prepared to re- 
ceive them. Every inn has its /a- 
ble d^hoUj and its regular hour for 
dinner and supper : those travellers 
who come at tiiis regular hour are 
sure of meeting with entertain- 
ment, at a moderate price ; but 
those who do not come at the regu- 
lar hour can hardly get any thing 
to eat. So that, all circumstances 
being considered, it is best to content 
one's self with the accommodation of 
the Diligences, which, being almost 
the universal mode of travelling in 
France, are put under very good 

While I was looking out for a 
conveyance to Paris, I was not a 
little surprised at reading, in an ad- 
vertisement respecting one of these 
Diligences, / 

** On ne mst pas de* boeuft k ce voi- 

De9 Aoeu/M / Oxen to a Diligence, 
give me a very strange notion of 
French travelling. But, upon mak- 
ing inquiries respecting that cir- 
cumstance, I was informed, that 
parts of the road had been, in win- 
ter, in such a wretched condition, 
that, in those bad spots, thcv pre- 
ferred oxen to horses, as having 
more dead strength, and being con- 
sequently better able to pull the 
carriages through the sloughs ; but 
as soon as the bad spots were pas- 
sed, the horses were again put to 
the carriage. Bofi.»rc I attempt de- 
scribing the country, I shxill first 
give you a description of tlie Frendi 
Diligences, which, as I be fore men- 
tioned, may be considered as the 
universal mode of travelling in 
France, and which is the only way 
by vkhicli money is remitted bettvccii 
Paris and the departments, whether 
for the national treasury, or the use 
of individuals. Almos tall the Dili- 
genccs in France belong to two 
or yiree great estabHsliniciUs xii 



Paris ,(the .principal of which is 
the company of Si, Simon*) They 
are, therefore, all of them so much 
alike both in their appearance, and 
their regulations, that a descrip- 
tion of one of them may be consid- 
ered a description of tliem all : and 
whoever has travelled in one French 
Diligence roust liave a pretty good 
idea of the universal mode of tra- 
velling in France. Those carriages 
are, in general, as good as the stage 
coaches in England, of nearly the 
same construction, and, like them, 
accommodate six inside passengers. 

Fresh horses and postilions arc 
taken every post (that is, every 
two or three leagues) and the 
drivers rewarded with a penny or 
two pence ft*om each passenger. 

As the carriage is driven by pos- 
tilions belonging to the post-houses, 
there is no coachman ; but, in the 
place of one, is sent a confidential 
person to take care of the carriage, 
be responsible for any incidental 
expenses, and see that the passen* 
gers are properly treated at the 
inns. This man is called le cou' 
ducteuvj or the conductor. Instead 
of a coach-box, there is in the front 
of the coach, a cabriolet, where 
one sits as comfortable as in a phae* 
ton, having, in fine weather, the 
advantage of air and prospect, and 
having curtains, by drawing of 
which one can, in bad weaUier, 
•shelter one*s self from its incle- 
mency. This cabriolet is the station 
of the conducteurj and admits also 
two passengers. 

The Diligences are in general well 
appointed and well regulated ; the 
horses good, and the travelling as 
expeditious us tlie state of the roads 
will admit oL 

The roads have been very much 
neglected since tlie revolution ; or, 
to speak perhiips more correctly, 
the government has been so distres* 
sed for want of money to carry on 
the war, that they have been oblig- 
ed to seize on those funds that were 
destined for the repair of the roads. 
This has been the cause of the pre- 
sent ruinous state of the roads in 
this country. Although the Dili- 

gences are, as before saidi very 
well appointed, yet it is impossible 
for an Englishman to avoid laugh* 
ing at the strange appearance 9f 
the French postiUons, m those ab- 
surd and monstrous machines, that 
they call 6oot9. 

They come up to the middle of 
the thigh, are thick enoa|^ for 
Ajax's ^eld, and are, I verily be- 
lieve, musket-proof. Sometimes 
these boots are not made of leather^ 
but of wood, covered with leather; 
they stand upright in the stable 
yard} and the postilion steps into 
them with the greatest ease. I can 
confidently say, that nothing of the 
burlesque has been exhibited on the 
sta^, or in the caricature shopSf 
which is more ludicrous Jthan the 
appearance of a French 'postilion 
in his boots* 

As there is no circulation of pa- 
per money in France, and aD re- 
mittances must be made in argent 
com/itanty or ready cash, which is 
sent by these carriages every Dili- 
gence carries a considerable sum 
of money, lliis gives such a tempta- 
tion to indigent and desperate men 
to attack these carriages for the 
sake of plunder, that the case occurs 
very frequently. The robbers are 
generally so well armed, and so nu- 
merous, that resistance is in vain ; 
but (luckily for the passen^frs) 
in order to give respectability to 
thdr vocation, tliey usually niake 
H a point not to plunder -or molest 
the travellers, and often abstain 
entirely from what is private pro- 
perty. They only demand the money 
of the Republic, with which they 
say they are at war, and profess to 
be royalist soldiers, and not rob- 
bers. There is another class of 
brigands however, who are not so 
scrupulous, but take whatever they 
can lay their hands on, without in- 
quiring, whether it is public or pri- 
vate property. This evil is grown 
to such an alarming height, that 
government has at length occupied 
itself seriously in directing such 
measures as wiU probably soon put 
an effectual stop to this species of 
brigandage. ITie conducteurj per- 



ceiYini^me to be a stranger, and con- 
aeqnently unacquainted witii the cus- 
tomsof travelling, ofleredto pay my 
expenses on the road, for which he 
would settle with me on our arrival in 
Paris. I gladly embraced this offer ; 
It saved me a good deal of trouble, 
and some money, as I should cer- 
tainly have given more to the postil- 
ions and servants than what is cus- 
tomary in this country. On my ar- 
rival at Paris, he presented my ac- 
count, and I found that my whole 
expense of travelling from Bour- 
deaux to Paris (which is farther 
than from London to; Edinburgh) 
amounted to about seven guineas. 
The journey took up six days, and 
we had sufficient time for deeping 
on the road. 

This, I think, may convey to you 
a tolerable idea of the rate and ex- 
pense of travelling in France. As 
to our living on the road, we always 
had two regular meals, the diner 
and the wupcr. At both those 
meals, the table was covered with 
a variety of dishes, and a pint of 
good wine was placed at each cor- 
ner. The diner was usually at ten 
or eleven o'clock, the soufier at 
iiveor six. An Englishman would 
rather call the first a meatibreak- 
&8t, and the last the dinner. 

The table was regularly covered, 
both at dinner and supper, and the 
soup and heavy dishes removed by 
poultry— ^'Wrr, or game of some 
sort, omelets, &c. and Vegetables; 
after whidi follows the dessert. 

When I talk of henvy dishes be- 
ing removed, you will probably 
wonder what I mean by heavy dishes 
in France. In the first place, there 
is always on the table a large piece 
of beef, which has been boiled for 
the soup. As France is as famous 
for soup and dpuiiUj as old England 
for roast-beef, the French cooks 
have the art (perhaps more than 
any other) of making good soup, 
without spoiling the meat, the best 
pieces of which are used here for 

A leg of mutton roasted, or, as 
they call it, un gigol dc mouton 
trtiiaee (which means dressed with 

charcoal, in distinction to baked 
meat) is a very favourite dish here ; 
there is always a roti either of beef, 
mutton, or veal ; but one does not 
see large joints roasted as with us. 

I believe that they do not know 
how to roast a large joint of meat 
in France: their little chardoal 
fires, and their kitchens (which are 
quite in Count Rumford's style) 
were not constructed for dressing 
very large jomts, and I doubt very 
much whether they have such a con- 
trivance as a jack for roasting meat 
in the whole country. 

I met once, among the side dishes, 
with a Jricaasee (^Jroga : as we 
have heard so much of this French 
dish, I was determined to taste it : I 
was helped to some of it, and 
thought it very nice. The frogs 
grow here to a much larger size 
than in England, the hind quarters 
only are eat. I am convinced, that 
if English frogs was as large as the 
Frendi, this dish, instead of being 
despised in England, would be oxm^* 
sidered a delicacy. The mention 
of French frogs and English beef 
reminds me of a story I heard told 
at a table d' /ic/r, by a French of- 
ficer of character. He said, that at 
a time when he was prisoner in 
England ; he was asked by an En-. 

fli^ officer, whether there was any 
eef\xi France ? -He answered, with 
much gravity, that there was not^ 
and that, for want of beef. French- 
men eat frogs. So I have heard, 
replied the Englishman . But then. 
Sir, rejoined the French officer, 
our frogs are of a very different 
kind from yours. They are almost 
as large as ;^our oxen !-— we plough 
our fields with them first, and then 
eat them. Indeed ! said John Bull, 
opening his mouth wide with as- 
tonishment, and swallowing the 
story of the French frogs, that were 
nearly as largje as English oxen. 
Having now given you a general 
view of my journey, I shall, in m^ 
next, give you a more minute cfetail 
of circumstances, and some de^ 
scription of the face of the coan« 

[Tb be carMnued.^ 




The Greek women have the 
face, which is beautiful and of an 
oval form , uncovered . Their eyes 
are black, as are also their eye- 
brows, to which, as well as to their 
eye-lids, they pay a particular at- 
tention, rubbing them over, to be- 
stow on them a deeper hue, with a 
leaden ore reduced to an impalpa- 
ble powder, blended with an unctu- 
ous matter to give it consistence. 
Their complexion is generally pale* 
They wear their hair, whidi is of a 
great length, and of a deep shining 
black, in tresses, and sometimes 
turned back, in a fanciful way, on 
the head. In other instances it hangs 
loosely down the back, extending 
to the hips. They are commonly 
dressed in a pelice of silk, satin, or 
some other material : they are cost- 
ly in their attire, in the choice of 
which they are not attached to any 
particular colour. On the head 
thev wear a small cap. 

The Greek women marry at 
about the age of fifteen ; they are 
short-lived. At twenty-five they 
wrinkle and decay, bearing t^e ap- 
pearance altogetlier of old women. 
They have tine children, who, how- 
ever, partake of the pallid com- 
plexion of the mothers. It is un- 
questionably to the too frequent use 
of the warm bath, to which the 
Greek women are so much habitu- 
ated, that their veiy relaxed and 
debilitated state is to be ascribed ; 
and this abuse, added to their natu* 
ral indolence and their inaction, 
as certainly tends to shorten their 

DR.WHITMAN'S account:^ THE 

About eight o'clock in the morn- 
ing the procession commenced ; but 
the Grand Seignior did not make 
his appearance until half past nine. 
The dresses of all those who com- 

posed the procession were splendid 
and costly. Tlie fine horses on 
which they were mounted, and 
more especially those of the eu- 
nuchs antl principal officers of state, 
were most gorgeously caparisoned^ 
the housings of many of them be- 
ing of gold embroidery, studded 
with precious stones, by which a 
very brilliant effect was produced. 
In the turban of tlie Grand Seignior 
was a beautiful aigrette of very 
great value, the diamonds of which 
it was composed being of uncom- 
mon magnitude. Several of his 
horses, on wliich his shield and va- 
rious trophies were carrried, were 
led in the procession; and being 
very richly caparisoned, and orna- 
mented with a profusion of dia- 
monds, rubies, and other precious 
stones, gave a brilliancy and mag- 
nificence to the scene, which far 
exceeded any idea I could have pre- 
viously formed of it. 

During the procession, a Turkish 
officer was constantly employed ia 
throwing on the heads of the popu- 
lace handfiils of new paras (small 
coins). The contest which ensued, 
to pick tliem up, affi>rded to the 
Turkish spectators no little amus^ 

The Grand Seignior, who was 
very superbly mounted, was follow- 
ed by his sword-bearer, carrying 
his sabre, the hilt of which was 
profiisely studded with diamonds. 
Next came several officers of his 
seraglio, richly dres&ed, bearing on 
cushions his turbans, ornamented 
with diamonds and other gems. The 
streets were lined on each side with 
janissaries, whose dress-caps ap- 
peared to me both ridiculous and 
unbecoming. As the Sultan passed 
along, he from time to time bowed 
with great affability to the people, 
all of whom prostrated themselves 
at his approach. 

The kisla aga, or chief of the 
eunuchs, officiated at the mopque, 
and wore on his return a valuable 
pelice and a rich caftan, with which 
the Grand Seignior had presented 
him. Several other caftans, of quali- 
ties suited to the rank of those for 



ivlioiii they were destined, were dis- •• cf« 

tribttted by the Sultan on this occa- Monthly Mirror 1 

aion.., •••••••••••• Spitome 6 

The procesMon was conducted ••• Visitor 1 

with great decorum, and through- Medical and Physical Journal 3 

out the whole of it, the best order Military Journal 3 6 

observed. It would be impossible Naval Biog;raphy 3 

to describe all the striking appear- Chronicle 3 6 

ances it exhibited, or to enter into ••. Magazine 1 

a detail of the great variety and ex- Navy List 6 

treme singularity of the magnifi- Naturalist's Miscellany 3 

cent costumes which were display- Nicholson's Journal 3 6 

ed. To be bricf-~it afforded to us Philosophical Magazine 3 

strangers a spectacle truly novel Repertory of Arts 1 6 

and interesting, and fully i-epaid us Sowerby's Botany 1 6 

for the trouble we had taken to be Sporting Magazine 1 

comprehended among the number tfniversal ditto 1 

of the spectators. By eleven o'clock Young's Annals of Agricul- 

the streets were cleared. ture 3 

Zoological Magazine 1 • 

IN LONDON (1800.) 

«• dm 

Army List sells at 1 
Anderson's Recreations in 

Agriculture 1 6 

Anti-Jacobin Review 2 

Arminian Maraizine 6 

British Critic Review 2 

British Magazine 1 6 

Britannic ditto 1 

Botanical ditto 1 

Critical Review 2 

Chirurgical ditto 1 6 

Commercial Magazine 1 

Cq)per-plate ditto 1 

Donovan's British Insects 10 

••••.•••••••'s Shells 2 6 

European Ma^zine 1 6 

Repertory 2 

Evangelical Magazine 6 

Fashions of London and Paris 1 6 

Gentleman's Magazine 1 6 

German Museum 1 6 

Gospel Magazine 1 6 

General Baptist's ditto 6 

Historical ditto 1 6 

I^ondcn Review 1 6 

London Medical Magazine 1 6 

Lady's Magazine 1 

Lady's Museum 1 

Monthly Review 2 

•.••• Magazine 1 6 

•*..*•• Preceptor 1 


THE mhabitants of the Algerine 
State are partly Turks, partly 
Moors, and partly Christians and 
Jews* Each of these fdur divisions 
contains different subdivisions* 

TheTurks have established them- 
selves here since the middle of the 
sixteenth century, and have ren- 
dered themselves so formidable* 
that tliat thev may be considered 
as tlic lords of the country. They 
are the nobility: their privileges 
are founded on their personal va^ 
lour ; and in their hands are aJl the 
offices and employments ; the other 
inhabitants being kept by them in a 
state of ignorance and subjection* 
All the Turks settled here, have at 
different times arrived eitlier as 
emigrants, or even fugitives, from 
the dominion of the Grand Seignior* 
According to the established con- 
stitution of Algiers, no native of the 
country can be a Turk : he only is 
considered as a genuine Turk, and 
enjoys the privileges annexed to 
that class, who is descended from 
Mahomedan parents, or bom of a 
Mahomedan mother, in th^ domi- 
nions of the Grand Seignor* Re- 
negadoes, who come from Turkey 
to Algisrs,are indeed in one respect 



esteemed Turks, but not so noble as 
the odiers ; holding a rank as much 
inferior to the genuine Turks, as 
the new to the old nobility in Eu- 
rope. 5 Formerly the number of 
Turks established at Algiers was 
from fourteen to sixteen thousand 
men : but now they at most amount 
to nine or ten thousand, among 
whom there are many invalids* 
The vacancies occasioned by death 
or otherwise, are filled up by re- 
cruiting, chiefly at Smjrma and 
Alexandria, where young men are, 
by tempting and fallacious promises, 
enticed to leave their native land, 
and enter into the service of the 
Dey. The recruits who here offer 
themselves are almost all of the 
lowest class of the populace, run- 
away artificers, shepherds, crimi- 
Tuds escaped from the hands of jus- 
tice, among whom there are not 
seldom muMerers and villians gpiil- 
ty of other the most atroaous 
crimes. Their first reception at 
Algiers answers not to their hi^h- 
wrought expectations : they receive 
a few coarse clothes, free quarters 
in the barracks, daily two small 
loaves of bread, and every other 
month 406 aspers. Twelve or 
even sixteen years may thus be 
passed, before a Turk is raised to 
the class of those who are entitled 
to the highest pay. Such as have 
relations, or exercise a trade, sub- 
sist tolerably well : the others over- 
run the country in bands, and live 
by plundering and robbing. These 
excesses are indeed sometimes pu- 
nished by the government : but, as 
the cause stUl continues to exist, 
they cannot be entirely suppressed. 
No wonder, then, if tKe Turks are 
hated by the Moors: but their 
hatred shews Itself in acts of ven- 
Mance only against such of them as 
singly stray too far into the country; 
for, on the whole, they are more 
feared than hated by the cowardly 

The Turks resident in Algiers 
are ignorant, proud in the highest 
degree, lazy, voluptuous, rev'cnge- 
ful and jealous : but then they are 
; t the same time faith^l, sincere, 

courageous, atid tolerant. . The 
meanest Turk esteems himself far 
superior to the Moors, Christians 
and Jews. These ideas of superi- 
ority, which he brings 'with him 
from his native country, are nou- 
rished and confirmed by the privi- 
leges he enjo^'s at Algiers. 

In repose and conveniency the 
inhabitant of the East places his 
chief happiness. Stretched in in- 
dolent ease on his carpet, the opu- 
lent Turk smokes with voluptuous 
relish his pipe, remains for hours 
in the same posture, drinks his 
coffee, slumbers between whiles 
when he has no company; takes 
sometimes by way of clutn^ a little 
opium; agtdn smokes his pipe; 
orders hb slaves to perfume him, 
and in particular his beard, with 
incense; and in such a round of 
enjoyments consumes the whole day. 
Those who are less favoured by 
fortune enjoy as much as they can, 
and for this purpose hasten to the 
coflfee-house, to smoke their pipes, 
at ease, to view the passengers, and 
enjoy the pleasant delirium arisrog 
from opium. Even the poor and 
indigent will live on a scanty por- 
tion of the coarsest food, tend wan- 
der about the streets dirty and 
covered with rags, rather than sub- 
mit to work. Nothing is able to 
rouse the Turk from his. inactivity ; 
he seems merely to vegetate, and 
to prefer this torpid state of exist- 
ence to every other. 

Tills indolence is accompanied 
witlx an unbounded propensity to 
sensual pleasures. A moderate 
passion ror the sexual intercourse 
is in this country a rare phenome- 
non. Not less excessive is the Al- 
gerine Turk in his jealousy i no 
punishment is so cruel, no deed so 
black, but the offended party will 
resolve upon, to wreak his ven-* 
gcance on his rival. As the Turk 
knows no higher happiness on eartlv 
than the gratification of his volup- 
tuous desires, and as his heart isfiilk 
of it, his lips overflow with it, and 
it forms the darling subject of his 
conversation : here his habitually 
serious countenance brightens up ; 



jiad his fimc^ Is sufficiently awak* 
eoed to iuniish him with the neces- 
sary imam. Those who are strong- 
ly built, live upon a generous and 
nourishing diet, belongto the beau- 
tifiil race^of man, and are justly 
renowned for hercidean TOwers. 
But as they enter upon tiietburse 
of pleasure at too early an age, they 
preserve the reputation of superioi^ 
prowess for only a short time. 

Avarice^ too, is a characteristic 
of the Turks at Algiers. Their 
original indigence lays the first 
foundation of this passion. In the 
sequel, domestic cares, and the 
extraordinanr expenditure neces- 
sary to smoom their way to promo- 
tion and to the offices of the state, 
render parsimony a duty, which at 
last degenerates mto the most sor- 
did avarice. The Turk, however, 
has likewise his good side. One 
may almost always rely on his word, 
and reckon upon his fidelity and 
promised assistance: he is a stranger 
to dissimulation and to deceitful 
evasions. A Turk will seldom se- 
cretly purloin any thing, whatever 
he takes, he takes openly and by 
force, from pride or revenge. He as 
much abhors cunning and deceit, 
as he does pusillanimity and cow- 
ardice. It must be observed, how- 
ever, that among the Turks their 
natural disposition to these virtues 
becomes considerably weakened in 
proportion as they rise^ high 
ncmours and dignities. 

The Turks not only think, but 
act tolerantly: at the most, they 
pity those who profess not their 
rehgioii. Some of them even think 
too nobly and rationally, to condemn 
^tfiose of a different persuasion 
merely for following the dictates 
and conviction of their consciences. 
Kay, there are not wanting in- 
stances of Turks exhorting their 
Christian slaves to the observance 
of the external rites of Christian 
worship. Renegadoes are by the 
most of them despised. In general 
the Algerine Tavk is equally a 
stranger to fanaticism and bigotry ; 
he hates both. 

The privileges and perogativei 
of the l\irk8 here are merdy per* 
sonal. They pay no poll-tax, and 
have an exclusive title to rise to the 
first offices of the state : to the dig- 
nity of Dq^f none but a geniiine 
Turk can be exalted. NoTurkcaa 
be punished except by the express 
command of the Dey : when con- 
demned to death, the mode of put- 
ting them to death, according to 
rule, is by strangling : sometimes^ 
though rarely and for secret reasons 
of state, the execution is performed 
by the administration of a dose of 
poison in a cup of coffee. To their 
otlier privileges must likewise be 
added, that they buy all the neces- 
saries of life at a lower price ; that 
from all gardens and vineyards 
which are not inclosed with high 
walls, they may take as much fruit 
as they can eat ; and that their tes« 
timony, all oiher circumstances 
being equal, is always preferred to 
and held oi more value than that of 
the Moors, Jews, and Christians... 
Their male children and descend- 
ants inherit only a small part of 
these privileges; and constitute a 
peculiar class of men, who are next 
in rank and dignity to the Turks. 

These sons, who spring from the 
marriages of Turks with women 
natives of Algiers, are called CoiO" 
lU or Coloria. They have the pri- 
vilege to be in cases of necessity 
admitted, by permission of the Dey, 
into the military. After their en- 
rolment, they are considered as 
equal to the genuine Turks, and 
advance like them in rank and pay. 
They may likewise be raised to civil 
offices of the state, but not to the 
first. The number of these Coloria 
is considerable, especially in the 
vicinity of the capitiil. Among 
them are ancient, rich, and res- 
pectable families. The sons even 
of the Dey hhpself belong to the 
class of Coloris; and consequently 
cannot succeed to the throne, or to 
any of the higher offices of state. 
It may even be asserted, that the 
richest and most considerable fami- 
lies of this country consist of Colo- 



ris; as &I1 the Beys, Califs and 
Caits are always Turks, who leave 
great wealth to their children. The 
Colons form a middle class betwixt 
the l\irks and Moors: they arc 
cerUunly the most dangerous ene- 
mies ot the domination of the 
Turks, and continual envy and 
mistrust subsists between bom par- 
ties, llie government therefore 
admits as few as possible of the 
Coloris into the military corps; 
nor ever employs them in secret 
and dangerous expeditions; and, 
in case of any dispute arising 
between them, always fiavours the 
Turks. With respect to the cha- 
racter of the Coloris, they resem- 
ble the Turks in being proud, vain, 
jealous and courageous; and like- 
Wise votaries of sensual pleasure, 
but more laborious and addicted to 
business. On tlie other hand, they 
partake of the perfidy and dissimu- 
lation of the Moors, and of their 
propensity to superstition* In bodily 
strength and structure, they arc 
not inferior to the Turks, and can- 
iK)t in this respect be distinguished 
from them. Being the descendants 
of the richest and most considerable 
men, many of whom have travelled 
into distant countries, the>' undoubt- 
edly belong to the most intelligent 
and cultivated part of the inhabit- 
ants of Algiers, from whose con- 
versation a European may derive 

entertainment and instruction 

They have likewise a genius for 
the arts ; and the most expert art- 
ists and artificers of the country 
are Coloris. 

The second grand division of the 
inhabitants of Algiers is the Moora. 
Under this general name are com- 
prehended the Moors pi-operly so 
called; the Cabyles^ mixed with 
Brebera {Berbers) ; and several 
proper Arabian tribes. The Moors 
m the Algerine dominions {Mauri 
Mauritani) must not be confounded 
with the JSTegroes^ the more so, as 
their natural colour is as white and 
beautiful as that of the natives cf 
the south of France, of Spain, and 
Italy. The coimtry people, indeed, 
who expose themselves half naked 

to thebummg rays of the sun, hatfe^ 
an adust and reddish-yellow appear- 
ance: but this is not the natural 
colour of their bodies. 

With respect to their moral cha- 
racter, the Moors of this country 
are i»ferior to the Turks. They 
are malicious, folse, cowardly^ 
revengefol, fanatical, ignorant^ su- 
perstitious, fraudulent, avaricious, 
and, as far as regards the lower 
class, likewise tiiievish and rapa- 
cious. But, then, they are more 
active than the Turks, and especi- 
ally have a turn for commerce and 
the mechanic arts. The Moors who 
live in die cities, do not appear in 
so odious a light: for, by their 
frequent intercourse and dealings 
with otlier nations, they become 
more polished. They are likewise 
for the most part, in easy circum- 
stances, and some of them even 
rich. The Turks are hated, and 
even despised, by the rich Moors; 
who reject and avoid ell connection 
and inter-marriage with them and 
the Coloris : but they dare not openly 
shew their hatred and pride; on 
the contrary, they are obliged to 
take refoge in dissimulation and 
flattery, and to purchase with prc- 
sents,patrons and protectors among 
the Turks. The less wealthy Moors 
in the towns are for the most pai:t 
artificers : many of them likewise 
follow tie sea service. Among Uic 
rich, and those of a higher rank, 
we find some, who even are fond 
of books, and apply to the study of 
the sciences ; but their knowledge 
extends not beyond the Koran, and 
history, as told by the Arabian 
writers and chronicles. The greatest 
villians in the cities are? found 
among the lowest class (^f Moors : 
these cannot be kept within bounds 
and restrained from crimes of eveiy 
kind, but by extreme j-cverity, bor- 
deHng on cruelty. The Biscaris 
form a small exception. Very few 
of the country people who are 
Mtiors are wealthy: the greater 
part ha^e hirdly a sufficiency to 
s cisfy their most pressing wants. 
On tiiera rests with cU its weight 
the de^lx)tic pressure of the^ovcrn* 

AtC0mM9 0F At«te&s« 


4Md ki %9»^fsiBttiMfregp and 
ftgents* They are ignorant, rude, 
«fid uncultivated, and strangers to 
|dl the advantages and comibrts of 
•ocial life. They retain the ancient 
custom of disthigi)ishine;^enise1ves 
by families and tribes, in the towns 
this distinction is no longer attended 
Ip: srhidicircttmsUnce would seem 
to corroborate the opinion of those 
«b0 nwinrwn that the inhabitants 
of the cities are descendants of the 
Moors whQ were expelled from 
Spain and Portugal. Many Moorish 
families do not remain constantly at 
a fixed place of abode, but lead a 
nomadical life. Some of the poorest 
^affc pn the estates of the wealthy 
Moors, Turks, or Colori^ -where 
a^ eai» tlieir subsistence by c^lti- 
▼ating the land und/er certain con- 
ditions. These fare better than 
their nomadical brethren, are more 
OAV^hfidj nor have so savage and 
frightful an appearance. Among 
ail the Moorish tribes in the coun- 
try, polygamy prevails : but in the 
towns they seldom avail themselves 
of this privilege. Into the chief 
wiilitary corps, or the infantry, the 
Moors are never admitted: but 
tiie whole cavalry of the Dey of 
Algiers is composed of them ; for 
^e Turks and C<4oris seldom serve 
as horse-soldiers. This body of 
cavalry are not bad troops; but 
they are not much esteei^d, as the 
govcmmeut cannot rely on them so 
confidently as upon tJie infantry : 
besides, from the mcuutainous state 
of tlie country, cavalry cannot he 
•o often and usefiiUy employed. 

The Moorish mountaineers are 
called Cabylcs or Cabeyis : tliey are 
partly the immediate descendants 
of the most ancient inhabitants of 
the country, and are in this res- 
pect frequently denominated Ure- 
ters or Berbers ; partly the mixed 
progen^r of the abori.^ines and of 
the nations who in tqrmer times 
invaded and settled in the count^ry ; 
but all of them have always been, 
^d ^tiU are distinguished from the 
other inhabitants of the country by 
their language, love of freedom, and 
^de jui^Kilishod m^maers- The 

TOL. I....NO. iz. 

CabyUsj too, «» iliv^jdcd Into dis- 
tinct tribes, many of which are 
fpee and independent, and do not 
acknowledge the superiority of 
Algiers ; e^seciaUy d&ose who inha- 
bit the inaccessible ridges of moun- 
tains. The neighbounng tribes are 
often united by friendly alliance^ 
wiUiout, however, subjecting tliem- 
aelves to a common head. Others 
live in a o<mtinual state of conten- 
tion and feud with th^ neighbours: 
the most pocent causes of these 
quarrels are the infidelity and elope- 
ment of their wives- lliey are in 
general well grown, robust, mea- 
gre, and of a. 6un->bumt, red, and 
often blackish yellow complexion, 
and have'black or dark-brown hair. 
Their external appearance is ren- 
dered still more uncouth by dirt and 
tattered clothes. They generally 
dwell in straw -huts : however, stone 
houses here and there occiir in 
their DaskraSy or villages. Their 
number decreases ; and their love 
of liberty likewise gradually wears 
away. Only the inhabitants of the 
higliest parts of the mountains jstill 
assert their independence, and 
defend their liberty with undaunted 
valour against every Jiostile attack. 
Their courage, joined to a perfect 
knowledge of the country, saves 
them from the superior force of 
their enemies: as the Algerines 
have several times, and even no 
later than twenty years ago, expe- 
rienced to their cost. The govern- 
ment therefore endeavours to main- 
tain a good undemanding and 
friendship, where force canjWJduce 
no effect ; and often gives way to 
even their unreasonable demand?* 
.Thus the Cabxjks of Caitco s^p 
treated with vei7 jpeat lenity ; Cor 
the situation of their country is 
favourable, and they can o^ci^b^ 
a strong array; and they cany 
great quantities of oil and soap toF 
sale to Algiers. The 3aa?e is tj^ 
case with respect to the Cabyles 
who inhabit the fea coa^t aboyt 
Bugia, Bona, and TaWca- Amox^ 
tlie Cabyles who acknp>yle(l|(e Ap 
comoitoii cjiicf, those of thegre^tesft. 
age ^re particularly honovu*^ 'J^l^ 



only their priests, or Marabutg^ 
enjoy the general confidence of the 
tribes, and have under the cloak of 
religion accjuired great power and 
authority, which in sonic instances 
has become hereditary. These then 
act in the capacity of he.ids of the 
tribes, form treaties of peace, send 
ambassadors, and are by others, and 
even by the Turks, considered as 
the chiefs of the nation. In the 
vicinity of the sepulchre of a 6e^ 
ceased Afarabuty or saint, generally 
. is the habitation of the Marabut of 
the tribe, who gives, by means of a 
flag, hoisted on a pole, erected upon 
the edifice, the usuaI signal when the 
time of prayer arrives. From tlie 
same place signals are made, on the 
approach of an enemy, to the Ca- 
byles, to assemble them at the 
appointedplace of rendezvous* The 
language of the Cabyles, like that 
of the Moors, is a dialect of the 
Arabic. It deviates, however, so 
much from the latter, that in many 
places Moors and CsLbyles are not 
able to understand one another. 
[ To be amciuded in our next*'] 


[Thz Editor will occasionally give 
Extracts from Berdmore*s Literary 
Hesemblance, a late performance^ 
full of g«cd tense and acute criti- 



The remarks which I sent you a 
few days ago, on a passage in Pope's 
translation of Homer, have engaged 
me so far in the consideration of 
Literary Rrskmblakci£ or 
Imitation, and the subject is so 
curious and interesting, that per- 
haps you will indulge me while I 
pursue it in a page or two fiirtlier. 

In a periodical paper, begim 
\751y are cited many passages froin 
Pope, said never to have been 
taken notice of, as " evidently 
borrowed, thou^ they arc im- 

Superior Beings, when of late they 

A mortal man unfold all nature's 

Admir'd such wiulom in an earthly 

And shew 'd a Newton, as we shew 

an ape. 

Essay on Man, Ep. ii. V. 31. 

Utque n^ovet nobis imitatrix simia 

Sic nos coelicolis, quotics cervica. 

Ventosi gradimur. 


Simia coelicolAm risusque jocusque 

Deorum est 
Tunc homo, quum temere ingenio 

confidit, et audet 
Abdita nature scrutari, arcanaqtie 



When the loose mountain tremblea 

from on high. 
Must gravitation cease ? when j<m 

go by ; 
Or some old temple, nodding to its 

For Chsrtre*s head reserve tho 

hanging wall. 

Essay on Man, Ep. iv. V. 133. 

If a good man be passing by an in- 
firm building just in the article of 
falling, can it be expected that God 
should suspend the force of gravita- 
tion till he is gone by, hi order to his 
deliverance \ 

Wollaston, Rel. Nat. 

Chaos of thought and passion, all 

Still by himself abus'd, or disa- 

Created half to rise, and half f* 

Great lord of all things, yet a prey 

to all ; 
Sole judge of tru'.h, in endless 

error huri'd; 
The glnry, jest, and riddle of the 


Essay on Man, Ep. it. V. IX 



Vkmt a cb' men then it man ! what 
a coDiiised chaos ' what a subject of 
cootradiction ! a professed judge of 
an things, and a feeble wcrm cf the 
earth ; the great depositary and guar- 
dian of truth, and )et a mere huddle 
of uncertainty ; the glory and scandal 
of the universe. 


None of these passages can be 
new to you, but I have taken the 
Uberty of transcribing them, as 
they famish occasion for a few 
remarks : and I have selected tlie 
three above from several others ; as 
a LEARNKD CRITIC, whom, while 
on this subject, we cannot fail of 
having continually incur view, has 
chosen these very instances to ii- 
histrate some observations in his 
letter to Mr. Mason on the marks 


It will be thought perhaps some- 
what strange, that he takes no no- 
tice of the Adventurer. But we 
must suppose that either he had 
never read those ingenious essays ; 
or, if he had, that he thought them 
little worthy liis attention ; though, 
in general) the sentiments, contain- 
ed in this paper, seem to bear a 
very near relation to those, which 
he himself advances. Engaged, as 
he at all times was, in pilr&uits so 
much more important, he never, it 
•eems« found an hour or two of 
leisure to read more than one work 
of the very learned ai^d respectable 
Dr. Leiand; and that one, only 
with an intention to refute it. 

Be this as it may, he cei'tninly 
stamps a value on these quotations 
by adopting them. He had too 
much respect both for himself and 
for his readers, to obtrude upqn 
" their consid.e ration, those vulgar 
passages, which every body recol- 
lects, and sets d'>wn for acknow- 
ledged imitations." 

If you compare the different m:\n- 
ijer of the ^wo writers, you cannot 
but admire the siinenor manage- 
inent and address (^ the learn Kn 
CRITIC. In the Adventurer, the 
passages from Pope are brought 
forwaixi without preparation, and 
copfi*ontcd at once with the authors, 

said to be imitated. In the le arn» 
£D CRITIC they are ushered in 
with all the ceremonies of a regtilar 
introduction, and presented in form. 
In the first cited instaice, we ob- 
serve a very remarkable difierence 
between the one and the other : 

Superior Beings , when of late they 

A mortal man unfold all nature's 

Admir'd such wisdon\ in an earthly 

And shew'd a Newton, as we shew 

an ape. 

The Adventurer derives this sin- 
gular passage from one Palingenius« 
an obscure monk. Not so the 
LF.ARNED CRITIC. He did uot 
wish to have it thought, that he 
could for a moment so far forget his 
own character, as to waste any por- 
tion of his valuable tinie in turning 
over such traehf much less that 
the " great poet" so superior to 
ADDISON in true' genius, could 
ever degi*ade himself bv borrowing 
a tliought from one of so inferior 
an order. More conformably there- 
f )re to that literary dignity, which, 
he was conscious, belonged not less 
to himself, th;m to Pope, he pro- 
nounces tli.\t th^ " great fioet had 
his eye on Plato, who ^akes So- 
crates say, in allusion to a remark 
of Heracjitus;" 

OEON vtdnictf ^«y|iT«4. 

Hipp. Major. 

Conspiring with this laudable 
sense, which the LKAK NED CRITIC 
at all times fondly cherished, of 
literary dignity, there appears to 
have been another motive for his 
conduct m this place. Had he dc* 
rived the passage, as the Adven- 
turer did before him, from Palin- 
geiiius, he would Iwve had no op«^ 
portunity of exhibiting that master- 
ly display of Uic tioic critic ; and 
all the refined reasoning which foU 
lows, with the nice distinction be-» 
^wecu tl^e god pf the pliUosophei^^ 


UTSRAftt Xf SEKftLAirCe* 

«nd the Superior Beings of the 
Poet, had been lost. 

Does it not require more than a 
common share ot critical acumen^ 
ft perspicacity far beyond that of 
<< those doll minds, by which the 
shapes and appearances of things 
are apprehended only in the gross; " 
to discriminate between a Heathen 
pxl and a Superior Being? The 
real state of the case seems to be, 

aiattheLEARNKD CRITIC, in or- 
er to make the sentence which he 
has quoted, more accommodable to 
his purpose, concealed, eveh from 
himself, the true meaning of the 
philosopher's words. The philo- 
topher, he says, refers ir#«$ 0EON, 
i* e. not to God the God; but, 
a^eeably to the idiom of the Greek 
language, as the word stands with- 
out tlie article, a god ; one amongst 
many ; according to the genera^y 
received opinion of tlie age and 
country in which Plato lived; as 
appears more evidently by what 


««A«» T« «v^^«««-t<«» 7f>«f. ju r. A* 

Thus the god of the philosopher 
is plainly no more than one of the 
Superior Beings alluded to by the 
poet ; consequently the application 
IS, in botli cases, precisely the same ; 
addressed to the same order of be- 
mgs; and the ape, ; wifinxof, be. 
comes an object either of dertti&n 
or admiration^ as the one or the 
other may chance to fall in more 
aptly with the writer's views. 

Th^ great fleet y it must be said, 
appears in the hands of the learn- 
ed CRITIC to advantage; yet I 
doubt whether an indifferent looker- 
en would not, after all, be disposed 
to think with the Adventurer, that 
more probably Pope at this time 
hat his eye on Paligenius. Tliere 
Ate seme plauublc reascm, whidx 

teem to operate ver)r mtcttg^ is- 
&vour of tiiis opinion. 

Ih a paper, printed 1745, Ar* 
pointed out several Expression^ 
Similes, and Sentiments in Paltn- 
genius. Translated and Itnproved 
by Mr. Pope, in his Essay on Matk« 
amongst which this very simile of 
the ape is one ; whence it appears 
that the great fioet condescended 
now and then to amuse himsrif wi^ 
turning over $itch tranh $ and tiiat 
he was tempted to turn over tht 
pages of this obscare author mar^ 
than once. At the same time I 8iup> 
pect that he was very Uttle coinrer- 
sant in the writings of PlatOb 

If you are not quite wore down, 
I am tempted to remind yoa of a^ 
apparent imitation in Pbpe from 
Ovid, which I sent yon some timi 
ago. It has at least one merit, whkch 
I find is considered by other collec- 
tors of these curious trifleSY as a 
primary recommendation. Ithafe 
never, so far as I know, been biown 
ufian by any of the swarm, whick 
usually buz about the works <3ict3t^ 
brated writers. In the Eloise you 
have these charming lines. 

In each low wind methinks t spirit 

And more thin echoes talk along this 

walls ; 
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps 

From yonder shrine I heard a hollow 

sound ; 
Come, sister, come / it taid, or seem'd 

to say. 
Thy place is here ; sad sister, come 


/ come, I come. 

Now turn to Ovid: 

Est mihi marmorea sacratus in aede 
Appositx frcndes, velleracjue a!ha 
Jline ego the tensi moto tfuater dte citaH, 

Ipse aono tcnui dixit, I/iaa, vent. 
Kulla mora est, vettio, fjcnh, &c. 

Didoifincfcf V.99. 

Ltf ItAtV MVftt^ 


Ift^ «re Ml Milf tlie tfatf^ 
VkAf^ts, dfid tfKj^ii^uiofi, but, itfiat 
#il( LiAHiifcb cilittc cDhshliKrft as 
H HkM detld^ mark of imitation, 
tbc; same A^^tion cff the jmrt^ 
Tettt dtcm^ to me thatyou do^h^ 
Irfteth^ i¥t toidd |iH>ft6mK»e with 
W&Hainty^ that oar English bat*d 
h&m^ta tht^ ihoaghts frtun tbe 

You wm flot thitiK that T d^l 
<Hriy witii your ikroui-it*, If I do 
not here add aitolh^^ paii^ge froti^ 
the ^IM poem, where you think, 
tety jtifttly, that Pope has ttlich 
hntmred and entbellhhted the hilft 
Which Ovid gave him. 

Not Caesar's empreu would I deigfi 

to prove ; 
]lo ! make Mt mUtreis to thfe man I 

If ibtTt be yet aitdther ninte more 

ilore foted than miitrcsf, m^e mc 

tbdt to thee. 

it podet uxoris, non nupta, *ed botpita 
Bum tua sit Dido, guidHhet isie 

Dido Mtitx, V. 167. 

Every reader of taste will agree 
io the opinion of P(^ 'a snperiority. 
\ am pleased to leave hhn with you 
Udder such fiivourable circum- 



^ Poor Edwin was no vulgar 


Song waft his favoocrite and first par- 

The wild harp rang tobi^ adventurous 

^And langtushM to his breath the 
plaintive flute. 

Hi* infant muse, though artless, was 
not niute. 


Iw the periodical paper entitled 
Tkt Minrovy is ah elegant essay 
cm the character and genius of 
ARchael Bruce^ a young poet of 
^Gohsiderable abllit>*, who %vas dc- 

sceBikd Irmto pttt^ntt reAiarkable. 
lor nothing but the itmocenee an4 
simplfeity of their Uvea, and who 
in ^6 twenty- first year of hb ag« 
periDhed under that scoor^ of out 
islfe, pulmonary consumption. 

Ih the year 1^8r, travelling 
through the western Highlands of 
Scotland) and returning to Edim* 
burgh bv Loch Leven and North. 
Ferry^ i rode by the house, situated 
about three miles from Kini-oasi. 
where this ingenious youth waa 
bonii ** I never look on his dwell^ 
ihg," says the. author of the Min- 
ror, << a small thatched house di»-. 
tliiguised from the cottages of the 
other inhabitants only hy a sashed 
window at the end, instead of a 
lattice, fringed with a honey-suckle 
plant, which the poor youth had 
trained around Jt;.*...I never find 
myself in that spot, Imt I stop my 
horse involuntarily; and looking oti 
the window, whfch the honey* suckle 
has now almost covered, in the 
dream of the moment, I picture out 
a figure for the gentle tenant of the 
mansion; I wi^h, and my heart 
swells while I do so, that he were 
alive, and that I were a gi*ea,t maa 
to have the luxury of visiting him 
there, and bidding him I>e happy/'. 

These natural and pleasing ideas 
possessed my mind at the time I 
passed his door, which I did not do 
without checking mv hor&e to in-* 
didge the tribute of a sigli- Tlie 
concluding lines of his beaudfiilix 
descriptive poem on Loch Leven, 
which was finished under the pres- 
sure of mortal di&ease, and at a 
distance from his native cottage, 
instantly occurred to my memory* ' 

Thus sang the youth, amid unfertile 

And nameless deserts, unpoetic 

ground ! 
Far from his friend£ he stray'd, re- 
cording thus 
The dear remembrance of his native 

To cheer the tedious nigh': ; while slow 

Prey 'J on his pining vitals, and the 

Of dark December shook his humbly 




Loch Leven, the subject of Mr. 
Bmce's poem, is a beautiful fresh 
water Lake uear twelve miles in 
circumference, on the side next 
Kinross bounded by a plain occu- 
pied by open groves, on the other 
side by m(>iu)tdin8. About the cen- 
tre of the I-ikc are two islands, one 
of which, called St. Serf's isle, has 
not less than forty acres of excel- 
lent pasturage, and was formerly 
the fceat of tlie ancient priory of 
Loch Leven dedicated to St Ser- 
vanus. On the other, which con- 
tanis not above an acre of ground, 
«tand the picturesfjue iniins of the 
castle of the Douglas's. Here was 
confined the beautiful but unfortu- 
nate Mary, queen of Scots» a cir- 
cumstance which, from the associ- 
atim of idei, throws an air of 
interesting melancholy around, and 
adds much to the effect of the scene. 
Trom this place however, she at 
length cjicaf ed through the assist- 
ance of George Douglas, a youth 
cf eighteen, who had been deeply 
smitten with tJie charms of Mary, 
and who contri\ ed, on Sunday night 
the second r>f May 1568, as his 
bexlhcr sat down to supper, to se- 
cure tlie ke;. s of the castle. Ha\ing 
19)er.ited his f^eloved prisoner he 
iRckcd the g:ite behind her, threw 
the keys into the lake, and having 
previously secured a boat, whilst 
the oi;rs of all the other boats were 
Ihrov.B adrift, reached the shore in 
fjjfcty. Mr. Gilpin in his Scotch 
Tr.ur has thus elegantly allegcrized 
this ! cmarkable event : ** But n^i- 
tlier the walls of Loch Leven castle, 
nor the lake which surrounded it, 
were barriers a gair St love. Mary 
fi::d tliobchewitchingc'iarms, which 
always raided her f: lends. She 
wore a cvji^ms ; and might be said 
to number amongst licr constant 
i8tt«>ndaius, the God of Loa e hire- 
s^^'lf. His re:»dy wit restored her 
lH>ertr. Time ?ind place were obe- 
«lie:;t to liis will. His contrivance 
rdd tlKJ pi •.. I lis address secured 
the keys; and his activity provided 
the biirk^ tr, which he led her ; with 
hii (iwiihunil c.vrryinc tV.c torch, to 
giarlc her foc^tbteps through the 

darkness of the nig;kt«.*M*.«Coiifif-' 
sion ran through the castle. HastjT 
lights were seen passing and repass-* 
ing at every window ; and travers* 
ing the island in all directions. The 
laughing God^ the meanwhile, rid* 
tng at the poop, with one lumd held 
the helm ; and with the other waved 
bis torch in triumph round his head* 
The bo:it soon made the shore, anfl 
landed the lovely queen in a port of 
security; where Loyalty and Friend- 
ship waited to receive her." • 

At the west end of this noble 
sheet of water stands a very ele- 
gant house formerly belonging to 
tlie family of Bruce, but now in the 
possession cf a Mr. Graham; it 
commands a delightful view of the 
lake, and is well screened by extent- 
sive pine plantations ; it was built 
by the celebrated Architect, Sir 

• Scotch Tour, vol. i. p 96 |t 

has been a doabt with some whether 
Mary really possessed the fine features 
so generatly attributed to her by his- 
torians f her portraits are numerous^ 
and vary much in the reprerentation 
of her countenance, some of them by 
no means impressing us with a fa- 
vourable idea of her charms : the two 
following anecdotes however, and they 
may be depended upon, dearly ascer- 
tain her extreme beauty, and afford a 
striking instance of the fascmation 
which usually waited upon her person. 

When Mary, in the full bloom of 
youth, was walking in a proce$sK>n 
throngh I*aris, a woman fi reed her 
way throujfh the crowd and touched 
her. Her excuse for this rudeness 
wr.s c arerre curioMty, which prompt- 
ed her to feci if so angelic a creature 
were formed cf flesh and blord. 


Chatclard, grandson to the ccle» 
bratcd Bayard, a man of litera»4Uic, 
arid an elegant poet, who had long 
adored the beautiful Mary in secror^ 
pemiittcd his love so far to overpower 
his prudence as to tempt him to hide 
himself iu the queen's bcd<hambcr. 
He was discovered and forg;iven. The 
5ane instilt again repeated, proved 
fatal He was delivered up to the 
law, tried and executed. 

Vie Dc Marie Par Brantome. 



WUfiam Bruce, in 1685, and is 
^^nerally esteemed a noble speci- 
men of his skill in that depart- 

A spot abounding in so much 
lovely scenery, and rendered still 
more attractive by the associations 
of childhood and early youth, would 
necessarily impress on the suscep- 
tible heart of our young poet the 
roost Uv^ly and endearing sensa- 
tions, and when far distant from his 
humble shed and tender parents, 
when suffering under sickness and 
sorrow, it was a consolation of no 
vulgar kind to recollect the plea* 
tures of his native vale, to paint in 
glowing colours its delicious land- 
scapes, and ere the fairy colours 
laded from his view to give tliem 
\ocsA habitation and a name in 
strains which should perpetuate his 
memory and his genius. 

His poem on Loch Leven displays 
a fertile imagination, and is ren- 
dered interesting to every reader 
by tlie vein of pathetic sentiment 
which pervades the whole. As an 
appn^riate specimen of the elegant 
versification and superior merits of 
this production, I shall quote his 
descrlptioo of the two islands of 
the lake. The first delineates that 
on which the Priory had anciently 
stood, and then adverts to the pre* 
sent ruins of the famous castle of 
the Bnices. It is my wish that these 
lines may recommend to fiirther 
notice the poetry of this amiable 
^at unfortunate youth, 

. Here Superstition for her cloister*d 

A dwelling rear'd, with many an 
arched vault ; 

Where her pale vot'ries at the mid- 
night hour, 

In many a mournful strain of melan- 

Chaunted their orisons to the' ccld 

It now resounds with the wild shriek- 
ing gull, 

The crested lapwing, and the clam'- 
rous mew, 

The patient heron, and the bittern 

Deep-sounding in* thr base, with all 

the tribe 
That by the water seek th* appointed 

From hence the shepherd in the 

fenced fold, 
*Tis said, has he&rd atiange soands, 

and music wild ; 
Such as in Selma, by the burning oak 
Of hero fallen, or of batrlr tost, 
Warn'd Fingal's mighty son, from 

trembling chords 
Of untouch *d harp, self-sotmding in 

the night. 
Perhaps th'afQicted Genitiis of the lake 
That leaves the watVy grot, each 

night to mourn 
The waste of time, his desolated isles 
And temples in the dust : his plain- 
tive voice 
Is heard resounding through the dreary 

Of high Loch Leven castle, famous 

Th* abode of herces of the Bruce'* 

Gothic the pile, and high the aclid 

With warlike ramparts, and the 

strong defence 
Of jutting battlements, an age's toil! 
No more its arches echo to the noise 
Of joy and festive mirth. No more 

the glance 
Of blazing taper thro' its windows 

And quivers on the undulating wave : 
But naked stand the melancholy walls, 
Lash'd by the wintry tempests, cold 

and bleak. 
That whistle mournful thro* the emp- 
ty halls. 
And piece- meal crumble down the 

towers to dust. 
^Equal in age, and sharers of its fate, 
A row of moss-grown trees around it 

stands ; 
Scarce here and there, upon their 

blasted tops, 
A shrivcird leaf distinguishes the 


Perhaps in some lone, dreary, desert 

That time has spar*d, forth from the 

window looks 
Half hid in grass, the solidary fox; 
While from above the owl, musician 

Screams hideous, harsh, and grati i^ 

t« the ear. 


Kif.iia;ortft 9W 


[I hive lately been delighted «rith some 
pf the works of ZoUiko£er a German 
divine. His putpit-discourses yield 
not in eloquence to those of Massil- 
Ion. He every where discovers a pi- 
ous and proliBc mind, liideed in 
rhetorical reasoning I know not 
who should St and be fore him. Fro|n 
his discourse on the immortality of 
maa the following ex tract is taken-^ 
which (as his Sermons are not gene- 
rally l^nownhere) shall beoccasipq- 

wally succeeded by others from tl|e 

^samc pen.] 

*« To the man who knows notiiing 
<ef ftiturity, who has no hope of im- 
'inortality,all nature is a scaled book, 
*nd he is the greatest of all myste- 
ries to himself. The design of )iis 
existence is incompi*ehcnsible to 
him ; and of the other purposes Ibr 
which the other creatures that sur- 
round him were formed, and whic|i 
so far exceed mankind in number, 
jnagnitude, and beauty, he kno'v^s 
still less. £very thing he sees and 
hears is to him an suigma, to the 
solution whereof he can Hnd do key. 
Kcpresentto yourself a philosopher, 
"who knows nothing of the gospel, 
and from whom foiurity is concealed, 
profoundly contemplating the hea- 
ven and the earth and himsdf, and 
that you hear him discourse on these 
important objects in his comfortless 
solitude : what a doubtful, what a 
desultory, and dismal language he 
Jiolds ! Methinks I hear him ex- 
claim, in a doleful voice, Why is 
the heaven so beautifully adomi^l, 
find to what end is this magnificcncfe 
which nature so profusely displays 
wherever I turn my view ? Whit 
is the purpose of this great, this 
immense and ingenious structure ? 
How gloomy, how painful to mc is 
this prospect, so charming in it.'?eif, 
since I,pcrhaps now for the last time, 
«njoy It, and at all events shall 
shortly be dejirivcd of hU sentiment 
fr^rever ! \\*cre 1 bhut up in some 
dark and dismal dungeon, had the 
day never shone upon my dwelling, 
my misery had then been tolera- 
i>le : but here like some malsfactor> 

I sit imprisoned in |t g <w |y qn|bfa#e» 
and can find ootbiog ikliobfA^ly 
nuthiog agreeable in it, as exfrnj/t- 
ing every moment the sumqMM to 
d^tli l-n-Aad what m^an thfi fiicul- 
ties I feel vitliin me ? How am I 
benefited by the capaci t ioi I pap- 
scss, but wliich I cuiukK fopioy f 
1 behold many beauties, mudlmacT* 
nificence, many astoiHshing eff^ots 
befiire me* I am curious to invead- 
gate and understand tliern. But 
.tb^ are all incomprrlMnsihite to 
me : it is too high for roe, I cannot 
attain unto k. My abilities £«tl 
me, and the light itself is dnrkiicss 
to me^T^It is true, nalure is beaiili- 
ful ; she is ple^isanit and eharmiag; 
she invites my ^ n&es to aUmdaiKie 
of pleasure aod joy. But whyj 
then, am I so rcstiess and uneasy ? 
Why cauQot all tho&e gocds£iulbeaii» 
ties satisfy my mind f Whence pro- 
ceeds the want Ifeel amid^ this ahun* 
dance, and^he sentimeot of which ao 
often disturbs my liveUe&t pleasurey 
and always renders it incomplete ? 
Why is my inqiiintiveiiess nevierto 
he satisfied? Wherefore cao I sever 
cease from wishing! Wheocecomcs 
the disgttst that ao quickly aucoecds 
to enjoyment^ and deprives all I 
earnestly loneed after, in a moifiiri 
of its worth ? Has the Creator^ thea, 
<:alled me out of nothisf^ for mf 
punishment? Has he given me sHoh 
capacities, such desires, fotr the 
augmentation of my miscoy ? To 
what purpose such great pnq>aia* 
tivesfor the few and uncertain hoiMrs 
of hfe ? — ^I'hus does the hopeless 
mortal entangle himself in rtAec-s 
tion. He finds himself in the most 
delightful garden ; but it is all a 
labyrinth to him, to him k loses 
every charm from his want of a 
clue to guide him through it. 

** Before the chnstian, on the 
other hand, who expects immor- 
tality and an evcrlastmg life to 
come, all these dit^iculties \^Qi,<^ 
awtiy- He sees that it is a wise 
and bountiful God, who has placed 
him on the globe of tlie earth* He 
discovers tlie principal scope of 
things, and sets his mind at rest. 
The hope of iuturity gives every 



thing, beautiful and great, he 
in ^e leorid, a heightened coh>ur 
and a new display. The view of 
the boundless creation j that utterly 
pe^exed and confounded yonder 
unhappy being, inspires the chris- 
tian with admiration, and leads him 
to adore tlie Most High In serenity 
and satisfoction* In a sacred tran- 
sport he exclaims, with the Psalm- 
ist : — ^^ Lord, how gloHous are thy 
works I in wisdom hast thou mkde 
them all ; the earth is ftill of thy 
riches 1" Here I perceive eternal 
work : here I find materials for in- 
cessant discovery ; here I see sour- 
ces of knowledge and joy, whence 
rational, beings may draw for ever, 
without any fear of their failing. 
How gloomy to me would be the 
contemplation of beautiful nature, 
how sad the sentiment of my pow- 
ers, how troublesome my curiosit)-, 
how fertile in vexation my infinite 
desires, if I had to dread, in a few 
moments, the utter extinction of 
knowledge and enjoyment ! But 
thou hast ordained me, O God, to 
life, to a life that shall know no 
end. At present my capacities are 
too great to exhibit themselves in 
all their strength. The body of 
death surrounds mc, and fixes nar- 
row limits to tlie workings of my 
mind. But soon shall I be freed 
from these bonds. My soul will 
soar aloft, and mount into the realms 
of light. ' She will rise at the re- 
surrection of tlie just, united to a 
glorions, a spiritual, an incorrupti- 
ble bcdy . Then , O God, then shall 
I first behold tliy works in all their 
grandeur, in all their pomp and 
bcaiity ; then shall I be for ever em- 
ployed in the investigation of tliem, 
and never be weary of admiring 
tliy wisdom and power ; then will 
uU my desires be satisfied, and all 
my wishes accomplished. This is 
not the place of my final destina- 
tion. It is but preparatory to a far 
better and more glorious state. Here 
it is my business, by generous occu- 
pations, to begin to qualify myself 
tor the purer dolighls that await 
me in that world, und even wh-it I 
. coll troublesome and imperfect ^in 

VOL. I...KO. II. 

my pr e s en t condition must, if I but 
properly ap^ly it, promote my fu- 
ture pmection. Thus- does the 
christian unravel the design of his 
being and the tendency of his pow- 
ers; andthuadoes^hedissipfttefthe 
darkness that surrounds him> on 
earth, by the light of the gospel, 
which discloses to his view the fidr- 
est prospects in eternity. 

<' Knowledge and virtue are, in- 
deed, in and for themselves, and 
without regard to futurity, the 
strongest supports and the richest 
sources of our happiness. How» 
without knowledge, should we sa- 
tisfy^ the curiostv of our minds ? 
How, without virtue, should we 
tranquilize our hearts? How should 
we tame our turbulent passionsy 
how should v/e controul them when 
they contend with each other, and 
bring ;to a rational equilibrium, if 
we were destitute of knowledge 
and virtue ? Let us now compare 
the mortal without hope with Ihe 
christian that expects eternity, and 
see which of them has the greatest 
means and the greatest encourage- 
ments to build his happiness on this 
foundation, and to render his life 
pleasant by knowledge and virtue* 
We will here allow them both to 
speak their natural sentiments, and 
thence it will plainly appear which 
of them has the advantage of the 
other. It is true, knowledge ia 
ornamental to the mind; thus speaks 
the man whose hopes are confined 
to this life. I experience, that 
what thinks within me is capable of 
mounting above visible objects, and 
of piercing into the combination of 
things. I feel a great pleasure when 
I increase my perceptions, and can 
discover the traces of the wise au- 
thor of nature. But how foolish and 
unprofitable is this my employment ! 
Wisdom cannot be acquired without 
much toil. Truth never appears 
to her votaries till after many suc- 
cessful researches; one may fall 
into a hundred eiTors sooner than 
discover one truth. We must dedi- 
cate both day and night to the study 
of the latent operations of nature, 
ere wq can acquire but a slight 



knowledge of her secrets. Mean- 
time, the mind grows weary : its 
powers diminish ; the body is weak- 
ened by strenuous exertions of it, 
and I become daily less capable of 
relishing the pleasures of sense. 
And what is, at length, the result 
of all my pains? After a few mo- 
xnents are past I shall be no more, 
and my. laboriously acquired know- 
ledge will likewise be no more. 
That which thfaika in me, and often 
fondly soars above the clouds, win 
in a few days he lost to existence. 
The great discoveries I am striving 
to make, will vanish into thin air, 
and my lofty imaginations, and my 
exalted conceptions, will be enve- 
loped in the shades- of everlasting 
night. Such is the language of the 
man who has no views beyond the 
grave. His endeavours after know- 
ledge must necessarily appear ridi- 
culous to himself; and he has little 
or nothing to encourage him in the 
prosecution of it. 

No less feeble are his motives to 
virtue, and his purpose to follow her 
precepts will as easily fiul. He 
withers like a flower tiiat springs 
up in a parched soil, or on a stony 
ground. Though great the native 
beauty of virtue, yet is it not suffi- 
cient to render the man who looks 
upon death as the period of his be- 
ing constant in the love and the 
practice of it. Self-interest and 
the hope of advantage are the prin- 
cipal springs of human actions. 
Few men, however, are so enlight- 
ened as to perceive tiie combination 
of virtue with self-love and with 
real advantage. It costs a man 
labour and tou before he can arrive 
at a certain aptitude in goodness. 
He has many obstacles to surmount, 
and many diflUculties to encounter, 
if he would fulfil his duties with 
exactitude, and conduct himself in ' 
all circumstances like a true chris- 
tian. Riches and honours and days 
of ease, are not always the compa- 
nions of integrity. How often, on 
the contrary, is it attended by po- 
..yerty anU scorn! Nay, is it any 
thing uncommon for the brightest 
virtue to be attacked with animosi- 
\f and persecuted with vengeance I 

And yet it is impossible, widuNit^ 
virtue, to acquire tranquility oC 
mind. Vice, on the other liand, 
is often arraved in charms: she 
holds, out, to ner followers, "power 
and authority, opulence and re-> 
spect ; she promises them abund- 
ance of pleasure. And yet vice 
renders us unhappy, and, so long 
as we are slaves to it, it is impos- 
sible for us to be calm and content* 
ed. Therefore, if a man would flee 
from vice ; if he would love virtue $ 
if he would thus live contented and 
happy : he must have certain im- 
pelling motives to do so. But do 
you imagine that any one, who has 
no punishment to fear in futurity^ 
and no reward to expect, is in a 
capacity to vanquish ail tempta- 
tions to evil, and devote himself to 
tiie service of insulted virtue wiUi 
her mean appearance ? Certainly * 
not. Her beauty might probably* 
attract him ; he migiit even deter- 
mine to follow her precepts : but 
how long would his resolution last i 
The iirst violent temptation would 
put it to flight. Were he frankly to 
explain himself, it is thus he would 
speak « What will it profit me if I 
eamesUy strive to be virtuous? 
What avails this unremitted at- 
tention to all my thoughts, my de- 
sires, and actions ? These violenf 
conflicts with m^ propensities and 
passions ? How mmcult it is to con- 
quer one's self! And what benefit, 
what fruit, have I at last to expect 
from the victory ? My probity will 
be taken for afifectation, my piety 
will be imputed to melancholy ; and 
1 shall sit solitary in the dust, while 
others, of laxer principles, sre loll- 
ing in the scats of honour ! What 
have I toprovide for but ray body and 
my temporal affairs T W'hy should 
I quarrel' with the amusements and 
delights that so many ethers enjoy ? 
Shall I embitter my life by the re- 
strictions of temperance, and for 
the sake of an imaginary intel- 
lectual pleasure, deny myself the 
more sure and substantial pleasures 
of sense ? I have nothing to fear or 
to hope after death ! So speaks the 
hopeless mortal : tiius will his pur- 
poses to follow virtue be enfeebled. 



^Itnn he aDows himself to be se- 
duced by the wages of sin ; and 
discontent and vexation, perplexity 
and fear, and every disastrous con- 
«eqaence of vice, at once take pos* 
session of his heart* From want 
of hc^je^ he neglects the principal 
and'pnrest sources of earthly hap- 
piness, and will always be becoming 
more unhappy than he was. 

Qoite otherwise is it with the 
christian, who expects immortality. 
He daily endeavours to augment his 
knowledge and to improve in virtue, 
and thus daily promotes his true 
felicity* He can never be wanting 
in encouragement to firmness and 
seal in his generous endeavours; 
and the futurity which is ever in 
his view, renders all he undertakes, 
in this desi)^, not only easy but 
pleasant. How pleasant, he says 
mthe simplicity of his heart, how 
pleasant to me are the meditations 
1 indulge on the perfections •f my 
<>od and father, the greatest and 
be^ of beings ! What a pure delight 
streams through my soul, when I 
consider his ways and admire his 
works! How it exalts my spirit 
when I perceive the wisdom of the 
Creator in his creatures, and trace 
oat the marks of his greatness I 
How reviving my meditations on 
my divine Redeemer, and his con- 
Mdatory office ! My knowledge in- 
deed, in all respects, is very imper- 
fect and weak ; but this ^all not 
disheaaten me from constantly la- 
bouring, with renovated ardour, at 
its extension and improvement. 
In the matters of most importance 
I have the gospel for my guide, and 
am safe from all deception. By that 
I perceive an eternity approadung. 
The real knowledge I ahaU hei-e 
collect, is out of the power of that 
spoiler death. Hereafter, in the 
world of spirits, I shall pursue my 
researches ; what is £Edse will eva- 
porate from my attainments, and 
what is solid and just will form the 
basis of my higher perfection. Thus 
does the hope of futurity animate 
the christian ; and the pleasure he 
procures from the>contempUtiou of 

religion and nature will be ever in- 
creasing, as he has no need to fear 
it will ever be lost. 


The annual net proceeds of the 
duties on merchandise and tomiage 
had, in former reports, baen esti- 
mated at nine millions five hundred 
thousand dollars. That revenue, 
estimated on the importations of the 
years immediately preceding tha 
late war, and on the ratio of in- 
crease of the population of the U. S. 
have been under-rated. The net 
revenue from that source, which 
accrued during the year 1802, ex- 
ceeds ten millions one hundred 
tliousand dollai*8» The revenue 
which has accrued during the two 
first quarters of the present year, 
appears to have been only fifty 
thousand dollars less than that of 
the two corresponding quarters of 
the year 1802 ; and the receipts in 
the Treasury, on account of tha 
same duties, during the year ending 
on the 30th of Sept. last, have ex- 
ceeded ten millions six hundred 
thousand dollars. 

These facts prove that the wealth 
of the U. S. increases in a greater 
ratio than their population, and 
that this branch of tne public re- 
venue may now be rated at ten mil- 
hons of dollars. 

The same revenue for the two last 
years of the late war, at the present 
rate of duties, averaged 11,600,000 
dollars a year ; but though it might 
be supposed that the renewal of hos- 
tilities will produce a similar in- 
crease, no inference from that 
period is now drawn in relation to 
the revenue of the ensuing years. 
Although the sales of public lands 
during the year ending on the 30th 
Sept. last, were lessened by the 
situation of the westeiii country; 
two hundred thousand acres have ** 
bttcn Bold during that period^ aa4 


TftKA&t7RXE*6 -ftSFOET. 

indepcAdoit of 'futiiK.salest the 
sums already paid to the receivers, 
with those which, exclusive of iiv- 
terest, fall due during the three en- 
mng years, amount to 1,250,000 
dollars, the annual revenue arising 
from Uiose sales, may be estimated 
at four hundred thousand dollars* 

The extension of post roads, and 
the acceleration of the mail, while 
diffusing and increasing the benefits 
of the institution^ have rendered it 
less productive* The receipts ha\*e 
amounted, during last year, to 
S7,tX)0 dollars ; but as neither these, 
nor those arising from' some other 
Ineidental branches, effect any ge-*- 
ueral result, the whole revenue of 
the U« S. will bcf only ten millions 
four hundred thousand dollars* 

l.The appropriation of 7,300,000 
dollars, for the payment of the 
principal and interest of the debt; 
of which' about three millions and 
an half are at present aj^Ucable to 
to the discharge of the principal, 
and the rettdue in the paymeat of 
interest, Dc«ls* 7,300,060 

2* The expenses of 
government, according 
to the estimates for the 
year 1804, viz. 

For the civil depart- 
ment and all domestic 
expenses of a civil na- 
tdrcj r91,0W 

Fbr expenses attend* • 
ing the intercourse with" 
Ibreign nations, includ-' 
inf^^Jj^ers, and all ex*. • , 

penses relative to tlie- 
BM>ary powers, 134,000 

For the military and 
Indian departments, 875,a 

For the navy, sup-i 
posing two frigates and- 
ibm* smaller vesselshe in 
commission, 650,000 

And deducted fr6m • the 
pemanent revemie*of 10^400)000 ' 

The extraordinary reseiircei and 
demands not permanent, to wits 
Hie specie in theTrea- Dollars; 

sury, on the 30th of 

SepL last, 5,860,000 

The arrearsof thedirect 

tax, 250,000 

The outstanding inter* 

nal duties, near 400,000 

The sum to be repaid to 

theU. S* on account 

of advances made in 

Engiland fbr the pro- 
secution of claims, 150,300 

Total, . 6,660,000 

This sum, after reserving the 
sirni which it is necessary to keep 
in the Treasury, will discharge the 
demands on account of the conven- 
tion with Great Britain, viz* 

DoUs* 2,664,000 
Extraordinary e^qienses 
inrrelatioB to the cou« 
ventioDs with France 
and Great Britain, 100»000 

The loan from Mary- 
land, for the city of 
Washington, 200,000 

And also to pay 2,000,000 


of dollars on account of the pur- 
chase^of LfOuisiatta ; being the sum 
rs!served by tlie law of the last ses- 
sion^ for extraordinary expenses at- 
ten^ng the intercourse with foreign 

During the year ending on the 
oOdi Sep^ .last, the payments on 
account of the pi&licd^t, were 

Dolls. >3,096,700 
whtcli,withtiie increase 
of specie in ^the- Trea*^ 
sury during- the same 
period, 1,620,000 . 



makes a difierenoe in £xvour of the^ • 
U* S» of more than four huB^.< 
600,000 dred thwitwid doUara during tiMt 
• year* 

treasurer's R£P0ST« 


The payments on account of the 

principal of the public debt, from 

the fi^ clay of Sept. I8O0, were 

Dolls. 9,924,0,04 

The specie in the 
Treasury, on the first 
of April, 1801, 1,794,000 
And on the. 

30th of Sept. 

1898, 5y860,00a 

"Making an in- 
crease of 


Those amount to 13,990,004 

From -which deducUng^ 

as arising from the 

sales of bank shares, 1,287,600 

Leaves, 12,702,404 

In £ivour of the U. S. for that pe- 
riod of two years and an half* 

From that view of the present 
siiuatioDr of the U. S. the only ques- 
tioii isy whether any additional re- 
venues are wanted to provide for 
the new debt, which will result from 
the purchase of Louisiana. 

The U. S. may have to pay, by 
virtue of that treaty, fifteen millions 
of dollars. First, 11,250,000 dolls. 
in a stock bearing an interest of 
she. per cent, payable in Europe, 
and the principal of which will be 
dischar^sd at the Treasury of tlie 
U%. S* in four instalments, to com- 
mence in the year 1818....2dly, A 
sum which cannot exceed 3,750,000 
dollars, payable at the Treasury of 
theU. S. during the ensuing year, 
to citizens having certain claims on 

.As two millions of dollars may be 
paid from the specie now in tlic 
Treasury on account of the last 
item; and the new clebt cannot 
exceed tliirteen millions of dollars, 
the interest of which is 780,000; 
but on account of commissions, and 
variations of exchange, will be eight 
hundred thousand dollars. 

The surplus revenue of the IT. S. 
will discharge six hundred thousand 
dollars of that sum, and it is ex- 
pected that the net revenue col- 
le^cted at New-Oiieans will be equal 
to the remaining two hundred thou- 
sand dollars. 

That opinion rests on the sup- 
position that Congress shall place 
that port on the same footing as the - 
U. S. so th^t th6 same duties shall 
be collected there, on the importa-> 
tion of foreign merchandise as are 
now levied in the U, S. and that no^ 
duties shall be collected on the ex^ 
portation of produce or merchan- 
dise as are now levied in the U". S. 
that no duties shall be coUected on 
the exportation of produce or mer- 
chandise from N..O. to any other 
place ; nor on any artiples import- 
ed into the U. S. from the ceded • 
territories or into those territories 
from the U. S. 

The statement (G) shews that 
the exportation fi-om the Atlantic 
States to those Colonies, of articles 
not of the growth or manufacture 
of the U. S. amounted for the years 
1799, 1800, and 1801,. to 6,622,189 * 
dollars ; making an average of more 
than two millions two Hundred tliou- 
sand dollars,, of foreign articles, , 
liable to pay duty, annually export- 
ed to Florida and Louisiana from 
the U.S. aloiye. 

The exportations from the U. S. 
to Florida are so trifiing that that ' 
statement may be considered as ap- 
plying solely to N. O. ; it is also 
known, that almost the whole of 
those exportations were consumed * 
within that colony, and that during 
the war the supplies from the U.S. 
constituted by far tlie greater part ' 
of its imports. 

Thenee it results that the annual . 
importations into the ceded terri- 
tory, of articles destined for the 
consumption of its own inliabitants, 
and which will, under the laws of i 
the U. S. pay duty, may be esti- 
mated at two millions five hundred ' 
thousand dollars: which, at the • 
present rate of duties, will yield a 
revenue of about 350,000 doUai's. ^ 
From that revenue must be deduct- 
ed 150^000 dollars, for the follow- 
ing: viz. 

Ist. The duties on a quantity of 
sugar and indigo equal to that whidi 
sliall be imported from N. O. into 
the U. S. ; as those articles being 
imported free from duty, will dimi- 
nish by so much revenue now c^ 


%'1SASUR£A'$ Rfipoar. 

lected in the seaports of the U. S. 
The whole amount of sugar ex- 
ported from N. O. is less than 
4,000,000 of pounds, and that of in- 
digo is about 30,000 pounds. Suppos- 
ing that the whole of those articles 
should hereafter be exported to the 
U. S. the loss to the revenue will 
be about 100,000 dollars. 

3d. No increase of expense in 
the military establishment of the 
U. S. is e:q>ected on account of 
the acquisition of territory ; but 
the expenses of the province and of 
the intercourse with the Indians ; 
are estimated at 50,000 dollars, 
leaving for the net revenue derived 
from ti(ie province, and applicable 
to the payment of the interest of 
the new debt, 200,000 dolls. 

The only provisions necessary, 

1. In relation to the stock of 
11,250,000 dollars to be created in 
favour of France ; 
That that debt be made a charge 
on the sinking fund, directing the 
commissioners to apply so much of 
its proceeds as may be necessary 
for the payment of interest and 
principal, in the same manner as 
they are directed to do in relation 
to the debt now charged on that 

That so much of the duties on 
merchandise and tonnage as will be 
equal to seven hundred thousand 
dollars, being the sum wanted to 
pay the interest of that new stock, 
be added to the annual permanent 
appropriation for the sinking fund ; 
inaking, with tlie existing appro- 
priation, eight millions of dollars, 
annually applicable to the payment 
4)f the interest and principal of the 
public debt; 

And that the said annual sum of 
eight millions of dollars remain in 
trust for the said payments, till the 
the whole of the existing debt of 
the U. S. and of the new stock, 
shall have been redeemed* 

As a sum equal to the interest of 
the new stock will thus be added to 
tlie sinking fund, the operation of 
that fund, as it relates to the ex- 
Mneuishment of debt, will remaia 

on the same footing as has beeo^ 
heretofore provided by Congress^ 
The new debt will neither impede 
nor retard the payment of the prin- 
cipal of the old debt, ; and the 
fund will be sufficient, beside pay- 
ing the interest cm both, to discharge 
the principal of the old debt, before 
the year 1818, and that of the new, 
within<«ne year and an half after 
that year. 

11. In relation to the American 
claims the payment of which is 
assumed by the convention with 

That a sum not exceeding 
3,750,000 dollars, inclusive of tlie 
two millions appropriated by the 
last session of Congress, be appro- 
priated for the payment of those 
claims, to be paid out of any monies 
in the Treasury not othei-wise ap- 

That for effecting the whole of 
tliat payment, the President of the 
U. S. be autiioriscd to borrow a 
sum not exceeding 1,750,000 dollars, 
at an interest not exceeding six per 
cent, a year. 

And that so mucli of the proceeds 
of the duties on merchandise and 
tonnage as may be necessary, be 
appropriated for the payment of 
interest and principal of the loan 
to be thus effected. 

It is not proposed to charge that 
loan on the sinking fund, because - 
its amount cannot at present be 
asceitained; and because it may 
I^rhaps be found more expedient 
to pay out of the sinking ftmd, the 
whole or part of the two last in- 
stalments, payable . by virtue of 
conventions with Great-Britain. 

The possibility of tlius providing 
for the payment of the interest of a 
new debt of thirteen millions of 
dollars, without recurring to new 
taxes or interfering with the* pro- 
visioHs heretofore made for the 
payment of tlie existing debt, de- 
pends on the correctness of the 
estimate of the public revenue which 
has been submitted. It rests prin- 
cipally on the expectation that the 
revenue of the ensuing years shall 
net be less than that of the yeat* 



1802* Nopartof itde(>endsonthe 
probsd>le increase which may result 
fit>m the neutrality of the U. S. 
during the present war, nor even 
oa the progressive augmentation, 
which, from past experience, may 
naturally be expected to arise from 
the g;radiial increase of population 
and wealth. Nor has that effect 
been taken into consideration which 
the uninterupted navigation of the 
Missisippi, and the acquisition of 
New-Orleans may have, either on 
the sales of the public Ismds, or on 
the resources of the inhabitaifts of 
the western states. 


October 12, 1785. 
My dear CouHiiy 

It is no new thing with 
rou to give pleasure, but I will ven- 
ture to say that you do not oflen 
give more than you gave me this 
morning. When I came down to 
breakfast, and found upon the table 
a letter franked by my uncle, and 
when opening that &ankl found that 
it contained a letter from you, I said 
within myself, this is just as it should 
be ; we are all grown young again, 
and the days that I tliought I should 
tee no more, are actually returned. 
You perceive therefore that you 
judged well when you conjectured 
iluit a line from you would not be 
disagreeable to me. It could not 
be otherwise, than as in fact it 
proved, a most agreeable surprise, 
Ibr I can truly boast of an affection 
Ibr you that neither years, nor in- 
terrupted intercourse have at all 
abated. I need only recollect how 
much I v;i.lucd you once, and with 
how much cause, immediately to 
feel a i cvival of the same value ; if 
thct can be said to revive, which at 
the most has only been dormant for 
want of employment. But I slander 
it when I say that it has slept. A 
tlious-md times have I recollected a 
Uiam»and scenes ia whi«ih oar tir* 

selves have formed the whole of 
the drama, with the greatest p]ea« 
sure ; at times too when I had no 
reason to suppose that I should ever 
hear from you again. I have laughed 
'With you at the Arabian Nights 
Entertainment, which aiibrded us 
as you wetl know, a fund of merri- 
ment that deserves never to be for- 
got. I have walked with you to 
Wcttley Abbey, and have scrambled 
with you over hedges in every di- 
rection, and many other feats we 
have performed together, upon the 
field of my remembrance, and all 
within these few years, sliould I say 
within this twelve, month I should 
not transgress the truth* The hours 
that I have spent with you were 
among the pleasantest of my for- 
mer days, and are therefore chron- 
icled in my mind so deeply as to fear 
no erasure. Neither do I forget 
my poor friend Sir Thotnas. I 
should remember him indeed at any 
rate on account of his persoual 
kindnesses to myself, but the last 
testimony that he gave of his regard 
for you, endears him to me still 
more. With his uncommon under- 
standing (for with many peculia- 
rities he had more sense than any 
of his acquaintance) and with hi& 
generous sensibilities, Jt was hardly 
possible that he should not distin- 
guish you as he has done ; as it was 
the last, so it was the best proof, 
that he could give of a judgment, 
that never deceived him, when he 
would allow himself leisure to con- 
sult it. 

You say that you have often heard 
of me : that puzzles me. I cannot 
imagine from what quarter, but it is 
no matter. I must tell you, how- 
ever, my cousin, that your informa- 
tion has been a little defective.... 
Tliat I am happy in my situation is 
true; I live and have lived thcsa 
twenty years with Mrs. Unwin, to 
whose affectionate care of me duiing 
the far gi'eater part of th\t tin^e, 
it is, under Providence, owin^that 
I live at all. But I df) not account 
mvself happy in havinjj been for 
thirteen of those years in a state of 
mmd that has made aU that care 



and attention necessary. An atten- 
tion, and a care, that have injured 
her health, and which, had she not 
becfi uncc>mmonly supported, must 
have brought her to the grave. But 
' I will pass to another subject > it 
•would be ciniel to particularize only 
to give pain, neither would I by any 
means give- a sable hue to the first 
letter of a correspondence so unex- 
• pcctedly renewed. 

I am delighted with what you tell 
me of my uncle's good health ; to 
enjoy any measure of cheerfulness 
at so late a day is much, but to have 
' that late day enlivened with the 
vivacity of youtli, is much more, 
and in' these postdiluvian times a 
rarity indeed. Ha|ipy for the most 
. F*rt, arc the parents who have 
daughters. Daughters are not apt 
to outlive their natural affections, 
"wliich a Bcn has generally surviveil 
even before his boyish years are 
e:q)ired. I rejoice paniculaviy in 
iny uncle's felicity, who has three 
female descendants from his little 
pcrsrn, who leave him noth'uig to 
wish for upon that head. 

My dear cousin, dejection of spi- 
rits, wlaich I suppose may have 
2>revented many a man from be- 
coming an author, made me one, 
• I find constant employment neces- 
sary, and therefore take care to 
be constantly employed. Manual 
occupations do not engage the mind 
sufficiently, as I know by experi- 
cnce, having tried many. But 
composition, especially of verse, ab- 
sorbs it wholly. I write therefore 
generally three hours in a mornings 
and in an evening I transcribe. I 
read also, but less than I write, for 
i must have bodily exercise, and 
thei^ore never pass a day without 

You ask me where I have been 
tills summer. I answer, at Olnoy. 
hhould you ask me where I spent 
the last seventeen summers, I 
Rhould still answer, at Olney. 
Ay, and the winter also, 1 have 
seldom left it, and except when I 
attended my brother in his last ill- 
ness, never 1 beiic\e a k;rtniglit to- 

Adieu, my beloved cousin ; I shall 
not always be thus nimble in reply, 
but shall always have greatpleasnrc 
in answering you wlnin I oan. 

I YoTirs> my friend and eausin, 


ess > 


Ta E senator Bocthius is -the kst 
of the Romans whom Cat© or TVd- 
]y could have -acknotrlcdged for 
their countryman. As a wealthy 
orphan, he inherited the patrimo- 
ny and honours of the Amcian fa- 
mily, a name ambitiously assumed 
by the kings and emperors of the 
age ; and the appellation of Man- 
lius asserted his genuiiie or fabulous 
descent from a race of consuls and 
dictiitors, who had repulsed the 
Gauls from the Capitol, andsacrifi^ 
ced their sons to the discipline of 
the republic. In the youth of Boe- 
thius, the studies of Rome were 
not totally abandoned ; a* Virgii is 
now extant, corrected by the hand 
of a c(uisul ; and the professors of 
grammar, rhetoric, and jurispru- 
dence, were maintained in their 
privileges and pensions, by the Kb- 
erality of the Goths. But the eru- 
dition of the Latin language waa 
insufficient to satlnte hb ardent cu-* 
riosity ; and Bocthlus is said to have 
employed eightcn laborious }cars 
ia the scliools of Athens, which 
were supported by the zeal, tlte 
learning, and the diligence of Pro- 
clus and his disciples. The reason 
and piety of tlieir Roman pupil were 
fortunately saved from the conta- 
gion of mystery and magic, which 
polluted the groves of tlic academy; 
out lie imbibed tlie spirit, and imi- 
tated the method of his dead and 
living masters, who attempted to 
reconcile the strong and subtle 
sen:ie of Aiij>t<jt]c vith the devout 
contemplation an I s^u'^Vime fancy of 
PJato. After his : • Vmi to Rome, 
aiid his mariidgc wuU t'*c daughter 
of bis friend, 'the patvioian S\Tn- 
ijuaciiub, Boethius still coutiimed, ia 



a palace of ivory and marble, to 
prosecute the same studies. The 
church was edified by his prc^ound 
defence of the orthodox creed 
against the Arian, the Eutychian, 
•nd the Nestorian heresies; and 
the Catholic unity was explained or 
expoved ia a formal treatise by the 
mdifferenee of three distinct though 
censiibstantial persons. - For the 
benefit of his Latin readers, his 
genius submitted to teach the first 
elements of the arts and sciences 
of Greece. The geonjetry of Eu- 
clid, the music of Pythagoras, tlie 
arithmetic of Nichomachus,^ the 
mechanics of Archimedes, the as- 
tronomy of Ptolemy, the theology 
of Plato, and the logic of Aristotle, 
with the commentary of Porphyry, 
-were translated and illustrated by 
the mdefiBitigable pen of the Roman 
senator. And he alone was esteemed 
capable of descrilnng the wonders 
of art, a sun-dial, a water-clock, 
or a sphere which represented the 
motions of the planets. From 
these abstruse speculations, Boetliius 
stooped, or to speak more tndy, he 
rose to the social duties of public 
and private life : the indigent were 
relieved by his liberality ; and his 
eloquence:, which flattery might 
compare to the vwce of Demos- 
thenes or Cicero, was uniformly ex- 
erted in the cause of innocence and 
humanity. Such conspicuous merit 
was felt and rewarded by a discern- 
ing prince ; the dignity of Boethius 
was adorned with the titles of con- 
sul and patrician, and his talents 
were usemlly employed in the im- 
portant station of master erf the 
ofiices. Notwithstanding the equal 
claims of the I\ast and West, his 
two sons were created, in their ten- 
der youth, the consuls of the same 
year- On the memorable day of 
their inauguration, they proceeded 
in solemn pomp from their palace 
to the forum, amidst the applause 
of the senate and the people ; and 
tlieir joyfiil father, the true consul 
of Rome, after pronouncing an ora- 
tion in the praise of his royal bene- 
factor, distributed a triumphal lar- 
gess in the games of the circus. 

VOL. I....KO. II. 

Prosperous in his &me and fortunes, 
in his public honours and private 
alliances, in the cultivation of sci- 
ence and the consciousness of vir- 
tue, Boethius might have been styled 
happy, if that precarious epithet 
could be safely appfied be£[>re the 
last term of the life of man. 

A j^losopher,liberal of his wealth 
and parsimonious 'of his time, mi^t 
be insensible to the common allure- 
ments of ambition, the thirst of 
gold and employment. And some 
credit may be due to the assevera- 
tion of Boethius, that he had re- 
luctantly obeyed the divine Plato, . 
who enjoins every virtuous citizen 
to rescue the state from the usurpa* 
tion of vice and ignorance. For 
the integrity of his public conduct 
he appeals to the memory of his 
country. His authority had re- 
strained the pride and oppression 
of the royal officers, and his elo- 
quence had delivered Paulianus from 
die dogs of the palace. He had al- 
ways pitied, and often relieved, the 
distress of the provincials, whose 
fortunes were exhausted by public 
and private rapine ; and Boethius 
alone had courage to oppose the 
tyranny of the Barbarians, elated 
hy conquest, excited by avarice, 
and, as he complains, encouraged 
by impunity. In these honourable 
.contests, his spirit soared above the 
consideration of danger, and per- 
haps of prudence ; and we may 
learn from the example of Cato, 
that a character of pure and in- 
flexible virtue is the most apt to be 
misled by prejudice, to be heat^ 
iy enthusiasm, and to confound pri- 
vate enmities with public justice. 
The disciple of Plato might exag- 
gerate the infirmities of nature, and 
the imperfections of society ; and to 
the mildest form of a Gothic king- 
dom, even the weight of allegifuicc 
and gratitude, must be insupport- 
able to the free spirit of a Roman 
patriot. But the favour and fidelity 
of Boethius declined in just propor- 
tion with the public happiness; and 
an unworthy colleague was imposed, 
to divide and conti-oul the power of 
the master of the offices* In the 



!«tt gloomy setiMn of Theodonc, he 
indignantly felt that he was a slave ; 
but as his master had only power 
over his life, he stood without arms 
and without fear against the fece of 
an angry Barbarian, who had been 
provoked to believe that the safety 
of the senate was incompatible with 
his own. The senator Albinus was 
accused and already convicted on 
the presumption of hoping^ as it 
was said, the liberty of Rome. ** If 
Albinus be criminal," exclaimed 
the orator, <' the senate and my- 
self are all guilty of the same 
crime. If we are innocent, Albi- 
nus is equally entitled to the pro- 
tection cf tlie laws." These laws 
might not have punished the simple 
and barren wish of an unattainable 
blessing ; but they would hare shewn 
less indul^nce to' the rash confession 
of Boethms, that, had he known 
of a conspiracy, the tyrant never 
should. The Advocate of Albinus 
was soon involved in the danger and 
perhaps the guilt of his client ; their 
signature (which they denied as a 
forgery) was affixed to the original 
address, inviting the emperor to 
deliver Italy from the Goths ; and 
three witnesses of honourable 
rank, perhaps of infemous reputa- 
tion, attested the treasonable de- 
signs of the Roman patrician. Yet 
his innocence must be presumed, 
since he was deprived by ITieodo- 
ric of the means of justification, and 
rigorously confined in the tower of 
Pavia, while the senate, at the dis- 
tance of five hundred miles, pro- 
nounced a sentence of confiscation 
and death against the most illustri- 
ous of its members. At the com- 
mand of the Barbarians, the occult 
science of a philosopher was stigma- 
tised with the names of sacrilege 
and magic A devout and dutifiil 
attachment to the senate was con- 
demned as criminal by the trembling 
voices of the senators themselves ; 
and their ingratitude deserved the 
wishorpredictionof Boetliius, that, 
af\er him, none should be found 
guilty of the same ofience. 

While Boethius, oppressed with 
feuers) expected each moment the 

sentence or the stroke of death, He 
composed in the tower of Pavia the 
Coruolation qfPhUo9tifihy ; a goideat 
volume not unworthy of the leisure 
of Plato or Tttlly, but which claims 
incomparable merit from the bar- 
barisim of Uie times and the situa- 
tion of the author. The celestial 
guide whom he had so long invoked 
at Rome and Athens, now conde- 
scended to illumine lus dungeon, to 
revive his courage, and to pour into 
his wounds her salutary balm. 
She taught him to compare his 
long prosperity and his recent dla- 
tress, and to conceive new hopes 
from the inconstancy of fortune. 
Reason had informed him of the 
precarious condition of her gifts ; 
experience had satisfied him of 
their real value ; he had enjoyed 
them without guilt ; he might re- 
sign them without a ngh, and calm- 
ly disdain tlie impotent malice of 
his enemies, who had left him hap- 
piness, since they had left him vii*- 
tue. From the earth, Boetliius as- 
cended to heaven in search of tlw 
SUPREME good; explored the 
metaphysical labyrinth of chance 
and destiny, of prescience and free- 
will, of time and eternity ; and 
generously attempted to reconcile 
the perfect attributes of the Deity, 
with the apparent disorders of his 
moral and physical* government* 
Such topics of consolation, so (^ 
vious, so vague, or so abstruse, are 
inefifectual to subdue tlie feelings of 
human nature. Yet the sense of 
misfortune may be diverted by the 
labour of thought ; and the sage 
who could artfully combine in the 
same work, the various riches of 
philosophy, poetry, and elocjuence, 
must already have possessed tlie in- 
trepid calnmess, wliich he affected 
to seek. Suspense, tlie worst of 
evils, was at length determined by 
the ministers of death, who exe- 
cuted, and perhaps exceeded, the 
inhuman mandate of l^ieodoric. 
A strong cord was fastened round 
the head of Boethius, and forcibly 
tightened, till his eyes almost start- 
ed from their sockets; and some 
mercy may be discovered in the 



nikler torture of beatiiiK him with 
clubs till he expired. Hut his genius 
samved to dintise a ray of iuiow. 
ledge over the darkest ages of the 
Latin world ; the writings of the 
philosopher were translated by the 
most glorious of the English Kings, 
and the third emperor of the name 
«fOtho removedtoa morelKmour- 
able tomb the bones of a Catholic 
saint, who, from his Arian perse- 
cutors, had acquired the honours 
of martyrdom, and the fiune of 
miracles* In the last hours of Boe- 
thius, hederivedsome comfort from 
the salety of his two sons, of his 
wife, and of his &ther-in*law, the 
venerable Symmachus. But the 
grief of Symmachus was indiscreet, 
and perhaps dbrespectiiil : he had 
presumed to lament, he might dare 
to revenge, the death of an injured 
friend* He was dragged in chains 
fnm Rome to the palace of Raven- 
na; and ^he suspicions of Theo- 
doric could only be iq>peased by the 
lilood of an innocent and aged sena- 


The passion of love is supposed 
to exert its sway most despotically 
•over the softer sex, the gentler lialf 
of our species ; but though I cannot 
hut confess that women, taken in 
the aggregate, are more delicate 
animals than men, and less capable 
of resolute exertion and firmness, 
yet there are instances among them 
of a firm endurance of evil, an 
energy of mind fiiUy equal to the 
boasted strength of the stem Lords 
of theCreation* A woman indeed who 
has a soul at all, (foritiswellknown 
to be the Turkish creed that that 
. beautifiil madiine is not endued with 
BO useless a spring, and there are 
some instances among our own coun- 
trywomen that would almost induce 
one to believe that a few fair Turks 
Jiad straggled into Great Britain)... 
a woman, I say, who lias a soul, 
is much more animated, more alive 
than mas* Her impulses, if less 

permanent, are more lively; and 
though their vigour may quickly 
relax, yet the first spring is so pow« 
erfiil, that it will carry them fur- 
ther than a more continued inq)etus 
will lead a man....But I am going 
to set before my readers the cha- 
racter of a female, not more dis- 
tinguished for her feeling than her 
resolution ; and whose case, as it 
may be common to all, may con- 
tain a general warning and a gene- 
ral example. 

Cecilia was, from her infimcy, 
the child of misfortune. She lost 
her mother in the fii-st month of 
her life, and experienced through 
her childhood every disadvantage 
which can attend a motherless 
female. It is needless to detail the 
circumstances which threw Cecilia, 
without fortune and without friends, 
into a dependent situation in an 
«legant £aiail)k There, however, 
we find her, from a very early age, 
bereft of all the splendid hopes her 
&Uier's prospects once held out to 
jher, and trusting alone to <^ Inno- 
cence and Heavea." 

Cecilia was no beauty ;M**instead 
of the Grecian fikgaace of formi 
and the unrivafled delicacy of fea- 
tures she might have inherited from 
her lovely mother, she -could boast 
only an active, though not a slender 
person, a complexion that glowed 
with the pure tints of heidth, a 
countenance that bespoke good 
humour, and an eye that beamed 
intelUgence. Her skin had been 
despoiled of its polish Jjy thatioe to 
loveliness, the small-pox ;...*snd the 
narrowness of her fortune deprived 
her of the adventitious advantages 
of dress. The lowliness of her 
situation, which she felt most acute* 
ly, (perhaps too much so, since 
circumstances, not incurred by guilt| 
ought to bring no imputation with 
them) repressed all the freedom of 
her manner, and aU the graces of 
her youth. With these exterior 
disadvantages, Cecilia was living 
with a woman of fashion, fortune, 
and beauty, who, satisfied witli tho 
charitable deed of affording a homo 
to a feUow-creature, Ibought abfr 



treated her with sufficient kindnesa 

-when she did not beat her. 

Cecilia, however^ possessed a 
mind hr superior to her situation : 
it had been elegantly and even 
studiously cultivated. She was no 
mean proficient in the modern ac- 
comphshmentSy and was more than 
commonly skilled in the Belles Let- 
tres. She had loved moral philo- 
sophy, as the most improving and 
the most interesting study ; and she 
now sought in its doctrines a relief 
from the discomforts she experi- 

. enced. %e could not believe but 
that unwearied assiduity, diligence, 
and good-humour would procure 
her the good-will, and even the af- 
fection of her patroness; but the 
course of a few years shewed her 
that she deceived herself, and that 
a fine lady is a non-descript in 
etliics. ■ . 

Had Cecilia been one of those 
humble toad>eatcrs, who can bear 
to dangle after their ladies into 
public, clad in their forsaken orna- 
ments, at once the enyy and tlie 
scorn of the whole tiibe of waiting 
gentlewomen,...«had she been an 
adept at flattery, and echoed with 
applause the unmeaning witticisms 
she was condemned to hear, she 

. . -would probably have been a favour- 
ite : but such was not her character. 
Conscious of sonxe internal merit, 
Cecilia sought to be chosen, not 
suflferciili and finding, unhappily, 
that she could not ob&in what she 
sought, she gradually witlidrcw 
niore and more from' observation, 
and though obliged to frequent all 
company, she never met -with even 

• tlie common attentions due to her 
age and sex. 

Thus retired in herself, and thrust 
hack by circumstances, it was not 

. iwshible for her to obtain any atten- 
tion in the gay and dissipated cir- 
cle in which she was condemned to 
move, nor to have the least chance 
of being lifted to a better situation. 
The best years of her life were 
Wasted in hopeless despondency, 
and she could look forward to no- 
thing but passing the evening of her 
<days in the same joyless gloom, 

when acme events occmred, whk^ 
seemed to promise a possibility €jf 

Alcanor, an intimate friend of 
the family, had for some time dis^ 
tingttished Cecilia with more than 
a polite.....with a kind attention.— 
Alcanor was a man of sense, a com- 
plete gentleman, and bore an un- 
blemished characterforprobityand 
honour. Cecilia, who, with a bos©m 
formed to feel the warmest raptmres 
of love, with a judgment keen to 
perceive, and a heart alive to dis- 
tinguifih excellence, had hitherto 
preserved herself from any parti- 
cular attachment only by perpetual 
reflections on the hopelessness of 
her situation, felt a fearless grati- 
tude for the friendship of Alcanor. 
It exalted her in her owncycsabovc 
the insignificance into which she 
was conscious she had sunk in the 
estimation of those around her; 
yet considering Alcanor as a being 
many degrees above her, she indulg- 
ed her gratitude without the small- 
est idea that it would ever ripen 
into a warmer sentiment. Nor could 
it ever have disturbed her peace, 
though it might have added to her 
happiness, but for some occurren- 
ces, not necessary to be detailed, 
whirji threw her often into confi- 
dcntiid talk with Alcanor. 

Though wholly a novice in the 
afiairs of love, Cecilia had not 
reached the age of twenty-eight 
without havitig observed the effects 
of the passions ; and the inquietude 
. she now began to be conscious of, 
alarmed her for the nature of her 
sentiment towards Alcanor. His 
increasing kindness increased her 
inquietude and her alarms. Slie 
strictly examined her hearty and 
learnt to distrust, not him, but 
herself. She had hitherto put no 
restraint on the natural warmth of 
her manner when conversing wi^ 
him: she now assumed a more 
guarded style. Alcanor saw the 
difference oif her conduct, and strove 
by the most delicate attentions, to 
bring her back to her former unre- 
serve. Cecilia could no longer be 
blind to the meaning of -Alcanor.*.* 



\^liat had she to feav firoma man 
irbose bosom was the seat of ho- 
nour? What a happiness^ what a 
trininph for her to be selected by 
so saperior a being! She looked 
thnidly at Alcanor. His respectful 
deference, his afiectionate attea- 
twDSy his graceful gaiety reassured 
her ; by degrees her timidity, her 
reserre wore off, and without a 
• word on either side, they were on 
.the footing of avowed lorers. To 
have doul^ed his honour would have 
been sacrilege* She became a new 
being. She looked forward with 
some apprehension, indeed to the 
situation to which her marriage 
would raise her; but she endea- 
voured to render hersdf worthy of 
it* She hourly improved in grace, 
gaiety, and appearance, and Alca- 
nor became hourly more and more 
attached: yet so delicate were the 
marks of his attachment, as to be 
by all unnoticed, save by the con- 
scious Cecilia ! 

She was now anxiously expecting 
the moment when his avowal should 
disnpate all apprehensions, when 
one day, after a temporary absence, 
as she advanced to meet him with 
her accustomed gladness, she was 
struck with the strangeness of his 

manner! Polite he was indeed ; 

but what was mere politeness from 
Alcanor to Cecilia ? She gazed in 
his face ; she saw in it no answering 
warmth ; she retired to weep, and 
in solitude, chid herself for her fan- 
cifulness. . She returned to prove 
Alcanor faultless, and herself mis- 
taken. She found him to all others 
cheerful, animated, gay, as usual... 
to her invincibly cold. Day after 
day passed on, and no returning 
kindness beamed in his e3re. Hope 
was extinct, and thus ended forever 
an attachment singular ia its pro- 
gress, and barbarous in its termi- 
nation...No opportunity now offered 
of speaking alone to Alcanor, and 
if it had, of what service would it 
have been to the unfortunate Ceci- 
lia ? Of what Was she to complain ? 
Nothing, however, was ever fur- 

ther, from her wishes than to com- 
plain, except to reproach Alcanor! 
To conceal her griefi», to conquer 
her feelings, to command her coun- 
tenance, diese were the tasks she 
imposed upon her9elfM..these were 
the efforts that exhausted her 
strength,that imbittered her solitary 
hours, that bathed her pillow with 

These salutary efforts, however, 
succeeded, and Cecilia is a noble 
example that philosophy and exer- 
tion can surmount the greatest 
trials, and afford comfort under the 
heaviest misfortunes. She has de- 
voted her time, witli exemplarjr 
fortitude, to those pursuits which 
formerly interested her ; and she 
finds from her laudable exertions 
the truest and most permanent com- 
fort. One only reflection remains 
to imbitter her hours of retirement, 
and that is, her earnest and not 
unjustifiable curiosity to learn the 
reason of Alcanor's sudden change: 
but this explanation she must as- 
suredly rest without obtaining, since 
. she can never ask, and he seems 
not at all disposed to volunteer 

That no future clouds may arise 
to disturb a serenity so laudably 
regained, must be the wish of every 
one who reads this recital ; but what 
words can do justice to the unsus- 
pected perfidy of Alcanor, who first 
obtained the full confidence of his 
destined victim, and then amused 
himself with watching the progress 
of a passion he cooUy resolved to 
reduce to despair ? Cecilia, indeed, 
with a delicacy of which only the 
most feeling mind could be cap^le, 
sometimes reproaches herself with 
having too readily yielded to the 
semblance of affection; but her 
own heart, and that of the trea 
cherous Alcanor, must fully excu^ 
pate her from this blame. Tl 
following lines, however, whicli 
obtained by an accident not to ' 
related, prove her jealousy of h 
own conduct, and tlie acutencss 
her feelings. 



I cmnght m Mght Ikntaitic clond, 
And in the eUtterinfir moonlirht 
Then, of the beauteous pageant 
Too fondljT to my bosom press'd it. 

I fancied, by the dubious U^ht, 
I taw my phantom sweetly fmiling ; 

Mj bosom throbbed with wild delight, 
AU reason's soberer fears beguiling. 

What dreams of joy my soul revolv*d, 

What pleasant visions hoverM o'er 


Tin by th' incautious warmth dis- 


My treatuM faded from before me ! 

Condemned henceforward stiU to 

My senses rove in wild confusion* 
K or can I scarcely yet believe 

My bliss was all a vain illusion. 

From treacherous hope will I no more 
Deceitful forms of pleasure borrow, 

But silently my loss deplore. 
And sink a prey to secret sorrow. 

Such is she tale I wish to impress 
on the minds of my hir country- 
women ; since to all the lot of Ceci- 
lia is possible, it would be wise in 
all to arm their minds with similar 
fortitude. The above lines, written 
at a very early period of her dis- 
tress, but verjr ill convey her pre- 
sent philosophic calmness. 


It is the liEite of tliose maxims, 
which have been thrown out by 
•very eminent writers, to be re- 
ceived implicitly by most of their 
-followers, and be repeated a thou- 
sand times, for no other reason, 
than because they once dropped 
iroro the pen of a superior genius : 
one of these is the assertion of Aris- 
totle, that < aU poetry consists in 
imitation,' which has been so fre- 
quently echoed from author to au- 
tiior; tlmt it would seem a kind of 
arrogance to controvert it; for al> 

most all the philosophert and cri- 
tics, who have written npoo the 
subject of poetry, music, and paint- 
ing, how little soever they ma^ 
a^ce in some points, seem of one 
mind in cxinsidering them as arts 
merely imitative: yet it must be 
clear to any one, who examinca 
what passes in his own mind, that 
he is aflfected by the finest poems> 
pieces of music, and pictures, upon 
a principle, which, whatever it be^ 
is entirely distinct from imitatioiu 
M. le Batteux has attempted to 
prove that all the fine arts have a 
relation to this common pnnciple of 
imitating : but, whatever be said of 
painting, it is probable, that poetry 
and music had a nobler origin; and, 
if the first language of man was not 
both poetical and musical, it is cerw 
tarn, at least, thit in countries, 
where no kind of imitation seema 
to be much admired, there are 
poets and musicians botii by nature 
and by art: as in some Mahometan 
nations ; where sculpture and paint- 
ing are forbidden by the laws, where 
dramatic poetry of every sort ia 
wholly unknown, yet, where the 
pleasing arts, of expressing the 
passions in verse, and of enforcing^ 
that expression by melody, are caU 
tivated to a degiee of enthusiasm. 
It shall be my endeavour in thia 
paper to prove, that, though poetry 
and music have, certainly, a power 
of imitating the manners of men, 
and several objects in nature, yet, 
that their greatest effect is not pro- 
duced by imitation, but by a very 
difierent principle ; which must be 
sought for in the deepest recesses 
of the human mind. 

To state the question properly^ 
we must have a clear notion of what 
we mean by poetry and music ; but 
we cannot gjve a precise definition 
of them, till we have made a few 
previous remarks on their origin, 
tlieir relation to each other, and 
their difference. 

It seems probable then that poe- 
try was originally no more than a 
strong, and animated expression of 
the human passions, of joy and grief, 
love and hate, admiration and anger. 



aoaetiinespareftnduainixed, some- 
times variously modified and com- 
bined : for, if we observe the voice 
and accents of a person affected by 
any of the violent passions, we shaQ 
perceive something in them very 
nearly approaching to cadence and 
measure; which is remarkably the 
case in the language of a vehement 
Orator, whose talent is chiefly con- 
versant about praise or censure ;^ 
and we may collect from several 
passages in Tully, that the fine 
speakers of old Greece and Rome 
Ittd a sort of rhythm in their sen- 
tences, less regular, but not less 
melodious, than that of the poets. 

If this idea be just, one would 
suppose that the most ancient sort 
of poetry consisted in praising the 
Deity ; for if we conceive a being, 
created with all his foculties and 
senses, endued with speech and 
reason, to open his eyes in a most 
delightful plain, to view for the first 
time the serenity of the sky, the 
splendor of the sun, the verdure of 
the fields and woods, the glowing 
colours of the flowers, we can hard- 
ly believe it possible, that he should 
refrain from bursting into an ex- 
tacy of joy, and pouring his praises 
to the creator of those wonders, and 
the author of his happiness. This 
kind of poetry is used m all nations ; 
but as it is the sublimest of all, 
when it Is applied to its true object, 
so it has often been perverted to 
impious purposes by pagans and 
idolaters: every one knows tliat 
the dramatic poetry of the Euro- 
peans took its rise from the same 
spring, and was no more at first 
than a song in praise of Bacchus ; 
so that the onUr species of poetical 
composition (it we except tlie epic) 
which cr.n in any sense be called 
imitative, was deduced from a na- 
tural emotion of the mind, in which 
imitation could not be at all con- 

llie next source of poetry was, 
probably, love, or the mutual incli- 
nation, wliich naturally subsists be- 
tween the sexes, and is founded 
upon personal beauty : hence arose 
the most agreeable odesy and love- 

songs, which we admire in the 
works of the ancient lyric poets, 
not filled, like our sonnets and 
madrigals, with the insipid babble 
of darts, and Cupids, but simple, 
tender, natural ; and consisting of 
such unaffected endearmentSi and 
mild complaints, 

* Teneii sdegni, e placide e traaqnilla 
Repulse, e can vezsi, e liete psci^* 

as we may suppose to have passed 
between Uie first lovers in a state 
of innocence, before the refinements 
of society, and the restraints, whidi 
they introduced, had made the 
passion of love so fierce, and im- 
petuous, as it b said to have been 
m Dido, and certainly was in Sap- 
pho, if we may take her own word 
for itf. 

The grief, which the first inha- 
bitants of the earth must have feH 
at the death of their dearest friends, 
and relations, gave rise to another 
species of poetry, which originally, 
perhaps, consisted of short dirges, 
and was afterwards lengthened into 

As soon as vice began to prevail 
in the world, it was natural for the 
wise and virtuous to express their 
detestation of it in the strongest 
manner, and to show their resent- 
ment against the corrupters of man- 
kind: hence moral poetry was de- 
rived, which, at first, we find, was 
severe and passionate; but was 
gradually melted down into cool 
precepts of morality, or exhorta- 
tions to virtue : we may reasonably 
conjecture that epic poetry had 
the same origin, and Uiat tlie ex- 
apiples of heroes and kings were 
inti*oduced to illustrate some moral 
truth, by showine the loveliness 
and advantages ot virtue, or the 
many misfortunes that flow from 
vice. Where there is vice, which 
is detestable in itself, there must be 
hate, since 'the strongest antipathy 
in nature,' as Mr. Pope assetted in 

• Two lines of Ttuto^ 
f See the ode of SaffJbo quoted by 
Longintu, and tranUatea by £oiitaiu 



bis writings, and proved by his whole 
jiife, * subsists between the good and 
the bad:' now this passion was th& 
source of that poetn , which we 
call Satire, very improperly, and 
x»miptl)', since the Satire of the 
Romans was no more than a moral 
piece, which they entitled Satura 
or Satyra*, intimating, that the 
poem, like a dish of fruit and com 
ofies*ed to Ceres, contained a vari- 
ety and plenty of fancies and figures; 
-whereas the true invectives of the 
amdcnts were called Iambi, of wliich 
"we have several examines in Catul- 
lus, and in the I^xxies of Horace, 
who imitated the very measures and 
manoer of Archilochus. 

These are the principal sources 
of poetry ; and of music also, as it 
«haU be my endeavour to show : but 
it Is first necessary to say a few 
words on the nature of sound; a 
very odious subject, which would 
require a long dissertation to be 
Accurately discussed. Without en- 
tering into a discourse on the vibra- 
tions of chords, or the undulations 
of the air, it wll be sufficient for 
our purpose to observe that there 
is a great difierence between a com- 
mon sound, and a musical sound, 
which consists chiefly in this, that 
the former is simple and entire in 
itself like a point, while the latter 
is always accompanied with other 
sounds, without ceasing to be one ; 
like a circle, which is an entire 
figure, though it is generated by a 
inultitudeof points flowing, at equal 
distances, round a common centre* 
UTiese accessory sound*;, which are 
caused by the aiiquots of a sonorous 
body vibrating at once, arc called 
Harmonics, and the whole system 
of mo<Icni harmtniy depends upon 
them ; though it were eapy to prove 
that the system is unmiiiral, and 
only made toleiabie to the ear by 
habit: for whenever we strike the 
perfect accord en a harpsichord or 
an organ, the harmonics of the 
third and fifth have also their own 

• S^'>rr:c latin v.-(^rds were r.ncllcd 
^'•^cr wiAi un u cr a v, us ^'uUa cr 

Imrmonics, which are dissoftant 
from the principal note: These 
horrid dissonances are, indee<1, al^ 
most overpowered by the natural 
harmonics of the principal chords 
but tliat does not prove them agree- 
able* Since nature hat given us a 
delightful harmony of her own, why 
should we destroy it by the additions 
of art ? It is like thinking 

to paint the lily. 

And add a perfume to the violet. 

Now let us conceive that some 
vehement passion b eiqiressed in 
strong words, exactly measured, 
and pronounced in a common voice, 
in just cadence, and with proper 
accents, such an expression of the 
passion will be genuine poetry ; and 
the famous ode of ^/t/^isailowed 
to be so in the strictest sense : but 
if the same ode, with all its natural 
accents, were e:q)ressedin a musi- 
cal voice (that is, in sounds accom- 
panied with their harmonics), if it 
were sung in due time and measure, 
in a single and pleasing tune, that 
added foi*ce to the words widiout 
stifling tiiem, it would then be pure 
and original music; not merely 
soothing to the ear, but afibcting t0 
the heart ; not an imitation of na- 
ture, but the voice of nature her- 
self. But there is another point in 
which music must resemble poetry, 
or it will lose a considerable part of 
its effect : we all must have observ- 
ed, that a speaker, agitated with 
passion, or an actor, who is, indeed, 
strictly an imitator, are perpetually 
changing the toncand pitch of their 
voice, as the sense of their words va- 
ries: it may be worth while to exa- 
mine how this variation is expressed 
in music. Every body knows that the 
musical scale consists of seven notes, 
aljove whicii wc find a succession of 
-similar sounds repeated in the same 
order, and above that, other sue-- 
cessions, us far as tliey can be con- 
tinned by the human voice, or dis- 
tinguished by the human eur : now 
each of these seven sounds has no 
more meaning, when it is heard 
separately, thun a single letter of 



te alpbftbet would have ; and it is 
mnly by their succession, and their 
relation to one principal sound, that 
tfaey take any rank in the scale ; or 
difier Ironi each other, except as 
tiiey are graver, or more acute : but 
in the r^;ular scale each interval 
assumes a proper character, and 
every note stands related to the first 
or principal one by various propor- 
tions. Now a series of sounds re- 
lating to one leading note is called 
a mode, or a tone, and, as there are 
twelve semitones in the scale, each 
of which may be made in its turn 
the leader of a mode, it follows that 
there are twelve modes^ and each 
of them has a peculiar character 
arising from the position of the 
modal note, and from some minute 
difference in the ratios, as of 81 to 
80, or a comma ; for there are some 
intervals, which cannot easily be 
rendered on our instruments, yet 
have a surprising effect in modula- 
tion, or in the transitions from one 
mode to another. 

The mode-s of the ancients are 
said to have had a wonderful effect 
over the mind ; and Plato, who per- 
mits the Dorian in his imaginary 
republic, on account of its calm- 
ness and gravity, excludes the Ly- 
dian, because of its languid, tender 
and effeminate character : not that 
any series of mere sounds has a 
power of raising or soothing the pas- 
sions, but each of th^sfi modes was 
appropriated to a particular kind of 

poetry, and a particular kind of in 
strument ; and tlie chief of them, as 
the Dorian, Phryp;ian,Lydian, Ioni- 
an, Eolian, Locnan, belonging ori- 
ginally to the nations, from which 
tiiey took their names: thus the 
Phrygian mode, which was ardent 
and impetuous, was usually accom- 
panied with trumpets, and the Mix- 
olydian, which if we believe Aris- 
toxcnus, was inventetl by Sappho, 
was probably confined to the pathe- 
tic and tragic style : that these 
modes had a relation to poetry, as 
weU as to music, appears from a 
fragmentofLasus, in which he says, 
* I sing of Ceres, and her daughter 
Melibcea, the consort of Pluto, in 

VOL. I...«lfO. II. 

the Eolian mode, fufl oi gravity ;.* 
and Pindar calls one of his Odes a^. 
^ Eolian song/ If the Greeks sur- 
passed us in the strength of their 
modulations, we have an advantage 
over them in our minor scale, which 
supplies us with twelve new modes, 
where the two semitones are re- 
moved from the natural position 
between the third and fourth, the 
seventh andeigi^th notes, and placed 
* between the second and third, the 
fifth and sixth ; this change of the 
semitones, by giving a minor third 
to the modal note, softens the gene- 
ral expression of the mode, and 
adapts it admirably to subjects of 
grief and affliction : the minor mode 
of D is tender, that of C, with three 
flats, plaintive, and that of F, with 
four, pathetic and mournful to the 
highest degree, for which reason it 
was chosen by the excellent Pergo- 
lesi in his Stabat Mater. Now these 
twenty-four modes, artfully inter- 
woven, and changed as often as the 
sentiment changes, may, it is evi- 
dent, express all the variations in 
the voice of a speaker, and give an 
additional beauty to the accents of 
a poet. Consistently witli the fbre<^ 
going principles, we may define I 
original and native poetry to be the 
language of the violent passions, I 
expressed in exact measure, witli / 
strong accents and significant words; / 
and true music to be no more than] 
poetry, delivered in a succession o^ 
harmonious sounds, so disposed j 

to please the ear. It is in thisvie^. 
only that we must consider the mu- 
sic of the ancient Greeks, or at- 
tempt to account for its amazing 
effects, which we find related by the 
gravest historians, and philoso- 
phers ; it was wholly passionate or 
descriptive, and so closely united 
to poetry, that it never obstructed, 
but always increased its influence ; 
whereas cur boasted harmony, with 
all its fine accords, and numerous 
parts, paints nothin^^fixpresses no- 
thing, says nothing to the heartland 
consequently can only give more or 
less pleasure to one of our senses ; 
and no reasonable man will serious- 
ly prefer a transitory pleasure, 



^irhich must soon end in satiety, or 
even in disgust, to a delight of the 
»oul, arising from sympathy, and 
founded on the natural passions, aK 
ways lively, always interesting, al- 
ways transporting. The old divi* 
sions of music into celestial and 
earthly, divine and human, active 
and contemplative, inteUective and 
orator ial, were founded rather upon 
metaphors, and chimerical analo- 
gies, than upon any real distinctions 
m nature ; but the want ot making 
a distinction between music of 
mere sounds, and the music of the 
passions, has been the perpetual 
source of confusion and contradic- 
tions both among the ancients and 
the modems : nothing can be more 
opposite in many points than the 
systems of Rameau and Tartini, 
one of whom asserts that melody 
springs from bannony, and the 
other deduces harmony from me- 
lody ; and both are in the right, if 
the' first speaks only of that music, 
which took its nsc'from the multi- 
plicity of sounds heard at once in 
the sonorous body, and the second, 
of that which rose from the accents 
and inflexions of the human voice, 
animated by the passions : to de- 
cide, as Rousseau says, which of 
these two schools ought to have the 
preference, we need only ask a 
ulain question. Was the voice made 
^ tor the instruments, or tlie instru- 
ments for the voice ? 

In definhig what true poetry 
ought to be, according to our prin- 
ciples, we have described what it 
really was among the Hebrews, the 
Greeks and Romans, the Arabs and 
Persians. The lamentation of Da- 
vid, and his sacred odes, or Psalms, 
the Song of Solomon, tt\e prophe- 
cies of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and the 
other inspired writers, are truly 
and strictly poetical ; but what did 
David or Solomon imitate in their 
divine poems ? Amun who is really 
joyful or afflicted, cannot be said to 
imitate joy or affliction. The lyric 
verses of Alcaeus, Alcman, and 
I^ycus, the Hymns of Callimachus, 
the Elegy of Moschus on the death 
ni Eion, are all beautiful pieces of 

poetry ; yet Alcaeus was no imita* 
tor of love, Callimachus was no 
imitator of religious awe and admi- 
ration, Moschus was no imitator of 
grief at the U ss of an amiable friends 
Aristotle himself wrote a vci*) poe- 
tical eleg)' <m the death of a man^ 
whom he had loved ; bu it would 
be difficult to say what he imitated 
in it: '^O virtue, who pro]'Osest 
many labours to the human race, 
and art still the alluring object of 
our life ; for thy charms, O beauti- 
ful goddess, it was always an envied 
happme^^s in Greece even to die, 
and to suffer the most painful, the 
most afflicting evils : such are the 
immortal fruits, whicli thou raisest 
in our minds ; fruits, more precious 
than gold, more sweet than the love 
of parents, and soft repose : for thee 
Hercules the son of Jove, and the 
twins of Leda, sustained many la- 
bours,and by their illustrious actions 
sought thy favour ; for love of thee, 
Achilles and Ajax descended to the 
mansion of Pluto ; and, through a 
zeal for thy charms, the prince of 
Atarnea was also deprived of the 
sun's light : therefore shall the mu- 
ses, daughters of memory, render 
him immortal for his glorious deeds, 
whenever they sing the god of hos- 
pitality, and the honours due to a 
lasting friendship." 

In the preceding collection of po- 
ems, there are some Eastern fables, 
some odes, a -paneg)'ric, and an 
elegy : yet it does not appear to me, 
that there is the least imitation in 
either of them : Petrarch was, cer- 
tainly, too deeply aflTected with real 
grieti and the Persian poet was too 
sincere a lover, to imitate the pas- 
sions of others. As to the rest, a 
fable in verse is no more an imita- 
tion than a fable in prose ; and if eve- 
ry poetical narrative, which de- 
scribes the manners, and relates the 
adventures of men, be called imita- 
tive, every romance, and even eve- 
ry history, nmst be called so like- 
wise ; since many poems are only 
romances, or parts of history, told 
in a regular measure. 

What has been said of poetry, 
may with equal force Lc applied t# 



..vmsiCy which Is poetry, dressed to 
advantage ; and even to painting, 
many sorts qf which are poems to 
the eye, as all poems, merely de- 
scriptive, are pictures to the ear : 
and this way of considering tliem, 
will set the refinements of modern 
artists in their true light ; for the 
passions which were given by na- 
ture, never spoke in an unnatural 
form, and no man, truly affected 
with love or grief, ever expressed 
the one in an acrostic, or the other 
in a fugue : tliese remains, there- 
fore, of the false taste, which pre- 
vailed in the dark ages, should be 
banished from this, which is en^ 
lightened with a just one. 

It is true, that some kinds of 
painting ai'e strictly imitati\e, as 
that which is solely intended to re^ 
present the human figure and coun- 
tenance ; but it will be found that 
those pictures have always the 
greatest effect, which represent 
some passion, as tlie martyrdom of 
St. Agnes by Domenichino, and the 
various representations of the Cru- 
cifixion by the finest masters of 
Italy ; and there can be no doubt, 
but that the famous sacrifice of Iphi- 
genia by Timantlies was affecting 
to the highest degree ; which proves 
not that painting cannot be said to 
imitate, but that its most powerful 
influence over tlie mind arises, like 
tliat of the other arts, from sym- 

It is asserted also that descrip- 
tive poetry, and descriptive music, 
{ s they are called, are strict imita- 
tions ; but, not to insi:>t that mere 
description is the meanest part of 
both arts, if indeed it belongs to 
tlicm at all, it is clear, that words 
and sounds have no kind of resem- 
blance to visible objects : and what 
is an imitation, but a resemblance 
of some other thing? Kesjde^, no 
unprejudiced hearer will say thnt 
he finds the smallest traces of imi- 
tation intlie numerous fi^gues, coun- 
tei'f agues, and divisions, which ra- 
ther disgrace than adorn the mor 
dem music : even sounds them- 
selves are imperfectly imitated by 
harmon^i and} if we sometimes hear 

the murmuring of a brook, or th^ 
chirping of birds in a concert, wc* 
are generally apprised before-hand 
of the passages, where we may ex- 
pect them. Some eminent musi- 
cians, indeed, have been absurd 
enough to think of imitating laughs 
ter and other noises; but if Uiey had 
succeeded, they could not have 
made amends for their want of 
taste in attempting it ; for such ri- 
diculous imitations must necessarily 
destroy the spirit and dignity of tho 
finest poems, which they ought to 
illustrate by a gi*aceful and natural 
mckody. It seems to me, tliat, as 
those parts of poetry, music, and 
painting, which relate to the pas- 
sions, affect by sympathy, so those, 
which are merely descriptive, act 
by a kind of substitution, diat is, by 
raising in our minds, aflfections, or 
sentiments, analogous to those, 
which arise in us, when the re- 
spective objects in nature are pre- 
sented to our senses. Let us sup- 
pose that a poet, a musician, and a 
pauiter, are striving to^ give tlieir 
friend, or patron, a pleasure simi- 
lar to that, which he feels at the 
sig;ht of a beautiful prospect. The 
first will form an agreeable assem- 
blage of lively images, which hp 
will express in smooth and elegant 
verses of a sprightly measure ; he 
will describe the most delightful ob- 
jects, and will add to the graces of 
his description a certain delicacy of 
sentiment, and a spirit of cheerful- 
ness. 'I'he musician, -who under-, 
takes to set the words of the pcet, 
will select some mode, which, on 
his violin, has the character of 
mirth and gaity, as the Kolian, or 
E flat, which he will change as the 
sentiment is varied: he will express 
the words in a simple and agreeable 
melody, which will not disguise, but 
embellish them, without aiming at 
any fugue, or figured harmony : he 
will use tlic bass, t;o mark tiie mo- 
dulation more sti^ongly, especially 
in the changes ; and he will place 
the tenour generally in unison with 
the bass, to pinivcnt too great a dis-i 
tance between the parts : in tho 
syuii'>hony he will| al^ve ^U Umu^s^ 



ftyoid a doable melody, and will 
apply his variations only to some 
accessory ideas, which the princi- 
pal part, that b, the voice, could not 
easily express : he will not make a 
number of useless repetitions, be- 
cause the passions only repeat the 
same expressions, and dwell upon 
the same sentiments, while descrip- 
tion can only leprescnt a single ob- 
;ect by a single sentence. The 
>ainter will describe all visible ob- 
ccts more exactly than his rivals, 
>ut he will fall short ot the other ar- 
tists in a very material circum- 
atance ; namely, that his pencil, 
which may, indeed, express a sim- 
ple passion, cannot paint a thought, 
or draw the shades of sentiment : 
he will, however, finish his land- 
scape with grace and elegance ; his 
colours will be rich and glowing ; 
his perspective strikmg ; and his 
^gures will be disposed with an 
agreeable variety, but not with con- 
fusion : above all, he will diffuse 
over his wholepiece such a spirit of 
liveliness and festivity, that the be- 
holder shall be seized with a kind of 
rapturous delight, and, for a mo- 
ment, mistake art for nature. 

Thus will each artist gain his 
end, not by imitating the works of 
nature, but by assuming her power, 
and causing the same effect upon 
the imagination, which her charms 
produce to the senses : tins must be 
the chief object of a poet, a musi- 
cian, and a painter, who know that 
. great effects are not produced by 
minute details, but by the general 
spirit of the whole piece, and that a 
gaudy composition may strike the 
mind for a short time, but that tlie 
beauties of simplicity are botii more 
dehghtfiil, and more permanent. 

As the passions are differentiy 
modified in different men, and as 
even Uie various objects in nature 
affect pur minds in various degrees, 
it is obvious, that tiiere must be a 
great diversity in the pleasure, 
which we receive from the fine 
arts, whether that pleasure arises 
from sympathy, or substitution ; and 
that it were a wild notion in artists 
tQ thinK of pleasing every reader^ 

hearer, or beholder ; since every 
man has a particular set of objects, 
and a particular inclination, which, 
direct him in the choice of his plea- 
sures, and induce him to consider 
the productions, both of nature and 
of art, as more or less elegant, in 
proportion as they give him a 
greater or smaller deg^ree of de- 
light : this does' not at all contradict 
the opinion of man^ able writers, 
tiuit there is one umform standard 
of taste ; since tiie passions, and, 
consequcntiy, sympathy, are gene- 
rally the same in all men, till they 
are weakened by age, infirmity or 
other causes. 

If the arguments, used in this es* 
say, have any weight, it will ap- 
pear, that the finest parts of poetry, 
music, and painting, are expres- 
sive of the passions, and operate on 
our minds by sympathy ; that the in* 
ferior parts of them are descrip- 
tive of natural objectf, and affect us 
chiefly by substitution ; that the ex- 
pressions of love, pity, desire, and 
the tender passions, as weU as the 
description of objects that delight 
the senses, produce in the arts 
what we call the beautiful ; but that 
hate, anger, fear, and the terrible 
passions, as well as objects, which 
are unpleasing to the senses, are 
productive of the sublime, when 
they are aptiy expressed, or de- 

These subjects might be pursued 
to infinity; but, if they were amply 
discussed, it would be necessary to 
write a series of dissertations, in- 
stead of an essay. 


When I was in Wales last sum- 
mer, I was very much struck with 
the situation of a little village on 
my road ; and as my plan in travel- 
ling is always to adopt whatever 
idea promises amusement, I deter- 
niincd, as I alighted in the yard 
of the inn, to remain there a few 
days, if I could find tolerable ac- 
commodations* The inn, howeveri 



was extremely wretched, and I wan- 
dered forth to see all that could be 
^en in the shortest jjossible space of 
time ; for I felt that it would be im- 
practiciible to i^main there so long 
as I had first intended. I ascended 
a rugged hill to the east of the vil- 
lage, and as from its summit I was 
admiring tlie prospect, I perceived 
a Quaker, apparently engaged in 
the same amusement. — ^^ A very 
fine view from this hill," observed I. 

" Very fine indeed," replied the 
Quaker ; " lovest thou fine views ?" 

" So well," returned I, ** that I 
would have staid in this village for 
some days to have indulged the pro- 
pensity, but that the inn affords no 
accommodations at all." 

I need not, however pursue the 
conversation, which lasted during 
a long walk, at the end of which, 
my friendly Quaker invited me to 
remain at his house till I had suffi- 
ciently feasted my eyes. I accepted 
the invitation, and established my- 
self there that very evening, I 
staid there five or six days, in the 
course of which time something 
like a friendship took pi ace between 
the Quaker and myself, and even 
his pretty daughter Martha mani- 
fested no small partiality for me. 
However, except an occasional pre- 
sent now and then, to prove my 
gratitude, no intercourse has ever 
taken place between us, until the 
post, the other day, brought me a 
letter in a hand I was ivholly unac- 
quainted with. I opened it hastily, 
and found it as follows. 
" Esteemed Friend, 

*' Thou wilt perhaps be 
surprised <at receiving a letter from 
me — ^nay, perhaps, thou wilt have 
forgotten the existence of Abraham 
Upright ; however, neither I nor 
ray daughter Martha h;ive forgot- 
ten thee, but have continued to wish 
thee all welfare and happiness every 
day of our lives. 

" If thou hast not forgotten us, 
perhaps thou remeniberesl the 
young man named Philip Dellw)-n. 
Ihe young man w<is sick thou 
knowest : — he now sleeps with his 
fathers. I one day burprised my 

daughter Martha in the room where-) 
he dwelt, in tears over a roll of/ 
paper, which 1 soon saw was in liis 
hand- writing. Had there been a 
fire at hand, I should have tossed' 
the papers into it in a moment ; as 
there was none, I contented myself 
with taking them from Martha, and 
locked them up in my bureau. 
There they have lain ever sincei 
until the other day, hearing talk 
made of thy work, my daughter 
reminded me of these papers, and 
advised me to send them to thee. 
I have followed her advice, and this 
night thou wilt receive by the wag- 
gon the whole roll, to do therewith 
as pleaseth tliee. Martha sendeth 
her best wishes to her old friend| as 
doth also, 

«i Esteemed Friend, 
thy sincere friend 
and well-wisheri 


I had certainly not forgottea 
Abraham or his feir daughter; 
much less had I forgotten Philip 
Dellwyn, who jouied to a look a£ 
fragile health, a countcnarice so 
pale, a form so slight, and yet eyes 
so resplendent with sense and sen- 
sibility, that it was evident a figure 
so etherial, could not be long for 
this world. I fou}«d my worthy 
friend Abraham Upright, had^iven 
him shelter fur the sake of his 
health, for he was trying pure air, 
and goat's-milk whey; and had 
neverdemanded the stipulated rent, 
because he remarked the unrenew- 
ed s»habbinei»s of his lodger's thread- 
bare coat. I had enueavoured to 
obtain sonic knowledge of the young 
man's fate, but could only learn it 
had not been happy ; and I felt my- 
self unequal to relieve any actual 
distress : — but his demeanour so 
gentle, so placid, so pen>:ive, in- 
terested my heart extremely, and 
net less the Iieart of the pretty 
Martha. Poor Dellwyn would h;^ k 
at her, when the uncontrouied 
emanatioi.s r-f her countenance al- 
most betrayed her secret, with 
lotiks animated by the purest de- 
light : then suddenly, ds some re- 
membered trouble aliot across hi» 



heart, he would withdraw his eyes 
from her lovely countenance, and 
cast them from he.iven to earth 
with a look so mildly resigned, so 
contentedly pensive, that it was 
impossible to notice it unmoved. 

Poor little Martha confessed to 
me one day, th:it she thought Philip 
pellwyn the most amiable man she 
knew — she wished he was but a 
friend, I could not help hoping 
that some unforeseen events would 
at last bring so iimocefit a love to a 
happy issue ; — but, alas ! it was 
brought very rapidly to a period 
after I had left Wales. Poor Dell- 
wyn ! many a sigh has the recol- 
Action of thy dejected countenance 
cost me — many a tear will the ter- 
mination of thy blameless life oc- 
casion me I 

I looked into the packet sent me 
by my friend Abraham, with a sort 
of tender melancholy, which its 
contents served to heighten. The 
first paper I unfolded was a little 
history of liimself, which interested 
mc the most, and which I therefore 
first present to my readers, with- 
out further ceremony. It has neitlier 
regular beginning nor end, and the 
first and some intermediate leaves 
appear to be wanting; — ^j)erhaps, 
the pi^ty Mnrtha may have pre- 
served them as a relique ; however, 
tlie talc is sufficiently intelligible. 

* And am I never to know the 
truth I* said I. ' What good would 
tlie truth do you V replied he, with 
an air but ill ailculated to repress 
my ardent curiosity. ' VV'hile you 
contentedly remain in ignorance,* 
added he after a pause, * you will 
be sheltered and supported ; bat if 
you persist in your inquiry, you 
will be obliged to seek your bread 
with toil and labour.' 

" For some time longer these an- 
iwers Cf -ntented me. I was pursu- 
ing with ardour an education which 
I thought preferable even to inde- 
pendence ; and though the manners 
of my guardian were not much cal- 
culiited to conciliate esteem, those 
of liis sister had won my warmest 
affection. Gentle, caressing, and 
indulgent, a word from her had 

more power over my mind than the 
strictest command from my pre- 
ceptor ; and when I have been stub- 
bom and sullen under pimishment 
from him, a look from Miss Goldney 
has subdued my proud heart, and 
melted the obstinacy of my resolu- 
tion into tears of penitence. To 
her I was indebted for every indul- 
gence I obtained — lier lundness 
sweetened to me hours rendered 
intolerable by the harsh severity 
of Mr. Goldney ; a severity, which 
would have exasperated me to seek 
my liberty at once, but for the ad- 
vantage of the knowledge I was 
acquiring: and Miss Goldney sa 
forcibly pointed out to me the value 
of this circumstance, and the in* 
fluence it would have on my future 
life, that I was contented to abide 
stripes and ill treatment, rather 
than forego the completion of an 
education which was to soften a 
savage into man. • ^ 

" That part of it however, which 
Mifis Goldney conducted, was pre- 
cisely that which was dearest to 
me, and that which has most influr 
enced me through the short and 
wretched remainder of my life. 
Full of the most noble sentiments, 
and the tenderest sensibility. Miss 
Goldney, with delight, cultivated 
in me dispositions which ought to 
have been repressed, but which arc 
too fascinating not to throw a veil 
over the dangers they create. Alive 
to every virtuous feeling — indig- 
nant at vice, oppression, and tyran- 
ny, she saw with delight the tremu- 
lous fibres of my soul viSrate to 
the slightest touch ; she saw the 
fire, the enthusiasm, tluit animattd 
my eye — the strong resolution that 
arose in my bosom, never to submit 
to oppression. She strengthened 
these disjiositions — ^she rendered me 
most sensibly awake to the voice of 
affection — UAt harmonious voice I 
was destined to hear no more ! 
She foresawnot my future situation, 
or slie would have striven to render 
m\ heart callous to injustice, my 
spirit subservient to oppression, my 
manners servile, and my principles 
obedient. [ To be continued.']^ 





On Friday xnornbg last, between 
the hours of one and two o'clock, 
Mr. Salter, Treasurer of the State, 
was alarmed by a noise which he 
beard in a lower apartment of the 
house in which he resides, and 
which is his office and the place of 
depositc for the public money. Not 
being under apprehensions of any 
thing serious, he did not alarm the 
rest of the &mily, but proceeded 
down stairs with a lighted candle, 
and on perceiving a window raised 
in a back room, was proceeding to 
shut it, when immediately on his 
entering the room, he was sur- 
rounded by four men armed with 
knives, who immediately demand- 
ed the keys of the public treasure 
and threatened him with instant 
death in case of refusal or noise. 
Alone and defenceless Mr. Salter^ 
was forced to comply, and compel- 
led to accompany them while they 
plundered the public money. A fter 
taking what they conceived the 
whole of the paper money in the trea- 
sury, each one helped himself to a 
bag of dollars, containing, it is sup- 
posed about 5000. A consultation was 
then held by the villains how Ihcy 
should dispose of Mr. Salter, when 
the fellow who seemed to act as 
principal, seized a small rope which 
was lying near, tied his hands be- 
hind him, his knees end feet to- 
gether, and putting a stick in his 
mouth for a gag, secured it there 
by a string at each end which he tied 
round his head ; they then laid him 
upon tlie floor, at the back side of 
the room, went out with their spoil, 
and locked the door upon him. 

All this was transacted with so 
much silence that no one was 
awakened in the house. Mr. Sal- 
ter endeavoured to make a noise 
with his feet against the floor, but 
having left his shoes in the chamber 
where he slept, he was unable to do 
any thing to that cflx^ct. He then 
endeavoured to move l\imsclf by de- 
Ifi-ccs toward* the door of tlic of- 

fice, which he supposes he affected 
in about an hour. By kicking the 
door violently, he soon awakened 
Mrs. Salter, who, on coming down, 
and finding the door of the treasury 
locked, and hearing the incohe- 
rent words attempted to be uttered 
by her husband, wasextremly agi- 
tated and overcome by fear. She, 
however, made out to awaken tlie 
family of Mr. Abraham Hunt, tlie 
next neighbour, with her'cries fronl 
the window of her chamber. Mr. 
Hunt was the first man that got to 
the house. With a violent exertion 
he made out to burst open the office 
door, and release Mr. Salter from 
his distressing situation . The neigh- 
bourhood was soon alarmed, and 
early in the morning persons were 
dispatched and hand-bills circulated 
in every direction. The woods and 
swamps in the vicinity were sccnr- 
ed by the citizens, and the following 
night the diflcrcnt roads leading 
from town were watched by armed 
persons ; but all efibrts to take the 
viUians have hitherto proved una- 
vailing. The amount taken tff by 
the robbers is estimated at about 
12,000 dollars: a very large sum in 
Bank Notes escaped their notice. 
Mr. Salter does not tliink he ever 
saw the men before — three of them 
wore lion-skin great-coats, the other 
had a coattce and boots on — 5C0 
dollars is the reward offel'ed foi* 
their apprehension. 

The situation of Mr. Salter on 
this occasion, justly demands the 
sympathy of all. — He has for some 
time past experienced a very bad 
state of health — Weak and enfee- 
bled by dibC'dse, the dreadful sliock 
he must have ex])crier.ced, on l>c- 
ing attacked by a body of desperr- 
dccs ih tlie €!cad of nii;ht, >viih in- 
fctruments of death prtveiited to liis 
breast, could not but t^i eatly a("!d to 
tlie fr.rce of hi'j malady antl inci c :<>e 
debility in his feeb'.e st:.te. Tl.e 
rgitiition of his mind duriog ilie 
tra.riS;;ction — t!ie very disitres&ii.g 
SjitrtiLtion which the robbers left hiia 



in, and the violent exertions he was 
prompted to make in order to 
awaken his fomily, added to the 
rreat weight upon his mind, arising 
from the high responsibility of his 
trust, roust have formed an aggre- 
gate of distress, better conceived 
than described. His illness has 
been so much increased that he is 
BOW confined to his bed. 

ITrcnion FcderalUt. 


At 9 o'olock P. M. fire was dis- 
covered barfcting cut of a fttible in 
Dutch-street, and in a few minutes 
that and another building were 
burnt to the ground. Though the 
evening was still and the fire-men 
and citizens very active, yet, owing 
to a scarcity of water, two other 
adjoining buildings caught fire ; one 
of them is aimo&t entirely destroyedy 
tlie upper story of the other, a fine 
brick building> was consumed. It 
is said that the fire was communi- 
cated to the hay in the st ible from 
a candle which a persrn had ujed 
in taking out a horse — ^The stable 
was owned by Mr. Perrsal, and 
occupied by the horses of the Alba- 
ny stage, none of which were in it 
when the accident happened.— 
llie house is owned by Mr. Crom- 
well of Long-Isliind ; 'nnd the brick 
house by Mr. Minard, at present 
out of town. These buildings were 
occupied by small families ; and, 
we believe, were all insured. The 
damage b estimated at 3000 dol- 

All restrictions on the intercourse 
between New-York and Philatiel- 
phia, either by land or water, were 
removed by order of the Board of 
Health of Philadelphia, so far as 
imposed by tlicm. 


On Thursday ni?;ht, about 8 
o'clock, an aitcrc£»tion took place 
between James Fleming and Alien 
Stone, in which W e former dis- 
charged a loaded pi* trl at the lat- 
ter. The ball nub&cd him, and en- 
tered the breast of Nicholas Agin^ 

which put an almost immediate pe- 
riod to his existence. 


Much injury was done by the ex* 
treme high tide, which overflowed 
the wharves and fiHed the ceilars in 
the lower parts of the cit>— an in« 
stance of the kind has not been 
known, nor damage done to the 
amount sustained yesterday since the 
year 1790, or 1797. 


A fire broke out in the morning^, 
about 2 o'clock, in a frame building 
situate at the extremity of the Noi> 
them Liberties, in Front-street. 
Three frame buildings were con- 
sumed before it was sulxlued. 

Export n from the port ofPhiladrU 
phia from thf lat of Jxdy to the 
50 A of September; both inciu- 
9ive : 

51,563 barrels Flour, 
4^.>0 half do. 

'505 barrels Middling, 
3,095 barrels Rye Flour, 
2.333 hluls. Indian Meal, 
7,491 barrels do. 
SO half do. 


For several days past this city 
has been the resort of a very extra- 
ordinary number of quails. ITieac 
natives of the grove seem desirous 
of fixing;their abode among us ; and, 
divested in a degree of their usual 
timidity, they visit our gardens and 
our streets, nnd in some ioKtances 
enter our houses. They indeed, 
abound with such frequency at 
would fiimish no inconsiderable 
amusement to the lovers of sport, 
did not our municipal regulations 
render the use of fire arms (within 
the city) rather too expensive. The 
boys, however, find much diversion 
in attacking them with btones and 
other missile weapons, by wliich 
means m«iny ai^ secured. 

It is, or m!»y be conjectured, 
there is something ominotf in thi» 
aerial disposition of our feathered 

visitniits Some very good sort of 

j*et.ple, but of temperaments a lit- 
tle proue to hypochondria, art 



extremely apprehensive that this 
phenomenon indicates the triumph 

of democmcy in the state or at 

least in the city! Others suppose 
they may be on their way to Penn- 
^Ivania) ^itha view to obtain cer- 
tificates of citizenahi/i^ preparatory 
to the next presidential election. 


It appears by the report of the 
Treasurer made to the General 
Assembly, now in session, that the 
school lunds, tlie stocks in the 
fiinds of the United States, Uic 
balances of taxes due, the bonds 
and notes due the state, casli in the 
Treasury, and shares in the banks, 
amount to one million nine hundred 
and four thousand nine hundred and 
one dollars, and forty-one cents ; 
and that the great debt formerly 
due from the state is extinguished. 

It appears also, that the state is 
now able to subscribe to the banks 
thirty thousand dollars, and leave a 
aufficiency in the Treasury to meet 
the current expenses of the govern* 


The foUowine melancholy acci- 
dent happened at Shelburn on 
Thursday last. A Mr. Soper, who 
had been assisting in digging a well 
in that place, wluch they had sunk 
about 50 feet, and which, on account 
of the rain, Uiey had determined to 
discontinue for that day, by request 
descended into the well for the pur- 
pose of bringing up the tools for 
tome other use. When he had 
descended within about 12 feet of 
the bottom, he appeared to struggle 
and breathe with difficulty, and soon 
feU out of the tub in which he was 
descending, to the bottom of the 
well. Alighted candle let down to 
the depth at which Mr. Soper fiedled, 
was extinguished ; and a cat at the 
same depth, seemed to be in great 
agony, and was drawn up to appear- 
ance lifeless, but soon recovered. 
An alarm was immediately spread. 
The father of the unfortunate young 
man soon arrived to witness the 
affecting scene. Deaf to all per* 

VOUI...liO. It. 

suasion, he determined to descend 
and bring up tlie body of his son..* 
To prevent his falling from the tub, 
he was secured by a rope. On 
descending to the depth where his 
son first tailed, he struggled and 
breathed with difficulty,butthought, 
as he afterwards said, he should be 
able to hold his breath till he should 
get to the bottom, and return with 
tlie body of his son. When there, 
he fbmid himself unable to reach 
his son without untying himself, 
which he effected, and immediately 
fell apparently lifeless. The people 
at the top, aa soon as possible, let 
down burning tar, and also rags wet 
in spirits into the well, in order to 
cleanse tlie air ; and after continu- 
ing their exertions for about an hour 
and an half, the fatlier of the young 
man so far recovered as to call for 
the tub to be let down, which was 
done immediately, and he ascended 
bearing the corps of his son to the 
view of his sympathising neigh- 

RALEIOH, (N. C.) OCT. 13. 

About 12 o'clock in the day of the 
6th inst. the dwelling house of Hugh 
Mac Kay, Esq. of Robeson, wan 
burned, while Mr. Mac Kay waa 
in an adjoining field at 

persons being at the house except 
two small children, who had like to 
have fallen victims to tlie flames. 
It was not discovered in time to 
make any efforts necessary to save 
the building, so that the house, 1000 
dollars, and furniture, were entirely 
destroyed, except about 1 1 pounds 
weight of silver which he gathered 
out of tlie ruins. 

On the following day about the 
same hour, as he was in his field he 
observed an unusual smoke, and 
running to the place, discovered 
that a block had been rolled from 
the other fire to the back of the 
kitchen...wliich would have shated 
the same fiate of tlie house if ho 
had not come at that moment...* 
And on Saturday mbming the 6th 
instant, while he was at a neigh- 
bour's house, his out-houses consist- 
ing of two stables and a cora-hous^ 



containing his whole crop, with his 
farming utensils, were all reduced 
to ashes* All this mischief which 
has almost ruined him, he has every 
reason to believe was perpetrated 
hy a despicable incendiar}*, a villiiin 
w)k) has lurked about the neigh- 
bourhood, and who had uttered 
^ threats against him* 


Between the hours of five and 
six this morning, a fire was disco* 
vered in the house of Mr. P* Cohen, 
in Orange-street* The alarm being 
promptly given, it was fortunately 
extinguished with little injury to 
the lumse* It evidently appeared 
to have been the work of design ; 
and a negro wench has l)een com- 
mitted upon suspidon* 

OCT* 19* 
The Board of Health of Phila- 
delphia announced this day, the 
cessation of the epidemic* 

OCT* 20* 
The Mayor of Baltimore, by 
proclamation, removed the restric- 
tions imposed by that city on its 
intercourse with Philadelphia* 


About the last of September, a 
man by the name of Charles Crane, 
canic passenger in the stage to Kew 
I..ebanon, where he left the stage, 
went to Uie house of John K. Pebody , 
and staid about a week ; from thence 
he went to the house of Thady 
Abbot, where he staid two or three 
days ; and on Monday the 10th inst* 
came to the house of Major Ammi 
Doubleday, inn-keeper, in a very . 
low state of health* Nf edical aid 
was soon after called, though some- 
what contrary to his desire* He 
coughed much, and appeared to 
breathe with the utmost difficulty 
whilst asleep* When first awalung, 
he sometimes appeared a little de- 
ranged, but would scon become 
perfectly rational* A day or two 
previous to his deatli, he was ques- 
tioned relative to his jilaoe of vmr 

aence) his friends and relations.. •• 
He said he was from Newark in the 
state of New Jersey, and that he 
had a brother and sister livin|^ 

On the night cf the eighteenth 
inst. he went to bed at about ten 
o'clock... about twelve Major Dou* 
bleday got up as had been his cus* 
tom, and went into tlie bed-room 
where said Crane had slept (the 
same being on the lower story) and 
finding the window up, shut it, and 
then bghted a candle and returned^ 
and to his great surprise, found that 
Crane was gone. He thereupon 
immediately went into the chamber 
and awoke a traveller who lay there, 
who went with htm in search of said 
Crane. Tliev found him lying dead 
out of doors, by the side of the house, 
about twenty feet from the window 
of his bed-room. From the posi* 
tion in which he lay when found, it 
appeared that he lay down delibe* 
rately and expired. A coroner's 
inquest was h^d and the jury hav- 
ing viewed the body and heard the 
evidence, found that the deceased, 
between the hours of ten and twelve 
o'clock at night, left his bed, either 
in a deranged state of mind, or ex- 
treme distress for want of breath, 
and sought the open air ; that hav* 
ing wandered to the place where h* 
was found, his strength was exhaust- 
ed, and that he then sunk down and 
died a natural death. The jury on 
examination, found that he had 
left sundry articles of dotliing, and 
one hundred and three dollars, 
eighty-one cents, in money* 

His funeral was attended on 
Thursday last, and a bcrmon^^ell 
adapted to the solemn occasion, was 
delivered at the meeting house in 
this town* 

OCT. 22* 
Amelandioly accident happened 
a few days since at Kinderhook, 
when Mr* Beverly Bennet, a pro- 
mising young man of the age of 28, 
was shot to death in the following 
manner. With some other youijg 
men he was setting off on a fowling 
pan^ , some of whoa were pushini; 



t)lf a canoe, in which a gun was 
laid, the lock supposed to be iialf 
cocked, when the motion of the 
canoe shaking the piece, it went off 
and discharged its contents into 
Mr. Bennet's head, blowing out his 
eyes and entering the skull, upon 
which he fell dead upon the spot.... 
On repairing to the scene <^.f distress 
his mother was so shocked by the 
spectacle, she fell into fits which 
continued upon her five hours, when 
she was revived by medical assist- 
ance, and is yet living, though in 
great distress. 

On the 23d, a bam belonging to 
John Peckham, of New Bedford, 
was entirely consumed by fire, to- 
gether with its contents, consisting 
of 15 tons of hay, and a quantity of 
fla3^ rye, oats, apples, &c...It was 
set on fire by a black boy about ten 
irears old, while most of the family 
were at meeting. 



Benjamin Brower, who lately 
robbed the Manhattan Bank, in 
New York, of a very considerable 
sum of money, was taken up in this 
town on Friday evening last, and 
after an examination, and the dis- 
covery of between 7 and 8000 dol- 
lars which had been concealed at^-tut 
bb clothes, confessed the fact. He 
took passage, ' a few weeks since, 
from Ncwburyport for Passama- 
auoddy, where he arrived; bnt 
from whence he returned to this 
place in a vessel, commanded by 
Captain Pulsifer, of Newburyport. 
It is to the vigUance of this gentle- 
man, with the aid of some others, 
that he was detected and commit- 
ted* The re ward for taking Brower 
is 500 dollars, and ten per cent, of 
•n the money recovered* 

intermenU at Baltimore^ Jbr the 

Wetk ending 

Oct. 17. 11 M. 18 Chii. 

24. 10 11 

31. 13 13 

Nov. 7. 8 13 

Total 41 in 

77ie Mimber qfDeathe in the pre* 

9cnt yeary comfiared with the 
JOeatha in the tame months of 


M. Ch. Tot. 

M. Ch. Toi. 



Jan. 142 75 217 

68 42 110 

Feb. 110 60 170 

76 35 111 

March 100 47 147 

66 41 107 

Api-il 90 58 148 
May 82 59 141 

75 41 116 

69 41 110 

June 96 67 163 

78 64 142 

July 129 132 261 

78 127 205 


Aug. 109 153 262 

112 182 294 

Sept. 178 106 284 

208 84 303 

Oct. 211 78 289 

182 51 233 

Totalsl247 8352082 1012 7081720 


The whole number of deaths by 
the epidemic, from its commence- 
ment, to Saturday, ending 26th Oc- 
tober, including those at Bellevue, 
and Marine Hospital, amounts to 
61 l....of these there were 

In the city, 457 

Bellevue, 96 

Marine Hospital, 68 


Lord Carrington, President of 
the Board of Agriculture, in the 
true spirit of practical humanity, 
requested Messrs. Mellish to mako 
trial at the Tictualling office ^in 
England) of the slaughtering kmfe 
for laying oxen, lliose genUemen 
complied, and with a commendable 
Zealand perseverance, totally over- 
came the obstinate prejudices of 
the persons employed under them, 
in consequence of which, the method 
of laying oxen with the knifo, in- 
stead of the old, cruel, laborious 
and troublesome method, has me« 
the most complete success. The 
animal falls senseless in an instant, 
and not only the head and neck, but 
the carcase in general, is found to 
be in a much superior condition to 
that in which it had used to be after 
the numerous and uncertain blows, 
bruises and frights too commoolf 
attendant on the old method. 

In the same way we are assured 
by tbcRer. Mr. Marshall, eels and 



fith of all kindi may be instantanc- 
ously killed) an incision being made 
with a shaip pointed penknife, or 
puncture vith a bodkin, longitudi- 
nally into the brain about half an 
inch or an inch above the eyes, 
according to the size of the fish.*** 
ft method which will be remero« 
bered by those who wish to lessen 
the unnecessary sufierings of animal 


TheJbUowing WorkM have lately 
afifiearedjrom American PretMes : 

Juvenile Magazine, 4 vols.*.* John- 
son, Philadelphia. 
Haley's Life ot Cowper....PeIlam| 

Ellicot's Journal.. ..Dobson. 
Pleaders' Guide....Duane. 
Chitty on Bills of Exchange..... 

Fifth Volume of Vcsey, Junior's 

Linn's and Priestley's Pamphlets. 
Montifeor's Commercial Prece- 
Hear Both Sides, a Comedy. B7 

Reynolds....Conrad, & Co. 
Marriage Promise. A Comedy.... 

Conrad, & Co. 
Maid of Bristol, do. 
Account of Louisiana, Sec. do. 
Wilson's Egypt, do. 
Barton's Botany... .For the Author. 
Observations on Trial by Jury.... 

John Bull, A Comedy. Butler, 

' Baltimore. 
Priestley's Lectures on History.... 

New Edition....^ vol8....Byrne. 
Nineteenth Volume of the British 

Classics.... S. F. Bradford, and 

Conrad, Sc Co. 
Friend of Women....Conrad, & Co. 
Graydon's Digest....Wyeth, Har« 

Denon's Travels, 3 VQls.....Camp- 

beU and others. 
Roscoe's Lorenzi di Medici, 3 vols. 

Bronson 8c Chmoncey. 

The felhwing Wortt are fire* 
paring fir Publication in thU 

Pinkerton's Geography....Heron'» 

Letters of Jimius..... Johnson's 

ani Stceven's Shakspeare......... 

Aiken's Complete Edition of the 
English Poets...»Burke's Works, 
Sec. 8cc. 

ITie London Prints mcniion that 
Godwin's Life of Chaucer is nearly 
ready for the Press.....Tliat the 

Reverend Mr. Boyd is engaged in 
the Translation of the Auraucana 
of Eroella....That Miss Seward is 

writing the Life of Darwin....That 

Mrs. Raddiffe is writing another 


The Editor of this work having 
engaged jn a very arduous under- 
taking, is conscious that his success 
wiU in a great measure depend upon 
the literary aid which he shall re- 
ceive from his friends, and the 
Literati of this country.. Jle, there« 
fore, most earnestly solicits from 
the nan of science, and from the 
polit'e scholar, the contributions of 
their genius and leisure: while the 
Editor performs all that is in his 
power, he hopes that they will not 
permit another attempt to extend 
abroad useful knowledge, to perish. 

All communications addressed to 
the Editor, should be left at the 
Book-store of Mr. Conrad. 

Authors and Publishers who are 
at a distance, and who wish their 
works to be immediately noticed, 
are requested to forward them to 
the Editor. 

Denville is thanked for his com- ^ 
munication, and is informed, that 
his offers are gratefully accepted. 

The pages of this work are al* 
ways open to the impression of the 

S:n of the author of the lines t» 
r. Jenner. 





Vol, I.] 

DECEMBER, 1803. 

[No. 3. 



Stadents Diary- ..•..• 163 

MemoTaiiidum9 made on a jour- 
ne7 through part of Pennsyl- 
vania IGT 

Critical Notices... .No. 3 173 

Chemical Questions 18f 

Memoirs of Carwin the Biloquist 

(Continued) ib. 

Account of Statues, Busts, &c. 
in the collection of the Acade- 
my of Arts, New- York 185 

Bo8ton....A Poem, by Winthrop 

Saigeant 190 


Peace.... A Sonnet 191 

Village Maid ib. 

Akestet and Azora 193 

The four Ages 193 

The Curate. ...A Fragment 195 

English manner of hunting in 
Bengal : 196 

Memoirs of Count de Parades 

(Continued) 203 

Statement of the debt of the 

United States S05 

Description of Coal found near 

Woodstock 306 

Longevity of the Learned 30r 

Progress of Population in the 

United States 208 

AgricultuAl Report for the state 

of Rhod«-Island....Annol803. 210 
Anecdotes of Coimt Rumford. . 311 
Specimens of Literary Resem- 

blance....(Continned) 314 

History of Philip DeUwyn.... 

(Continued) 218 

of Hatfield,, the noted 

Swindler ' 219 

A Theatrical Campaign 221 

Memoir of James Boswell, Esq. 224 

Remarkable Occurrences ...... 238 

Literary Intelligence 239 

Note from the Editor 240 





>,0..!> ^. '.. 





No. 3.] 

DECEMBER, 1803. 

[Vol. I. 


1HAVE been Usteningthis half 
hoar, to R<-«--> redting the odes of 
Aaacreoiu He k wonderfolly de« 
lig^Hted with thb old aongiter, and 
iiacka his praise with a thousand te»- 
thnonies o£ sage critics, and enligh- 
tened contemporaries of the poet. 
Nothing, in U&e whole universe of 
poetry, he sa^s, is so sweet, so deli- 
cate, so delicious. He utters w/ch 
duiett and harmoniou* breath that 
tiie rudest savage would be soothed 
hf it into civility, and the gloomiest 
anchorite t/or^ madfy into extacy 
at the sound. 

There nmstsurely be some magic 
in tbe Greek language, incompre- 
hensible by common understand- 
ings: some music in its accents un- 
intelli^;ible to vulgar ears: for I 
have listened to Tom's recitals, with 
asanxioosa desire to be pleased as 
I could possibly conjure up and yet 
my rapture was extremely mode- 
rate. Iheardno sounds thatbreathed 
of heaven. Nothing that' 'snatched 
my soul out 'of my body and lafified 
ir in £iyHum» I wiU not confess, 
ei t he r ^ a total inseoaibility to plea^ 

sare from music I have listened 
to a sweet enchantress, and though 
I felt no inclination to weep, to cast 
up my eyes, to throw abroad my 
hands, or utter incoherent excU^ 
matioasy yet my eye was chained 
to the singer, and I had almost for- 
got to breathe. As to verse, it has 
really some charms for me, and 
numbers though silently read, has 
frequently bewitched me nearly as 
much, as a concert of flutes. Indeed, 
being tired of listening to a voice 
not the sweetest and most tunable 
that ever warbled, I snatched the 
book from his hand, and by read^g 
the lines according to my own sys- 
tem of rhythm and pronunciation, it 
was easy to perceive that Greek 
verse is, indeed, articulated har- 

It is not, however merely the 
sound, the Mufihonyy that capti- 
vates Tom. It is, it seems, the 
style, the imagery, the sentiment. 
Love, according to him, never had 
so just, so exquisite, so impassion- 
ed a eulogist. Mirth had never so 
divinely eloquent, so inisistibly se- 


student's diaet* 

ductive an advocate since love and 
mirth came into fashion, and Tom, 
says, if all ^ this be not worthy of 
credit on hia wordy he can produce 
a whole army of critics, of all a^s 
and nations, to second him % wl\/nfe^ 
there is not to be found on record a 
single declaration, doubting or de- 
nying the merit of this poet. 

This was extremely formidable 
to one like me who, if I may praise 
myself when nobody is bye, am not 
noted for conceit of arrestee* 6e« 
anxious for something Kke proof of 
these assertions, I again seized the 
book and turned to that side of the 
page which contained a literal 
translation into English. I can read, 
but cannot understand Greek, and 
a literal trc^slation, I imagiaedf 
would exhibit at least the naked 
thought, the image though una- 

Far be it from me, said I, my gofod 
friend, as I turned over tlie leaves, 
to bring into question the divinity 
of cither Love or Mirth. To re- 
ject «r dis^«e the first is to reb^ 
agakMfc Heavcti, who soppofts by 
ttii« ch«im, the fettdty and even the 
existence of alt animatad nature « 
aikl a« to mirth, it is the seasMmig 
of life ; tka compansttn of love and 
frieadshif); beattvolence fo htsfaitber 
a»d kifi mother is wit. Were I 
bom to tlie hotiottrs of poetry, I 
woaldliQi(d my claiim an nothitig 
Imt the feirvency of niy devotians to 
Iitve, and tivs zeal f^ my panegy- 
rics upon mirch. If these he the 
powers tnv^ed by Aaacreea, I 
wiil not be tlie la^ to honour kia 

But #htt 18 here ? I see net a 
jTr'tJ^ible {thont W>ve. I see a great 
deal ^ont fkimcs, and fef vottf«, and 
kkiees, smd I famw not what, but I 
sec nothing that relates to love^ On 
th*i cf»Mrary, «1t that I ftwrl here is 
ill JiS*solHte hofiility to !iliat passion. 

I drt not wndo-staml y«i, said n»y 
fth ml, if these he not the tokens 
aini RerHiati;>ns of Ime, I should be 
|i^l*td to ki^iw v/hirt arc* 

I«ce no^rhiiip; here, replied I, but 
t^w^c fir^fc tlidt a»^ rni^'cd and 
qutjuhcil ill a bwt-iel, wliivli 

are excited bymere sex, and Whidi 
nothing but wanton arts, unceas- 
ing variety, and glossy youth can 
keep alive. I see nothing but a 
gross appetite, dig^ingu»bed ^ no 
humanity, no delicacy, from that 
which stimulates the goat and the 
buU. I dee pi-opensities kept alive 
by nothing but the force of habit, uid 
by inflammatory liquors ; I see hoary 
age, glorying in sensations, ^ 
which the hey-day of youth scarcely 
afibrds aa f^M^qg^. 

Nay, the passion which in^ires 
the greatest part of all this %v^, 
and all this'poctry appears not to 
have even woman for its obifiCt* 
Pougli ! The very thought exidXit:^ 
noufiea« 'Between disgust atad «^ 
howeiiee^ my <tpwiacw iica W Mb xo^ 
dignation indeed, ought to get the 
better of every other emotion. In- 
dignation, at those who dare ta 
name sacred tove,tn such company* 
Amid such unhallowed fires, stimu- 
fafeted ky ebriety, by novelty, by 
variety, by youth ; terminating in 
t2te ^y sioal and momentary gtmifi* 
catnii, aod «o partly seasucd tflM 
sex it^etf M €onfo«n4^ ^ dMfl wa 
l<Mk for tlMitpaMioa whi^ is hoS/t 
upon esteem, matared ^ po Bs csfc 
sion, strengthened by tme ; 4fM 
v«vy essence of w^«h » kifdCvidliMK^ 
ty, fidelfty to eae aiM cotistditcy Hk 
oae sentiment. 

It is not here that we moat leMk 
for that love, the aool ef which H 
ohasdty : tl«»t is to {my, an ^bso^ 
kiteindifierence to aBbntonct asitf 
tenderness, that is to say, a somei- 
thing compounded of d^ire and 
esteem t a something whidi #owa 
partly from personal diarms, and 
chiefly from expeHence of go^ 
olices, kin«lness, and eqf»n$mity : 
apassieatbat owes its highest ^(v 
li^ts to the endearmews of crfft* 
pHng, aeireumstftftce tfaat 90 fer 
from being ever aWoded to by Ana- 
creon is utterly ihcaBmpaHh^ wil& 
the swhject of Im etdogjiesr 

The mit^h o^SftrirJiOet fe on ft- 
level with his love, i see ne^in^ 
btit t)ie apparMiw of a drinking 
mutch — lAsits,a!ia« Baeehas, vS^^ 
wiae, is the eternal theme of hia 

trvhknrH AtAsr. 


pnast, mowing cups, myrtle 
-wreathes and rosy garlands, laugh- 
ter and song, and the dance, giv- 
ing occasionally place to nymphs, 
inspired by the same divinity, not 
encumbered with modesty , and glo w« 
ing with fifes, worthy of the pow- 
er that lundles them, are the per- 
■ons in this drama* As to' that 
liilarity of heart and vivacity of 
converse, flowingfrom soundhealth, 
the child of temperance, the can- 
dour of innocence, the ardour of 
social affection, and the sparkling 
of true wit, we find nothing here 
but t^iw dance and jollity, the deli- 
rium of intoxication and the goad- 
inn of lasciviousness. 

How much are nuinldnd misled 
bynames. Lyceus and A]>hrodite, 
Bacchus and Venus, the mirth and 
love of Anacreon and Horace shall 
be listened to with reverence, and 
regarded as something like divfni- 
ties, and yet reduced into plain 
English, and stripped of metaphor, 
'diey are nothing but drunkenness 
and lewdness. Anacreon is neither 
more nor less- than a hoary de*- 
baucheeand reveller, whose vicious 
and beastly habits are only strength- 
ened by age, and whose tmderstand- 
ing is so depraved, ^hat he glories 
in that which should constitute his 
shame, which at any age, is hostile 
to true joy and true dignity, but 
which is pecufiarly shameful and 
' detestable in grey hairs. 

Tom here interrupted my ha- 
rangue, with a severe invective 
agamst my prudery, my cant and 
to forth, and I listened without re- 
ply : for, Tom, I am sorry to say, 
IS one of these who have no concep- 
tion of love, but as leading to the 
brothel, or of joy, but as 'flowing 
irom the bottle. They study night 
and day, Anacreon, Horace, and 
all those bards ancient and mo- 
dem, who resolve ' all human joy 
into the odour of roses, tlie 
fumes of wine, and the instigations 
of venereal appetite. I pity, even 
more than 1 despise, the disciples 
of Much pleasure, andterminated the 
dd>aty by referring Tom. to the £iu 
' VOL....! xo«^«xxi» 

ble of the Sparrow And the Dove by 
Moore, where my notions of lova 
and joy are exhibited at fuUlength. 


This Evening the conversation of 
the company tamed upon the ingre- 
dients of poetry. Some maintained 
that verse and even rhyme were in- 
dispensable. Others were satisfied 
with verse alone, but differed among 
themselves as to the criterion of 
verse : some restricting it by veiy 
rigorous laws, and others extend- 
ing its bounds so as to comprehend 
much of what is vulgarly called 

Some considered langoage and 
measure as things of no importance 
in the estimate. They confined 
their views entirely to thouriit 
and Imagery, and maintained that 
strength and beauty in these re- 
spects, constituted poetical excel- 
lence* According to this class of 
critics, Tacitus is by fiur a better 
poet than Virgil, and some of Mil- 
txm'tproMc contains for more poetry 
than any of his ver^em In short, 
wherever there b warmth of rea- 
8oning» invention or imagery, de- 
livered through the medinm of 
wordS) there is poetry* 

Another set extended the limits of 
poetry still further, and made it com- 
prehend every cfflbrtof the imagina- 
tion, whether conveyed by means of 
sounds, or colours, oV figures ; and 
whether the pen, the pencU, the 
chissel, or the tongue, be the instru- 

It is amusing to hear men employ- 
ing terms, for years together, with-* 
out any visible diversity in their no- 
tions of the meaning of such terms: 
and yet when it is formally propo- 
sed to define them, there are gene- 
rally as many definitions given as 
there are persons present. 

Some people are very fond of 
this kind of discussion. X«anguage 
is tlie Instrument of thought, and to 
improve this instrument seems to 
be a most important undertakings. 
There is infimte room for fkrthi^ 


on. MS9&T* 

kivcs^pKtiOii on this auljijeety for 

there u Zkot one word in ten in the 
£ng;Iish Un8;uage, the meaning of 
which is settled with absohite pre- 
cision. Poetry U«ne of those tennSf 
and the debate of this evenin^y left 
^e company as &r from unanimity 
as it found them. Even on this sub- 
ject, ^e zeal of disputation almost 
degenerated into asperityi and the 
combatants were more active and 
vigorous at twelve o'dock than they 
had been at eight. At kst, a tem- 

• porary truce was effectedbyH,.*..n, 
who called the attention of the com- 
pany to the following lines, as con- 

' taimng all the requisites of poetr)', 
according to every one's hypothe- 

• Hark ! univcnal nature sbook and 

Twas the last tnimpet^^See the Judge 

enthron'd ! 
Rouse all your courage, at your utmost 

' Kofw rummon tyery virtue....stand and 


• What ! silent ? Is ycto- boasting heard 

no more ? 
That self-raiouncing wisdom, learn'd 

Jia4 ihed kmaortal glories on your 

That all your virtues cannot piBdnse 


We had a very animated conver- 
•ation to night of a phylollogtcal 
nature* The question was whedier 
Latin or French had entered most 
into the composition of the English 
language. As French is little else 
than a dialect of Latin, every thing 
derived from the former must ulti- 
mately be traced to the latter, biit 
the point in view was to ascertain 
how fsLT the Latin had been incor- 
X>orated without alteration or d'U'- 
iion into our own tongue. 

The languages of moat of the 
i>ciences is pure Latin, but many 
*« ords and phrases are taken into 
the substance of the popular dia« 
lect, without changing tl^ ortho- 

graphy* Some at Umit axe acSpft^* 
tific terms also, but their utiUtj 
has brought them into ordinary and 
popular use. 

Bv way of illustration the follow- 
ing nragpent was producedin which 
a very Uberal use had been made of 
these foreigners without encroach- 
ing; upon custom or upon any law 
of composition but elegance: id 
C9t : viaelicit : cxamfilo gratia* 

v^ My Lady, 

' I have long been your 

slave incQgnitOf and intimate^ my 
devotion to your charms, by hints 
and innuendo** f which my diffi- 
dence would not sufier you to un- 
derstand. I labour under the odfum 
of poverty, though I by no mea^s 
merit the charge, for though I 
abound not with gold, and silvery I 
have virtue which ought always lo 
be SL tucccdancum for riches. In 
the minds of ordinary women, I 
know, money is the ne fiius ultra 
of their wishes. Among many who 
is less selfish, though money be not 
every thing, yet it is the «{/i^ qua 
fion, without which a lover cannot 
ho]^ to succeed: and certainly 
it is to be numbered among the 
denderata of Jiuman life, by those 
who are moat dispassionate and 
unambitious. Nor should I dare to 
appear before you in this guise, 
were I not persuaded, that though 
I am poor, you have enough for ua 

A woman, to whom a lover's 
poyertjr creates no objection to hia 
suit, is indeed a rare phenomenon : 
but I hope, thougd hitherto a non 
detcri/ity that you, Madam, will 
fomish an example of disinterest. 
ednesa. What my merits are, it 
is for your own observation to in- 
form you. My mere ifise dixit is 
of no weight, nor would there be 
any decorum in enlarging on my 
own virtues. 

I have long been anxious to dis- 
burden my heart to you, but I can 
neither sing im/iromptu nor speak 
ex tcmjiore^ where my hopes are so 
much engaged* I could never get 
so for as the exordium of a dechgra- 



'flM'tlifti im0ittt» of 

an my thoughts. My 
^loqueiiee at best is but a caftut 
m9rnaim and though some weeks 
hste been employed in making* 
MtetMranda for this letter, I am 
9h^SA it win do injustice to the sin- 
-cevfly of my passion. 

I pretend not to befeulUess^ in! 
ttitrty respects I am a mere ignora* 
#ni«, and to many accusations, thith 
trould oblige me to cry fteccatn^ 
tet I hope my ftiults are not of 
such magnittide as to make you en- 
ter a ^ffifATf against my pretensions. 
KmV actions, rather than my woi^s 
Betl&ed'arff on which a judgment 
he formed, I shall have little fear 
tffttk fitipartial decision. 

I shall anxiously look for your 
idtimatum* In the inierimlhope 
vrery thing may be considered as 
Mttr iU>9^, Meanwhile, I am, 
Your moat humble, 

most obsequious et cetera^ 

M^tt bene* I made my exit ves- 
%eniay ftbraptly,merely because Mr. 
X.%..... entered, and I cannot de- 
rife any pleasure from your com- 
filnyf unless I enjoy it «o/tt«. 


Afig. 19, 1801. ....Tlus day being 
fixed on for setting out upon our 
journey op the ^squehannah, bro- 
^bitt L... and myself, mount^ our 
lK>rses at six in the afternoon, and 
taking to the Ridge road, arrived 
at the Wissihicken, where we aiap- 
|)ed for the night. 

Previous to the adc^tlon of the 
plan, now in operation, for water<r 
mg the city of Philadelphia^ this 
creek was recommended to the no- 
tice of the corporation, as eligible 
for the purpose ; but as there was 
reason to fear, that m dry seasons 
the water would prove insufficient 
and as it would have been attended 
with considerable ex|M»ise to pur- 
chase the requisite number of mifis 

which mttthmbetfAdifttMyedto 
acquire a siifflcienthead,thcl project* 
was abandoned. KotWithstaftdilig 
the periodical licantiness of the sup- 
ply, this is a valuable stream. From 
Vttat Robinsoi^'s, where it dis- 
charges itself into the Schuylkill, 
to Witder's, a distance of about 
twelte miles, in a direct- line, thei^ 
are eighteen merchant and grist* 
milb, capable of fomisfaing, at 
least, one huxidred thousand barfeUr 
of flobr, per annum ; but as they aro 
not constantiy provided with gnun^ 
and the water frequently £tfils, it is 
believed that they do not prepare 
more than sixty thousand* The 
average Philadelphia price of flouf 
for the last ten years, may be safely 
taken at eightdollars and a quarter 
per barrel,* which proves that the 
millers d WissQiicken receive al» 
mostludf a million of dollars anno* 
ally, for the produce of their mlDs. 
In the year 1796, when flowr was ax 
tiie highest, and when, from the ex- 
traormnary price, it is presumable 
that they manufactured more than 
the usual quantity, it is probflft>le 

• The followittg statement extrac • 
ed from the books of an exteiv^^^ 
sad correct flonr factor, in IHii^^'* 
pbia, wiU shew the psice of fl^J/'}''. 
a period of te<i years. loste?* ,^* /®'" . 
lowing the floctuations niii-*®'y "1^° i 
every month, the swemgie ***". **^ ^^^ , 
two priacipai seasons i*"*^ y**' , 
have been taken. Xi^'^'^T**" 
high as fourteen and "~''.*"° TT" 
fifteen dollars; but^"**'"**' 
prices for a very *"»*«<* *"»*' 

AvaaAca ra-" <"• '^°^* '* '"** 


1791.- •• 
f • • • • 







5 20 



6 33 


.... 7 


5 .. .. 


........ ti 



,.; 11 



8 50 


... B 50 . 


9 50 .. 

9 25 

1800 M 10 50- ^ 1^ 



tiiAt their receipjU fellMtOe ahort of 
a million. ; ana tliat they have not 
laboured in vain, is fairly dedoce- 
able from the circumstance of their 
l^eing rich* 

The univenal vehicle for convey- 
ing the flonr to market, is the wag- 
gon ; and the vicinity to the city 
gives theae millers no inconsiderable 
advanti^ over'thdr competitors* 

This mode of conveyance i; com* 
mon throughout Pennsylvania* In 
l^ew-York it is otherwise { water^ 
carriage alone being used there* 
The consequence of which is, that 
whenever the navigation of the 
Korth and East rivers is interrupt- 
ed by ice, that city is deprived ox 
her inland coromerpe; whereas, 
Philadelphia carries on a brisk 
trade with the interior country and 
her back settlements during the se- 
verest frosts. 

. The banks of the Wissihicken 
are steep and rugged* They are 
covered with a rich foliage of na- 
tive trees, interspersed with the 
wild grape, the woodbine, and other 
flowering plants, which perfume the 
0^ \T with their odour, and add great- 
lr!.to the beauty of the scenery..... 
4lhe wanderer may here immerse 
himsfu^f in the deepest solitude, and 
conteoc^^latc nature in her most 
hidden ^re cesses : or, if other views 
be more i^reeable to his fiincy, he 
may direct vbis steps towards the 
habitations c^^^he millers, and feast 
his eyes on.luactu'iant and well culti- 
vated fields, vei«d*"nt meadows, and 
variegated gardona* To those who 
have not lost their j^lish for the 
sportive charms of luUive scenery, 
.contrasted and blendec^ with the 
useful works of roan, Wissihicken 
will ever be adeli^tful reU'eat* In 
my juvenile days, I havcLjofW^A*^ visit- 
4ed' &ese hiUs to gaze on the tit'nped 
stceam, and breathe the delki'^us 
fragrance of the wild flower. Tiie 
/emembrance is now dear to me. 

T%t clatter of the mills mig^ 
well recal to our memory, the sim* 
pie story of the German boor, who, 
xm his first approach to a mill, heard 
Ji strange voice loudly and delibe- 
irately pronounce ** Ich juckt ihr 

buckel..«.*Ich juckt ihr biichel..M» 
Ich juckt ihr buckeL"* The.laa- 
guage was sufficiently inteUigible ; 
but, as he had committed no o^ 
fence, he supposed the threat was 
uttered against some other person* 
Curiosity tempted him to enter« 
He gave umbrage to the surly pro- 
prietor, received a drubbing, and 
was turned out* The miller had 
occasion to alter the gears, and as 
the tmhicky clown was liastening 
away, he suflfered the additional 
mortification of being briskly taunt- 
ed by the flippant mill with, ^^Geit 
Ich habt ihr buckel gejuckt ? Gei£ 
Ich habt buckel ihr gejuckt ? Geli 
Ich habt ihr buckel gejuckt ?"t 

20.*..Lodged as comfortably as 
a sultry night would permit, at our 
hospitable friend, P. Robinson's, 
where we likewise break£uted« 
My unruly steed chose to put his 
foot on mine, so that lameness is 
added to debility. A foggy morn- 
ing, succeeded by a bright and hot 
sun. Stopped to bait at Norris- 
town. 'Tis a poor, ill*lo(^ing place, 
consisting of about twenty houses. 
The courts of justice for Mon^^o- 
mery county are held in this plaice, 
in an ill-fashioned stOne buildmg..*. 
placed on a naked eminence* The 
town is tttnated on a sloping baidc, 
on the margm of the river, which 
flows here, with a gentle current 
over a gravelly bottom. It is 
here that the canal is taken from 
the Schuylkill, and considerable 
progress has been made in cat- 
ting it through a rocky ridge, be- 
low tbe town. The want of funds 
has put a total stop to the work* It 

t Hey f didnh I tlckU jour back.,.. 
Mn fdid*ntll3fc. 

I know of no word in the English 
language that expresses the full mean- 
ing of the German Juck or Jacken. 
1 have used tickle....bat it has by no 
jneana the same humorous sigpifica- 
tlon. It is also observable, that the 
Gevman articulation more neatly re- 
sembles the language of the mill than 

jotmvET TBmatoGH PAET or PSirirsTtTAirrA* 


Sa tabe boped, that it will at some 
period be resumed* NotvithsUuid- 
lag 'the large sums which have al- 
ready been expended on this ob- 
ject, it is probable that it will yet 
require between three and four 
hvDdred thousand dollars to com^ 
piete it* It is satisfactor)', however, 
to observe, that much of what is 
^Looe is of a permanent nature; 
but unless the Susquehannah and 
SchaylkilL canal be accomplished, 
and the navigation of the rirer 
above this place be considerably 
improved, the utility of the ScbuyL* 
Jkill and Delaware canal may be 
questionable* Whenever the waters 
are sufficiently high to admit of the 
passage of rafts or loaded boats to 
iforristown, they can always pro- 
ceed with safety to the city. This 
orcnmstance, no doubt, occurred to 
tiie projectors and prosecutors of 
.the work* 

In one of the rooms of the tavern, 
we observed a pedlar, vei-y busy in 
displaying his scanty wares on the 
backs of chairs, on tables and 
tmni^ with an air as consequen- 
tial as if he were surrounded with 
the riches of Indostin* He had 
posted an advertisement on the 
^oor, enumerating^ the articles he 
had for sale, and giving notice that 
he would sell very cheap, and con- 
tinue for 9ome dsiysj and longer if 
encouraged. Itisremarkable,how- 
ever^ notwithstanding the general 
opprobrium heaped on the poor 
pedUirSfthat some of the wealthiest 
traders in America commenced bu- 
siness in this humble station* 

The JRidg-c road is a channel 
through which immense riches flow 
into the city* Large quantities of 
Mme, marble, flour, and other pro- . 
dnce of the country, being continu- 
ally conveyed along it, whicli occa- 
sion it to tMs much cut up, and from 
the nature of the soil, it is, during 
winter, nearly impassable ; while 
in summer the deep bed of dust 
which covers it, renders travelling 
very unpleasant* A turnpike has 
become almost^uidispensable* 

We stopped to view the stone 
bridge over the Perkiomcn, a small 

hat beantifiil stream* This is one ' 
of the greatest structures of the kind 
in America, and adds greatly and 
justly to tlie fame of Pennsylvania 
in this respect. It was built by one 
XfCwis, a Welshman, of no educa^ 
tion. Helias, however, ^ven much 
satisfaction tn his employers in the 
execution of this work..It is built not 
without taste, and has a good eflect 
upon the eye, though irregular in 
its constniction* It has one arch 
of seventy-five feet span, three of 
-sixty, and two of thirty, resting on 
^rong piers and solid aoutments. It 
passes obliquely over the channel, i 
«nd appears to be, including the 
abutments^ between seven and eight 
hundred feet in length ; but the 
stream does not usually occupy 
more than one fourth of that space* 
The bridge is sufficiently broad to 
admit two carriages a-breast* 

Dined at the IVafi Tavcmj a 
mile and an half beyond the bridge, 
and twenty-six miles from Philadel- 
phia* During our stay, there oc- 
curred a heavy fall of rain. We 
were overtaken here by the sheriff 
of Montgomery county, with a jury 
in his train* As they appear^ to 
be bent upon a frolic, I inquired 
of one of them, whom I knew, 
whitlier they were going. He re- 
plied, '^ A few miles higher up to 
hold an inquest on some land, which 
might be done in a day ; but, as the 
sheriff was just going out of office, 
and the expense was to &11 on 
•others, they intended to keep it ufi 
three days." All of them were 
counted, and if some of the horses 
lacked s/iirit^ it was otherwise with 
their riders* 

Showery all tlie afternoon. Eve- 
ry little transient cloud was sur- 
charged with water, and seemed in 
a humour to be merry with us* We 
stopped to save our jackets, a^jd 
then it ceased to rain* Invited by 
a bright sun, we set out again, and 
it immediately began to pour*.**. 
Others were no better off than our- 
selves. One care-taking man, par- 
ticularljr, was constantly occupied 
iu putting on and pulling off hit 
great coat, and hp uuiucky w J% he^ 


jomnrsT t«toncs r^ir *ov MCinrsTtvxvrA* 

Unit he wu tddom in the right. 
When it rained, his coat wm miigly 
tied to hii saddle-..he made haste 
ta get it on his back, and lo i it 
ceased to rain : while the heat of 
tiie son soon obliged him to alight, 
nnd fix it on the saddle again. It 
served ns for an occasional laugh, 
tad if all our miscalculations and 
.misfortunes could be passed off as 
merrily, we should fare much bet- 
ter thiui most of us do, in our jour- 
neythrough life. 

The farm-houses w:thin sight are 
generallj built of stone, and form, 
in this respect, a striking contrast 
to the wooden houses of New-£ng- 
Jand. Dwelfings of stone and of 
brick are universallj condemned 
bj our eastern breUiren, as de8tru&> 
tive of health ; but if this prejudice 
mtire not otherwise coatra^ctcd, 
the htrdjr appearance of the peo- 
ple among whom we now are, is far 
mm warranting tlie belief* No 
lack of. tavems«.Mthere are ele- 
ven in a distance of as many 
mHes, between the Bridge and 
Pottsgrovc* So many are not ne<- 
ecssary for the accommodation of 
traTelijer8*.*.they serve as places of 
dronkenness and debauchery to tlie 
idle and profligate in the neig^ibour** 
hood, and are, in fact, public nui- 
aanoes. The soil is not gene- 
ralljr rich, oonnsting of a thin 
redidi loam, hilly and gravelly...^ 
Wepassed though a populous coun- 
try,' and arrived at the pretty little 
irBlage of Pottsgrovebefore sun-set. 
At the entrance of tlie town, there 
is an unoccupied large stone- 
lumse, which, as we were inform- 
ed, was erected by one of the Pott's, 
on a high fepot of ground, which 
. never was completed, from water 
bemg nowhere to be found upon the 
kin. lliough several hundred 
pounds were expended on this 
house, the builder was not more 
Sfaort4ig^ted than he who built a 
mill in Dauphin county, intending to 
make it pump up the water, by 
which it was to be supplied, and 
from which it was to derive all its 

The htfid dknt this Yfflase iricft* 
tile,uidwencuUivated. iWtows 
is situated thli^*ecvcn miles ntna 
Phihuklphia, in a valley, neat* tlie 
SchuylkiU, butnotwithiB si^ d 
it ; and contains one huDdrad and 
fifty houses, chiefly stone and bride 
The most notable dk^^unfttmce 
that occurred liere, was tiR men* 
snring of a radish in the laiidlard*s 
garden, which proved to be twentyw. 
two and an half inches in drcoBa* 

31..4j>epartedbytimei. Cmsv^ 
ed the Ma wn yt aw p y ,> smdl creek« 

and breakfasted at the White-hors4 
five miles on our way.««.fiaTd well* 
Soon after crossed the Monockass, 
over a substantial stone4>ri4ge of 
six arches. Tarried nn hstir at 
Reading, which is a considerdilev 
but iU-kxdring town, sixteen and an 
half mHes firom Pottsgrove. One 
story log-houses, filled in with Inrick 
or stone, smaB, skyvenly and intbn- 
vcnient, with a lew modem boat- 
ings, clorosily ornamented, ia n 
fidl description of Reading. We 
met here a Philadelphian, whft 
told us, he oould not, after re«> 
peated trials, find a chaise, or any 
kind of carriage, for hire in tiie 
town^ Hiis place is noted fiir its 
hatters. A great many wool hats, 
of good fiibric, are made here, sold 
to the Philadelphia hatters, and 
thence dispersed every whereiMM.* 
They manufiictore them so cheap^ 
and their work is in soch credit^ 
that no body in Phtladelphin aU 
tempts the same business. They are 
much superior to the wool hats nsn^ 
nUy imported from England. 

Schuylkill is on the west side of 
Reading, oat of view. HiUs obstruct 
the prospect on every other side. 
The town lies, comparatively, low, 
in a contracted, but fertile valleys 
the hiUs are generally cultivated tm 
their sides, though some of tliem 
are Ueak and barren. The contrast 
Is not unpleasant. Near the town 
flows the Tolpehocken into the 
Schuylkill. By means of this stream^ 
and the Quitipihilla, the sources of 
each approachingverynearioeadi 

}SSimU%r 78»0«G» PAftT OV rSUVSY^ASIA. 


r, one of tke projected canals 
waa intended to uaite.the Su«qiie- 
Ivuinali and ScbuylkilL 

lliia canal ha« suffered theaame 
fikte aa the other«.«.the work haa 
longiiace been suspended. To ren- 
der tbe Delaware and Schuylkill 
canal eictensively useful, it will be 
aecessarv to complete tlus««.«b]r 
meana 0/ which a water communi- 
«atio& may be opened with an ex- 
aeoaire coimtry bordering on the 
wide ^reading branches of the 
ISuaqpelia&nal)) and on the lakes 
luwUi-west of the Pennsylvania 

My ooantrymea project with 
more seal than they execute, and 
are' no^ backward to undertake 
morethan they can perform. The 
iailure of these canals may be aU 
tiibnted toi a variety of causes. ^ It 
was not to be expected, considering 
the namber and magnitude of the 
puUic works commenced at the 
same period, that a sum, commen- 
surate to their seasonable comple- 
tium, conkl be suddenly diverted 
from ihe capital employed, by the 
citiaens, in pursuits more pressing 
in their demands, more gonerally 
owleratood, and more certain in 
their issue* Many of the subscri* 
ben were mere speculators, and 
becMse stockholders with no view 
steadily to prosecute the work ; but 
to ento^ce the &>st£avourable mo- 
ment to sellout to a profit. These 
aAfomi^y members were like dead 
weii^ts on the exertions of the rest. 
Ceitain other individuals, whose 
extensive schemes <^ agj^randize- 
ment have no parallel in this, or 
perh^w any other country, having 
purchased Uu*gely of the stock, pos- 
sessed themselves of a considerable 
portion of the funds of their asso- 
oialed bvethrai, and then becoming 
bankrupts, thus effectuaUy para- 
liaed) if ttar have not given the 
death wound to these valuable 
works* . 

. Still pursuing the course of the 
river on its eastern side, we. halted 
tan miles from Reading, at Ham- 
burgh,orCarter*s-town«M.or,as the 
G^mausin tbeQeigbiMirhood pro^ 

1^ Kanrker'ssiiiemc.^. 

a small place of €9ity houses, which 
seems to carry cm a brisk trade in 

Bemre we readied Hambui^h, 
we crossed Maiden-creek, a consi- 
derable stream, over a woodea 
bridge, resting on stone pier8.«M. 
About this creek there is good 
land, and the redish hue of the soil 
so conspicuous hitherto, begins to. 

Every where we find the descend- 
ants of Germans. They are the 
principal settlers of the coimtry, 
and are a rude uncultivated people, 
not noted for civility, nor apt to 
render disinterested services to 
strangers or each other. 

A mile from Hamburgh we began 
to skirt the first ridge of mountains, 
on a wild, rugged road, cut ak>ng 
its sides, at the foot of which flows: 
the nver, sometimes placidly and 
slowly, and sometimes rapidly and 
tufbuleutly over rocks and shoals* 
The road is frequently sixty,and an 
hundred feet almost vertically above 
the river, and is too narrow to al- 
low carriages to pass each other« 
Three miles further we crossed al> 
Ege's Forge the eastern branchcall- * 
ed Little Schujrlkill, having passed 
in view of the junctions htUebelow«, 
Both branches head in thisimmense 
chain of mountains. The roug^mcasof 
the road made travelling very tire- 
8ome,andoccasionedus to be benight* 
ed, a circumstance however* which 
we had little reason to regret. The 
air of the mountains after a hot day, 
was ver^ refreshing, and the full 
moon, rising majestically over tho 
hill-tops, contributed not a little to 
the grandeur of the scenery. ~ The 
dark sides of the mountains formed 
ft picteresque contrast to the silvery 
illumination which invested the rest 
of the landscape. At length we 
reached our intended resting place, 
and were received with significant 
bows and looks, by a boorish look- 
ifig German, whom we soon found 
to be our landlord. Judging from, 
appearances we prepared ourselves 
for rough fair in this barren region. 
We enquired vha^ we could hav^ 



to eat| and were answered) anything 
vou please. J.*... was for coffee, 
but I dissuaded him, expecting he 
would not relish it if made ; we call- 
ed for milk, which was furnished 
of the best quality and in nice or- 
der, with abundance of good butter 
and cheese. J..... proposed the ad- 
ditienof pye, *< well," said our host, 
** you can have it," and forthwith 
produced pjres of two kinds, both 
excellent* Such fare in a wilder- 
ness was unexpected, and we did it 
justice by finishing near a quart of 

Our landlord's name is David 
Pensinger. His house is nine miles 
from Hamburgh. He seems desirous 
of pleasing, and aroused us much by 
his aukward nods and singular re- 
marks. As an instance, when we 
ordered oats for our horses, he 
-stopped to point out to us the remark- 
able resemblance between the Eng- 
lish and German pronunciation of 
the word, one being "oats," and the 
other ♦' haaver." 

22. ••••Several of us, haxdrgbeen 
crowded together in a small, close 
room, and the weather bemg ex- 
ceedingly warm, I slept little on 
'my musty dusty bed of chaif with 
one scanty sheet: heard the clock 
strike every hour of the night, and 
rose between three and four in the 

J«..^..'s horae is lame, and mine 
mudi galled, and this is the more 
unpleasant as we have a rough 
tiresome day's ride before us. 
We are now among the mountains, 
and expect to travel slowly. Pen- 
mnger, after examining J.....^'8 
horse, gravely informed him of a 
cure which he said could not foil of 
success*..." At the next house you 
atop at, look for a bag, and steal 
the string, lliis, tie round your 
horses lame leg, but be sure you do 
it without being seen by any body." 

We have been diligently- employ- 
ed three hours in going to Reever's, 
ft distance of eight or ten miles. 
J.«... will scarcely find it necessary 
to purloin a string, as his horse 
moves as usual. No improvements 
irlsiUe except a few low hnta, with 

small patches of cleared 
about them, mostly ]rfanU 
buck-wheat. Buck-wheat is the mm 
chiefly grown in this part of the 
country, and b employed to feed 
their poultry, their hojp and them- 
selves. Good rye is hkewiae culti- 
vated to )>rofit, but the soil la too 
light for wheat, and we saw none 
of it. 

Every where the women are \msr 
in the fields with the men, and bom 
sexes are principally occupied in 
destroying the trees. A shirt of 
coarse linen, wide trowsers of tow 
cloth, a broad rimmed black wool 
hat, and leather shoes, composed 
the dress of the men ; most of them* 
had pipes in their mouths. The 
dress of the women consisted of 
three articles ; a hat similar to that 
worn by the men, the usual gar- 
ment of coarse linen, and a lio- 
sey petticoat, to which some of 
them added a neck handkerchief 
and shoes. The air we breathe b 
impregnated with the odour of 
wild flowers, with which the 
woods abound, and of which we 
observed a great variety. Ree- 
ver's wife appeared to exert herself 
to entertain us,and amongother dain- 
ties placed before us a large dish of 
fried onions swimming in fat. Here 
we were overtaken by three voung' 
men on foot from Philadelphia, 
bound to Catawessey, who left 
Reading when we did. An active 
man on foot, will, on a journey of 
considerable extent, keep pace 
with a horseman, so mudi time ia 
consumed in the care necessarily 
bestowed on that animal, and who 
requires longer and more frequent 
intervals of rest, Inasmuch as he 
carries not only himself, but his ri- 

It is amumg to observe the eilect 
of }X>liticaI veal in this impoverish- 
ed tract. Every few miles present 
us with a liberty pole towering near 
some dismal hovel^ and decorated 
with party coloured flags and liber- 
ty caps. 

We perceived no pines, nor ever- 
greens of any kind till we entered 
die mouataios, andnow lew <Ah^r 



trees of aoy iiiaiiortance present 
themselves. It is reasonable to 
believe that these trees prevailed 
originally and generally through- 
out a considerable portion of the 
United States. Where settlements 
are newly made, and the pine and 
hemlock are cut down, they are in- 
variably succeeded by the oak and 
hickory. It is probable that the 
dwarf bush or scrub oak differs not 
in species from those of larger size, 
for it is always sure to expand to the 
customary magnitude,when the lofty 
trees which overshadoW,and impede 
its growth are removed. This is the 
case in every part of the continent 
diat I have visited. 

Between Reever's and Kepner's 
(about eight miles) there is but one 
house, or rather hovel. Kepner is 
a lively talkative old fclIoW|^ and 
his house is one of the best m its 
materials and construction in the 
woods. It is of hewn logs one story 
lii^y and twenty feet square, com- 
posing a single room in which the 
kndlord tells us he has lodged forty 
persons at once. 

This man left a good plantation 
in a populous neighbourhood to re- 
side m this lonely and sterile spot. 
Thb he does not regret, but laments 
very much his having abandoned 
another mode of life, which was 
that of driving a waggon and team 
of horses, which he says, he follow- 
ed for forCy-five years, without in- 
terruption. We had a repast of 
some venison, rye bread and butter, 
radishes and cheese, all very excel- 
lent, and whisky, being the only li- 
quor his house am>rded. Our horses 
had a plentiful mess of cut rye and 
straw: for aU which he charged us 
twenty-five cents. " Twenty-five 
cents," exclaimed J.....r with vtp-' 
lifted hands and eyes, affecting to 
be amazed at the extravagance of 
the demand. '^ Why tus you dink 
es is du much?" Was the query 
of our good natured host, with- 
drawing his hand as the money was 
presented to him. He would wil- 
ungly have reduced the price. In 
any of the southern states a less 
•omfort^le and plentiful supply 

vol,. X....MO. III. 

would have cost us two dollars. 
The old man was well pleased with 
our liberality in paying the /iiil 
quarter of a dollar^ and on parting^ 
wished us a pleasant ride. 

For the Literary Magazine* 


^^ n FerueroBO." 
Why the objects either of nature 
or poetry produce di^rent effects 
on different minds, is easily explain- 
ed. Ideas and images are differ- 
ently linked and associated ; and as 
all art tinctured with pain or with 
pleasure, it is impH>ssible that any 
two readers should read the same 
performance with exactly the same 
emodone ; or. even that the same 
person should derive the same im- 
pressions from the perusal at dif- 
ferent times. Thought is volatile 
and flexible beyond any other es- 
sence : yet, like every other, is bound 
by certain laws, and particularly 
influenced and swayed by habit..... 
Hence it is, that those who begin, in 
early youth, to read a poem, con- 
tinue, generally, for the rest of their 
lives, to read with much the' same 
impression, rude, vague, and super- 
ficial as thev are. Often as I have 
recited the following lines, contain- 
ing the pedigree of the goddess to 
whom this poem is dedicated**.* 

Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore. 
To toiitazy Saturn bore ; 
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain) 
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove. 
While yet there was n9 fear of Jove..^ 

Often as this passage has been re- 
cited bv me, it n^ver occurred to 
me, till very lately, to discuss the 
meaning or weigh the propriety of 
this genealogical tree. What train 
of reflections it was....what course 
of education induced tlie poet to give 
such a fxther and mother to his darU 



ing xnelaiicboly.M.Wbf these crea- 
tures of ancient fancy^ and a certain 
mountain in a certain isle of the 
Mediterranean, shouldbe fixed upon 
as the parents and birth place of 
this perBonificaticn ; or what legi- 
timate gratification a modem reader 
can or ought to derive from the tale 
of auch a meeting between father 
and daughter, in the forests of Crete, 
<< while yet there was no fear of 
Jove," arc questions that never be- 
fore occurred to me ; and now that 
they do occur, I must own myself 
onable, at this moment, to give a 
satisfiictory answer to them. 

That habit qf reflection called 
melancholy, may, like other intel- 
lectual existences, be endowed with 
body, name, vesture and symbols, 
and may even have a parentage and 
birth-place assigned to it; but why 
the should be made to spring from. 
those mythological chimeras, Sa- 
turn, and hia daughter Vesta, in a 
Cretan cave, some of your readers, 
more learned than I, may, perhaps, 
be able to tell me. 

In the description given of ^ de- 
vinest melancholy," we are told, 
that to adapt her visage to our 
weaker view> it is 

Wr laid wtb Uadt% stud wisdom's 

Blacky but such as, in esteem, 
]lhuice Memnon'i sister might beseem ; 
Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that 

To set her beauty's praise above 
The Sea Nymphs.... 

The poet could not but be aware, 
that to give hb goddess the com- 
plexion of an Alrican, was some- 
what hazardous : he therefore en- 
deavours to disarm us of our pre- 
judice, b^ calling it the hue of ftM- 
doniy and by reminding us of per- 
sonages who, though black, have 
laid some claim to reverence* Per- 
haps my ignorance may be my dis- 
g;race, when I confess, that this sis- 
ter of prince Memnon, and this 
Ethiopean queen, with the story of 
her competition with the Naiads, 
loe whplly strange to me; but I sas« 

pect most readers are, in tlds re- 
spect, as ignorant as I am. 

The phrase "o'erlaid," orcoatad 
<^ with black," evidently means a 
fiice of the A^ican hue. That this 
is the true construction is plain, from 
the additional assertion. is, in- 
deed black, but then it was such a 
blackness as belonged to the Ethi- 
oi>ean queen, Ccc Memnon, if I 
mistake not, is a soldier in the Iliady 
a Moorish or Egyptian auxiliaij of 
king Priam. Now, I really thmk, 
this conception of tiie poet is liable 
to some censure. I cannot imagine . 
why black should be termed the, 
hue of witdom^ llie owl, the bird 
of Minerva, is, indeed, generally 
black ; and this, though by a very 
remote and fiuitastic association, 
perhaps suggested this idea to the 
poet. Milton, as all his poetry shews, 
was totally and thoroughly imbued 
with the ancientmythology. Hence 
it is, that many passages in his 
works are, to readers less learned 
than himself, unintelligible. 

Black has alwavs been sjmboli-^ 
cal of death, grief, mourning, and 
of the evil passions, but is utterly 
incongruous with those which are 
merely serious and solemn. Melan- 
choly, it must be owned, is com- 
monly called black ; but then the 
melancholy thus described, is the 
popular and common acceptation of 
the term, in which it has a near al- 
liance with grief and madness; and 
is a very difierent thing fnmi the po- 
et's melancholy, the lonely, muse&J, 
studious dispoution: a peculiar sus* 
ceptibility of solemn and rapturous 

The habiliments and gesture of 
this being are thus described : 

All in a robe of darkest grain 
Flowing with majestic train. 
And sable stole of Cyprus lawn. 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
• Come but keep thy wonted state. 
With even step and musing gait. 
And looks, commencing witli the 

Thy lapt soul sitting in thy eyes* 
There held in holy passion still 
Foiget thyself to marble, till 

6KITIGISM Oir iriLTOir. 


Whh a 9adt leaden^ downward czst 
Those fix them on the earth at fast. 

Here the imag;es and terms, with 
•ome exceptions, are equally beauti- 
iul and happy. ^< Flowing with ma- 
jestic train" indicates the manners 
of Afilton's age. The epithet ma- 
jetiicj does not seem to coalesce 
easily with the impression which 
other parts of the picture produce. 
Neither can we appro%'e of sady 
ieaden cast. Leaden is akin to all 
that is stupid, heavy and dreary. 
The looks of this raptured contem- 
platist need not surely be sad. 

The companions, or attendants of 
ndancholy, are, 

Peace and quiet* 
Spare fast, that oft with gods doth 

And hean the muses in a ring 
Ay round about Jove's altar sing ; 
And add to these, retired leisure 
That in trim gardens takes his plea- 
But first and chiefest with thee, bring 
Him that now soars on golden wing^ 
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, 
The cherub contemplation 
And the mute silence hist along^^ 

This selection of images appears 
to have been made carelessly, and by 
chance. The personages ate not 
■distinguished with skill or precision. 
Peace, quiet, fast, retirement, lei- 
sure, contemplation are an odd as- 
semblage to walk in the train of 
** melancholy." The privileges of 
M fast" to diet with gods, and hear 
the song of the muses, as thev circle 
love's altar, have, at once, the my- 
thological and religious peculiarities 
of Milton's ap;e. I1ie merit of fi^st- 
ing, and its mfluence in focllitating 
intercourse with heaven, are now 
exploded ; but no one but our poet 
seems to have imagined it favoura- 
ble XjQfioetical inspiration : and the 
modem votarist will generally pre- 
fer some other mode of gaining 
access to the banquets of Olympus, 

and the concerts of the muses 

Trim gardens are no longer the &- 
Tourite retirements of leisure. This 
epithet **trini" forcibly indicates 

the old formal style of rural decora- 
tion, which it is worth observing, 
nowhere enters into the subsequent 
account of the haunts, most dear to 
the musefiil wanderer, or Into any 
of Milton's rural descriptions. 

Contemplation, the last of the 
group, is described ' as a cherub, 
golden-winged, soaring, and guid- 
ing a throne, with wheels of fire. I 
must confess, that these images do 
not please me. Golden mng is a 
phrase without peculiar signifi- 
cance ; and there seems to be some- 
thing incompatible in the double 
office ofaoartngy and guiding a cha^ 
riot. I am at a loss too, to know what 
is meant by the ^ery- wheeled 

From this display of allegorical 
portraits, the poet now proceeds, 
by a happy transition, to describe 
the occupations of the melancholy 

These naturally divide themselves 
into such as are pursued during the 
nighty and such as beloi^gto the day* 
His nights are spent, according to 
the state of the air, either in the 
wood* and Jtelda^ or within doora / 
iand are employed in liatMng to 
«olemn sounds, or surveying the 
fece of nature: or, when confined 
by the atmosphere at home, either 
first, in musing by the fire-side.... 
or secondly^ in the study of the 
sciences....or thirdly, in musical 
perfbrn)ances.M.or lastly, in read- 
ing poetry. 

On the return of day, he resorts 
to the woods and glades ; books and 
company, and all the social recre* 
ations are avoided. He seeks the 
shadiest and loneliest haunts, and 
strives to loose himself in reverie* 
The only substitute for nature's 
recesses, he allows to be the arcades 
and recesses of some public edifice^ 
where the sublimities of architec- 
ture and the moral greatness of some 
appendage are adapted to raise the 
soul above all private and personal 

It is thus that the museful man 
wishes to pass the flower of his 
days. Por his declining years, hit 
imagination looks forward to the 



pleasures of seclusion, and the calm 
parsuits of some enobling sdeoce. 

Tliis is the outline of Milton's 
lecture. It agrees pretty accurately 
with the scheme of every mind, ha- 
bituated to the exercise of its facul- 
ties ; but no two minds, it is Ul^ely, 
would ^11 u/i the picture precisely 
in the same manner. It would be 
curious and instructive to examine 
what are tlie minuter particulars of 
Milton's scheme. What objects of 
nature would mast attract lus con- 
templation in his wandering;s, and 
what guides he would take through 
the regions of poetry and science. 
2n these respects, the individual 
character of the poet, and the fosli- 
ions of his age and nation, will ma- 
nifest themselves, and a£ford us an 
occasion of comparing the views of 
others with our own. 

In his nightly rambles we may 
observe, that his darling passion is 
to listen to the nightingale. He in- 
vokes, the company of silence.... 

*Less Philomel will deign a song 
In her sweetest aaddett plight, 
'Smoothing the rugged brow of night; 
While Cynthia checks her dragon 

Gently o'er th' accustomed oak.... 

This previlegc an American con- 
tcmplatist must dispense with. Our 
► groves arc full of the music of noc- 
turnal insects, which can have no- 
tliing in common witli the notes of 
Philomela. Why is the nightin- 
^le's song so commonly supposed 
indicative either of wu/tutm or lo\ e ? 
It is obvious, that the music may be 
particularly adapted to call up me- 
lancholy in the hearer, and to sooth 
the reveries of one whom love keeps 
Awake ; but tlus supplies no reason 
for imputing amorous despair, or a 
rueful temper to the bird itaelf^..* 
The dragon yoke of Cynthia, ap- 
plied to tl\e lunar progress, b an 
antiquated image, which true taste 
does not incline us to relish, though 
Iraming may enable us, in some 
degree, to comprehend. Night, 
turned into a person, whose rugged 
brow is smoothed by the music» is a 
very ^rand conception. 

The nightingale is not always, 
present to rcgsue the ear* In facr 
absence, the eye is fixed 

Upon the wand'ring moon 
Riding near her highest nooa. 

The grandeur of the starry firma- 
ment is omitted, though, perhaptff 
tliat is a more subline, various and 
thought-producing spectacle than 
the other. It is, however, after- 
wards introduced as one of tlie 
amusements of old age. 

This image is congenial with eve- 
ry fiincy, and is to be seen in every 
climate, llie poet goes on to par- 
ticularize the only two situationB 
in which the moon is advantageously 
seen ; in a dear, and in a chequered 

After the moon and the nightin- 
gale, the curfew is introdncedl.** 

Oft on a plat of rising gromid, 
I hear the far-oJT curfew sound 
Over tome wide-watered shore, 
Swinging slow with sullen roar. 

These lines arc very defcctire in 
perspicuity. Is it the curfew, or the 
shore that Mwings on this occasion ? 
If the wide water be meant, which, 
though not expressed, is highly pro- 
bable, the term rtvinging conveys 
no adequate or ugnificant image. 
The stulen roar must belong to a 
torrent, and the kind of concert 
which a tolling bell, and a roaring 
torrent produce, can be known only 
to those who have witnessed the 
combination. Either, separately, 
must have a powerful influence on 
the imagination. 

The "air not permitting" dicsc 
enjoyments, we are transported to 
the room, warmed by embers on the 
hearth, with no sound to engage the 
attention, but tlie chirrup of the 
cricket and the watchman's larum, 
which, in our country, is a catly and 
not a bell. 

From these contemplative em- 
ployments we are now carried to the 
summit of a tower, where, by the 
midnight lamp, the melancholy 
man pores over hia books. What 



are the subjects, or the masters, 
which tlic poet selects ? They are 
either the works of Hermes Tris- 
magisttts, or the speculations of 
Plato on tlie soul's immortality, 
guides which a more recent student 
would not be likely to select, espe- 
cially the former. 

The following are the topics of a 
visionary, or a necromancer, more 
ihxa of a rational student. 

And of those demons that are found 
In xir, fire, flood, or under ground ; 
Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet or with element. 

The theory which peoples all na- 
ture with active and subordinate 
intelligences ie very agreeable. No 
wonder that a warm imagination 
has built large inferences on slen- 
der premises in relation to this 
subject. That hints and tokens, 
noted or imparted in dreams, or in 
casual coincidences of events, have 
been eagerly employed to remove, 
in some degree, the veil which hides 
the original and primary agencies 
of nature from our view. 

The laws of nature are still, with 
all stremioas minds, objects of curi- 
ous research ; but instead of vague 
and superstitious reveries, we now 
confide in the power of industrious 
experiments to decompound, set 
free, and render sensible the primi- 
tive ingredients of the universe 

The same passion which led men to 
solicit the intercourse and aid of 
demons, now incites them to inves- 
tigate the simplest and most evanes- 
cent elements of nature. The en- 
thusiast for knowledge has descend- 
ed from the summit of the tower 
to the recesses of the laboratory ; 
and Hermes and Plato are super- 
ceded by Boerhaave and Lavoi- 

These lines are remarkably com- 
prehensive. More meaning in fewer 
words it would be scircely possible 
to comprise. The respective me- 
diuma of this activity are accurately 

enumerated air, fire, flood, or 

under grotmd ; and a poetical use 
is made of tlie supposed connexion 

between events, and the influence 
eitlier of the planets or the ele- 

Philosophy looks not beyond tlie 
elements themselves, which act 
agreeably to a supreme will ; but 
poetry discovers beings whose pow- 
ers harmonize or concur witli these 

The sciences, however, are some- 
times to give place to poetry, and 
especially to tragic scenes* 

Sometimes let gorgeous tragedy, 

In iceptrc'd pall come sweeping by.... 

We may remark, that some words 
have undergone a singular revolu- 
tion of meaning since tlie time of 
Milton. " Gorgeous" and " De- 
mure" are instances of this, being 
used by the poet in a serious sense^ 
though, at present, they have a bur- 
lesque or ludicrous meaning. Could 
the figure thus displayed be paint- 
ed ? No doubt every epithet here 
used, contributed to an actual pic- 
ture in the poet's fancy. Tlie scep- 
tre, the pall, and the sweeping mo- 
tion will be as differently imagined 
as there are different readers. 

The succeeding lines shew Mil- 
ton's preference of tlie ancient dra- 
ma. Sliakspeare, it should seem 
by his silence here, was held in lit- 
tle repute as a tragic poet. Jon- 
son and Shakespear are mentioned 
in the Allegro, merely as administer- 
ing entertainment to the man of 
gaiety and good humour. 

Mournful music is next mention- 
ed as a darling occupation. It is 
worth while to remark the mytho- 
logical images which tlie idea of 
music suggests to his fancy. 

O 9ad virgin that thjr power 
Might raise Mutau* from his ^ottwr* 
Or bid the soul of Orpbeiu sing 
Such notes, as warbled to the strings, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto* t cheek. 
And made hell grant what love did 

In his picture of lively music in 
the Allegro, Orpheus again recurs ; 
but such is the superiority of mirihm 



^/, over mournfiii strains, in this 
poet*8 rq>re8entation,that while the 
Penseroso produces only a condi- 
tional assent, the << Allegro" would 

Have won the ear 
Of Pluto to have quite tttfrct 
Hit half-regain'd £urydice. 

Milton's passion for ancient lore' 
the theme and style of Attic tragedy » 
one would think hardly compatible 
with his attachment to the clil- 
meras of modem romance. Yet his 
fayoorite books we are informed, 
were Ovid's Metamorphoses and 
Spenser's Fairy Queen. According- 
ly we find in this place, the plea- 
sures of music succeeded by stories 
of forests, inchantments, tumeys 
trophies, and all the apparatus of 
the Italian poetry. 

In this manner does the melan- 
choly enthusiast pass the night, the 
€rvil*-9mted man has no sooner risen 
than he hies him to the forests. 
The morning which the rambler 
loves, must not 

Be trick'd and fromic't as she was 

With the Attic boy to hunt, 
Bat, kerehief*d in a comely cloud 
While rocking winds are piping loud, 
Or ushered with a shower still 
"When the gust hath blown bis fill. 
Ending on the rustling leaves^ 
With minute drops from off the eaves. 

I cannot affix any distinct mean- 
rag to the epithet civil-^uitedy the 
morning here is personified, but the 
image of a modem female, with a 
eloud for a kerchief seems wanting 
in dignity. The allusion to the 
Attic boys is, I confess, unintelligi- 
ble to me, and, I much suspect is so 
to most readers. There is a con- 
fusion of images lU'-^Rocking winds 
are/ri>ii«j^loud — though each sepa- 
rately is very vivid. A blustering and 
cloudy dawn, or one calm and still, 
after the subsiding of a rain-storm, 
are the fiivouritcs of his fancy, 
"With minute drops from off the 
eaves—" contains one of those 
specimens of original observation 
and selection, so rarely to be found 
among poets. 

The scenes which he selects fife 
his noon-day meditations^ are, 

Arched walks of twilight groves 
Andh shadows brow% that Sitwm iemtt^, 
Of pine or monumental oak» 
Where the rude ax» with hetved 

stroke, * 

Was never heanl....ei&ef9w^ Id dWamr^ 
Or fright them from their hallow *d 


Groves andg^deacouldnotoocar 
to the poet's nmcy, without callini; 
up Silvanus and the nymphs. 

lliese lines are fiill of images ; 
the scene described, and the xioral 
incidents are calculated deeply tor 
affect the sensSnlity to mralchanna. 
The grove and its arched walks^ 
the formation of art, was accesui>le 
to Milton, but the forests of pine 
and oak, where the ax waa never 
heard, could not occur within the 
circuit of his rambles* Ko more 
powerful conception of solitude can 
be formed than what must flow from 
the covert of such a forest, as many 
a pilgrim in the American wilder- 
ness is capable of judging* 

The epithets in this passage are 
very energetic, though some excep- 
tion may perhaps be made against 
monumentai oak* Why is oak called 

The effect of the woodman's pr^i^ 
sence to fright away the nymphs is^ 
to me, origmal, and is very beauti- 

Having reached this friendly 
covert, what attitude does tlie en- 
thusiast assume ? What sounds at- 
tract his attention, and what images 
hover in his foncy. He stretches 
liimself like the melancholy man, in 
Shakspeare, along some brook, the 
ripUng of whose waters, and the 
hum of bees constitute his music 
This music is propitious to sleep, 
which is invokcxl, in company with 
mystic visions, and which must re- 
tire only at the bidding of some un- 
seen Genius. 

Hide me from day's garith eye 
While the Bee ^itb honied thigh , 
That at her flower)' work doth«i/i^ 
And the waters murmuring. , 



Wi^ vac\ concert as they keep, 
&Atice the dewy fea^ered sleep ;.... 

The poet was not physiologist 
enough to know that the worlung 
Beeisof nosexAatthehoDcvisex^ 
tractedby the td^;ue, and deposited 
&r safe carriage, in the mouth of 
tite insect. It was prdxibly for 
rfayflse-sake that the Bee is made 
to tinfy bat, m reality, it is ascer* 
tained that tiie Bee has a voice ca- 
pable of various modulations. 

The term gariah conveys no 
meaning to me. I never met with 
Itdsewhere. It is capable, no doubt, 
cf eiqplication, but its etymology is 
ftot obvious. Milton's use has con- 
secrated it, and it is often quoted, 
but the same use would have sanc- 
tified any other arbitrarily invented 

And let some strange mysterious. 

Wave at iu wings, an airy stream. 
Of lively portraiture display 'd 
^ftly on my eyelids laiiL 

I cannot clear up the obscurify of 
^is passage. At vfAo9C wings? 
those of the dream or those of sleep I 
m either sense, to wave an airy 
stream of lively portraiture dis- 
phiy'd^ is vague and without mean* 

And as I wake, sweet music breathe. 
Above, about, or underneath, 
Sent by some spirit to mortals good 
Or th' uasfen genius of the wood. 

This is a himinons thought. Mil- 
ton fostered the imagination of this 
interposition with |^at delight. 
Comus is entirely built upon it, and 
a survey of that poem, would iJbrd 
apleasing i^yportunity of investigat* 
ing the various hints, and sources 
'W&ch contributed to form his notion 
ofthe essence and attributes of these 
aerial beix^. In this passage, the 
ancient and modem, the mytholog- 
ical and christian notions on the 
•subject are briefly and strikingly 
displayed. Let an aerial musician 
be heardy a spirit that is guardian 

and attendant, either of person or 
of place ; the genius of the deeper 
himself^ or ofthe wood in which he 

Devotion is not for^tten among 
the employments of this enthusiast* 

But let my due feet never fail 

To walk the studious ehuterU pale» 

And love the high tmbcmed roof 

With antique pillart massy proof. 

And ttoried woindomi* richly dight. 

Casting a dim religious light. 

There let the pealing organ blow 

To the full voiced cbwr beUm^ 

In service high, and anthems clear 

As may with sweemess thro' my ea.. 

Dissolve me into extasies 

And bring all Heaven before my eyes. 

Milton was in love with the solema 
peculiarities of the gothic temple*^ 
To those therefore who never en- 
tered such a building, the first six 
lines communicate no image. An-* 
tique pillars, embowed roof, storied 
windows, clobtered pale, are un- 
meaning sounds to those on this side 
the ocean, who have never seen^ 
and never collected from delinea- 
tions or descriptions any imi^s of 
Gothic building. In Milton's mind, 
these terms possessed vivid coun- 
ter parts. Memory set before him 
ihe9tudioiia c/bi>r^« of Cambridge 
where he passed his youth, and tho 
aisles and arches of St. Paul's or 
Westminster, with their organs and 
chorusses, whose devotional influ- 
ence he had often experienced. Hon 
different the conceptions then, 
which the poet derived from these 
lines, from those of an American 
reader. We are not however to- 
tally deprived of the solemnities of 
the organ and the chorusses of pub- 
lic worship. 

Having passed the flower of his 
days in such amusements, what is 
reserved for the pastime of s^* 
Diflferent minds touched with Uie 
same sublime passion, for serious 
pleasures, would probably form 
very different visions of the foture. 
We might, in general, aspire after 
quiet and seclusion, but we should 
not be ambitious of absolute solitude, 
and the penury and hardships ofthe 



Aachorite* To be our own nurse 
•and servant, and to seek in a 
cavemed rock, not an occasional 
retreat, a permanent abode, seems 
to be a perverse wish. ^^The 
hairy govm and mossy cell are not 
necessary to be united, and though 
'^musing meditation may most affect 
pensive secrecy," it need not be in 
the torpid character of a hermit, 
nor need his cell be *' a desert cell." 
The hairy gown, the maple disli, 
and a few books, with a bed of 
leaves and the cheerless shelter of 
a rock, befit nothing but poverty 
and superstition. 

Wild, mountainous, and lonely 
scenes* arc dear to a museful tem- 
^r. Kocks and caverns are de- 
lightful as occasional retreats, but 
these enjoyments are compatable 
with a civilized life, and constitute 
a kind of Hermit and Hermitage, 
very different from Milton* We 
may wish that 

At I&Bt our weary age 
May liod the peaceful herniitaf*;e. 
The peaked rock, and mossy celj, 
Where we may tit, and righUy spell 
Of evcry^star that heaven doth shew^ 
And every herb, diat sips the dew. 

A wise old age may find delicious 
recreations for its soUtude in astro- 
nomy and botany, but there 
thingagreeable to these views, in the 
poet's Hermiu He merely ex- 
amines earth and heaven, with the 
naked eye, and aims at gathering 
ivom his contemplations some mira- 
culpus power of healing diseases, 
and foreseeing future events. These 
are the views of an ignorant and 
Gothic age, and though somewhat 
congenial to the mind of one fresh 
from reading the old chivalrous 
poetry, are m reality savage and 
debasing and are not at all neces- 
sary to give sublimity or pathos to 
our conceptions of solitude and 
fural retreat. 

Here the melancholy man, how- 
ever wishes to sit, 

Tin old experience do attain, 

T^ somethiug like prophetic stnis. 

The life just before describetf^ 
does not seem to befit the term 

In fine, this poem, considers seii- 
otts pleasure, not as flowing from 
the performance d^ur duty, frem 
intercource with nbred minds, or 
the contemplation of that happineaeiy 
in other bemgs which we hav e been 
instrumental in conferring or pre- 
serving. It considers man, not aa 
the recipient of social or moral 
pleasures, but as reaping his high- 
est happiness from a certain refined 
indulgence of his senses, the cold 
abstractions of his intellect and the 
freaks ofa superstitious fancy. The 
seriousness or melancholy here de^ 
picted has aometlung in it unaoctalt 
misanthropic and selfish, and though 
we may admire the portrait, ob a 
portrait, yet, no man with a true 
taste for serious pleasures, will fuUjr 
concur with the poet, when he ter* 
minates his soliloquy with saying, 

I with thee will chuse to live. 

For the Literary Magazine, 

[Thb following «« Chemical Qties- 
tton" was first proposed in a daily 
paper of this city, neatly two yean 
ago: I have not seen any answer 
to it since that time, and from the 
intended scope of the Literary Ma- 
gazine, I am induced to request a 
comer for it. This question must 
be considered an important one, as 
it may tend to elucidate some of 
those causes, which act so power- 
fully, (because secretly) towards 
the rapid destruction of the human 
teeth in all climates and situations. 
Whether Sugar is one of these 
agents of decompcsition,cr notyoor 
present imperfect state of scienti- 
fic knowledge will not admit us to 
decide : but h rather appears from 
concurring circumstances, that its 
ejects arc not deleterious in their na- 
ture : — ^as I am told, that the inha- 
bitants cf the ^Vest Indies preserve 
their teeth in great perfection and 
beauty : but for the truth of this, I 
cannot vouch. It is hoped that 
some of the ^rat luminaritt of science 



now ifi the city, who frequent **hot 
Jecture-rooms" (to the great disad- 
vanuge of their helath and spirits, 
from being unaccuttomed to such a 
mode of life) will endeavour to throw 
fight on this select. In doing so, 
however, I woma recommend them 
to refrain from adopting the vision- 
ary and groundless theories of a cer- 
tain nptyiedDoctort who resides in a 
city at no great distance from Phi- 
ladelphia. While he has fed his 
own vanity, science has suffered 
from his attempts to form an 
hypothesis, not only unsupported by 
facts, but in direct opposition to 

Dec. 2, 1803. 


Th e oxalic acid, it is well knowti, 
can be produced by oxygenating 
common white sugar, powdered, by 
means of the nitric acid : in this 
process, part of the oxygen of the 
nitric acid unites to the carbon and 
hydrogen (the other constituent 
parts) of the sugar, and the nitrous 
acid escapes. This substance, ac- 
cording to Lavoisier, consists of 8 
parts of hydrogen, 64 of oxyg^en, 
and 28 of carbon. lyieae are also 
tlie ingredients of the oxaUc acid, 
but the proportions in which they 
exist, yet r^toain tmknovrn : hence 
it is evident, that sugar, by the ad- 
dition of a certain quantity of oxy- 
gen, becomes converted into the 
oxalic acid. 

Now sugar is generally supposed 
to be injurious to the teeth : how fer 
this opinion is sujjyported b^ truUi, 
will be seen from the following con- 
siderations. The teeth are com- 
posed of lime united to the phos- 
phoric acid, or are pho6fihate9 of 
Umem Oxalic acid possesses a great- 
ek* affinity with the base of this salt, 
and wherever it meets witli it, unites 
to it, and separates the other acid. 
Sugar is, by some, supposed to act 
in this manner :...• the oxalic acid 
ur.ites to the lime of the phosphate 
of lime, and forms an insoluble salt, 
andthus the teeth decay ^ or become 
decomposed ; but docs su^r really 
contain the oxalic acid ready 
formed? for if this is not the case, 

VOL....I. N0....III. 

how can it decompose them? A so* 
lution of sugar will not precipitate 
lime from lime-water, and hence it 
is clearly proved that it cannot ex- 
ist in this substance ; for Hme, either 
in simple sohition, or in combination 
with other substances, is reckoned 
the best test of this acid chemists 
have. How then does sugar act on 
the teeth ? It is proved by experi- 
ment, that if a smaller portion of 
oxygen is added to sugar, than 
what would be necessary to convert 
it into the oxalic, the tartarous or 
some other vegetable acid would 
be formed : none of which have so 
great an attraction for lime, as the 
oxalic possesses. Can, therefore, 
sugar be prejudicial to the teeth ?•••• 
if so, in what manner does it act ? 
The solution of the above ques- 
tion, is requested from some to the 
scientific readers of his Maga« 


For the Literary Magazine, 




My fether's sister was an ancieift 
lady, resident in Philadelphia, ^ife 
relict of a merchant, whose decease 
left her tlie enjoyment of a frugal 
competence. She was without 
children, and had often expressed 
her desire that Tier nephew Frank, 
whom she always considered as a 
sprightly and promising lad, should 
be put under her care. She oflered 
to be at the expense of my educa- 
tion, and to bequeath to me at her 
death her slender patrimony. 

This arrangement was obstinate- 
ly rejected by my father, because it 
was merely fostering and giving 
scope to propensites, which he con- 
sidered as hurtful, and because his 
avarice desired that this inheritance 
should fall to no one but himself. 
To me, it was a scheme of ravishing 
felicity, and to be debarred from it 
was a source of anguish known to 
few. I had too much experience 



of my father's pertinaciousness 
ever to ho[>e for u change m his 
views; yet the bliss of living witli 
my aunt, iu a new and busy scene, 
and in tlie unbounded indulgence of 
my literary passion, continually 
occupied my UioughtK : for a long 
time these thoughts were productive 
only of despondency and tears. 

Time only enhanced tlie desira- 
bleness of this scheme ; my new fa- 
culty would natural]/ connect itself 
with tliese wishes, and the question 
could not fail to occur whetlier it 
might not aid me in the execution 
of my favourite plan. 

A tliousand superstitious tales 
were current in the family. Appa- 
ritions had been seen, and voices had 
been heard on a multitude of oc- 
casions. My father was a confident 
believer in supernatural tokens. 
The voice of his wife, who had been 
many years dead, had been twice 
heanl at midnight whispering at Ids 
pillow. I frequently asked m) self 
whether a scheme favourable to my 
views might not be built upon the^e 
foundations. Suppose (thought I) 
my mother should be made to enjoin 
upon him comptiance with my 

This idea bred in me a temporary 
constematioD. To imitate the voice 
of the dead, to counterfeit a com- 
mission from heaven, bore the aspect 
of presumption and impiety. It 
seemed an offence which could not 
^1 to draw after it the vengeance 
of the deitf. My wishes for a time 
yielded to my fears, but this scheme 
in proportion as I meditated on it, 
became more plausible; no other 
.occurred to me so easy and so effica- 
cious. I endeavoured to persuade 
myself that tlie end proposed, was, 
in the highest degree praiseworthy, 
and that the excellence of my pur- 
pose would justify the means em- 
ployed to atttun it. 

My rcsohitionj were, for a time, 
attended with lluctuations and m^s- 
givmgs. These gradually disap- 
peared, and my purpose became 
jirm ; I was next to devise tlie means 
of effecting my views, tliis did not 
idcmand any tedious deliberation* It 

was easy to gain access to my father '» 
chamber without notice or detec- 
tion, cautious footsteps and the sup- 
pression of breath would place me, 
unsuspected and unthought of, by 
his bed side. T^ words I should 
use, and the mode of utterance were 
not easily settled, but having at 
length selected these, I made my selF 
by much previous repetition, per- 
fectly familiar with the use of them. 

I selected a blustering and incle- 
ment night, in which the darkness 
was augmented by a veil of the 
blackest clouds. The building we 
inhabited was slight in its structure, 
and full of crevices through whicfai 
the gale fomid easy way, and whist- 
led in a thousand cadencies. On 
this night t!ie elemental music was 
remarkably sonorous, and was 
mingled nut unfrequently with /Atiiz- 
der heard remote* 

I could not divest myself of secret 
dread. My heart faultered with a 
consciousness of wrong. Heavea 
seemed to be present and to disap- 
prove my work ; I listened to the 
thunder and the wind, as to the stem 
voice of tliis disapprobation. Big 
drops stood on my forehead, andmy 
tremors almost incapacitated mc 
from proceeding. 

These impe&nents however I 
surmounted; I crept up stairs at 
midnight, and entered my fatlier's 
chamber. The darkness was intense 
and I sought with outstretched hands 
for his bed. The darkness, added 
to the trepidation of my thoughts, 
^sabled me from making a right 
estimate of distances : I was con- 
scious of this, and when I advanced 
within the room, paused. 

I endeavoured to compare the 
progress I liad m^de with my know- 
ledge of the room, and governed by 
the result of thb comparison, pro- 
ceeded cautiously and with hands 
st^l outstretched iu seaich of the 
huA of the bed. At tliis moment 
lightning flasV.ed into the room : the 
brightness ci the j;leani was daz- 
zling, yet it aflw'dcJ me an exact 
knowiet^^c of Bay litu ration. 1 had 
mistaken my way, aii:l discovered 
that my knees 'nearly touched the 



fjedstetd, and that my hands at the 
next step, would have touched my 
father's cheek. His closed eyes and 
every line in his countenance, -were 
painted, as it were, for an instant 
on my sight* 

The flash was accompained with 
a barst of thunder,whose vehemence 
was stunning. I always entertained 
a dread of thunder, and now re- 
coiled, overborne with terror. 
Kever had I witnessed so luminous 
a gleam and so tremendous a shock, 
yet my father's slumber appeared 
not to be disturbed by it. 

I stood irresolute and trembling ; 
to prosecute my purpose in this state 
of mind was impossible. I resolved 
for the present to relinquish it, and 
turned with a view of exploring my 
way out of the chamber. Just thcii 
a light seen through the window, 
caught my eye. It was at first weak 
but speedily increased; no second 
thought was necessary to inform me 
that the barn, situated at a small 
distance from the house, and newly 
stored with hay, was in flames, in 
consequence of being strudt by the 

My terror at this spectacle made 
me careless of all consequences re- 
lative to myself. I rushed to the bed 
and throwing myself on my father, 
awakened liim by loud cries. The 
family were speedily roused, and 
were compelled to remain impotent 
spectators of the devastation. For- 
tunately the wind blew in a contrary 
direction, so that our habitation was 
not injured. 

The impression that was made 
upon me by the ipcidents of that 
night is indelible. The wind gra- 
dually rose into an hurricane ; the 
largest branches were torn from the 
trees, and whirled aloft into the air ; 
others were uprooted and laid 
prostrate on the ground. The barn 
was a spacious ediflce, consisting 
wholly of wood, and filled with a 
plenteous harvest. Thus supplied 
with fuel, and fanned by the vcind, 
the fire raged withincredifcjle fury ; 
meanwhile clouds rolle;1 above, 
whose blackness was rendered moi-e 
conspicuous by reflection from tl>e 

flames ; the vast volumes of smoke 
were dissipated in a moment by the 
storm, while glowing fragments 
and cinders were borne to zn im- 
mense hight, and tossed everywhere 
in wild confusion. Ever and anon 
tlie sable canopy that hung around 
us was streaked with lightning, and 
the peals, by which it was accom- 
pained, were deafhing, and witli 
scarcely any intermission. 

It was, doubtless, absurd to ima- 
gine any connexion between this 
poi*tentous scene and the purpose 
that 1 had meditated, yet a belief 
of thisconne^ion, though wavering 
and obscure, lurked in my mind; 
something more than a coincidence 
merely casual, appeared to have 
subsisted between my situation, at 
my faUier's bed side, and the flash 
that darted through the window, 
and diverted me from my design. 
It palsied my courage, and strength- 
ened my conviction, that my scheme 
was criminal. 

After some time had elapsed, and 
tranquiliUr was, in some degree, 
restored m the family, my father 
reverted to tlie circumstances in 
which I had been discovered on the 
first alarm ©f this event. The touth 
was impossible to be told. I felt the 
utmost reluctance to be guilty of a 
falsehood, but by falsehood only 
could I clu^'^e de|cction.That my guilt 
was the offspring of a fatal necessi- 
t'.', that the injutitice of others gave 
it birth and made it unavoidiible, af- 
forded me slight consolation. Noth- 
ing can be more injurous than a lie, 
but its evU tendency chiefly respects 
our future conduct. Its direct con- 
sequences may be transient and 
few, but it facilitates a repetition, 
strengthens temptation, and grows 
into habit. I pretended souie neces- 
sity had drawn inc from iiiy bed, 
and thnt discovering the cciudition 
of the barn, 1 hastened to inform 
my father. 

Some time after this, my father 
summoned me to his presence. I 
li::d l>een Tjreviously guilty of dis* 
obedience to his comio.iinds, in a 
mattei* al)out which he v/as UFu?Jly 
very scrupulous. My brother ha4 



been privy to my ofience, and had 
threatened to be my accuser. On this 
occasion I expected nothing but ar- 
raignment and punishment. Weary 
of oppression^ and hopeless of any 
change in my father's temper and 
views, I had formed the resohition 
of eloping ifrom his house, and of 
trusting, young as I was, to the 
caprice of fortune. I was hesitat- 
ing whether to abscond without the 
luiowlcdge of the family, or to make 
my resolutions known to them, and 
while J avowed my resolution, to 
adhere to it in spite of opposition 
and remonstrances, when I received 
this summons. 

I was employed at this tune in 
the iu 1(1 ; night was approaching, 
and 1 h id made no preparation for 
departure ; all the preparation in 
my power to make, was indeed 
small; a few clothes made into a 
bundle, was the sum of my posses- 
sions. Time would have little in- 
fluence in improving my prospects, 
and I resolved to execute my scheme 

I left my work intending to seek 
my chamber, and taking what was 
my own, to disappear forever. 
I turned a stile that led out of the 
field mto a bye path, when my fa- 
ther appeared before me, advanc- 
ing in an opposite direction; to 
avoid him was impossible, and I 
Summoned my fortitude to a conflict 
with his passion* 

As soon as we met, instead of 
anger and tipbraiding, he told me, 
that he had been reflecting on my 
aunt's proposal, to take me under 
her protection, and had concluded 
that the plan was proper ; if I stiU 
retained my wislies on that head, 
he would readily comply with them, 
and t^at, if I chose, I might set off 
for the city next morning, as a 
neighbours waggon was preparing 
to go. 

I shall not dwell on tlie rapture 
with which this proposal was lis- 
tened to : it was with difficulty tliat 
I persuaded myself that he was in 
earnest in making it, nor could 
divine the reasons, for so sudden 

and unexpected a change in hi# 
maxims... .These I afterwards dis- 
covered. 9ome one had instiUeci 
into him fears, that my annt exaa* 
perated at his opposition u> her 
request, respecting the unfortunate 
Frank, would bequeath her pro- 
perty to stranp-era; to obviate this 
evil, which his avarice prompted 
him to regard as much greater 
than any mischief, that would ac- 
crue to me, from tiie change oimj 
abode, he embraced her proposal. 

I entered with exultation and tri- 
umph on this new scene ; my hopes 
were by no means disappointed. 
Detested labour was exchanged for 
luxurious idleness. I was roaster of 
my time, and the chaser of my 
occupations. My kinswoman on 
discovering that I entertained no 
relish for the drudgery of coUegesi 
and was contented with demeans 
of intellectual gratification, which 
I could obtain under her roof, al- 
lowed me to pursue my own draice. 

Three tranquil years passed 
away, during indiich, each day ad- 
ded to my h^piness^by adding to 
my knowledge. My biloquial frui- 
ty was ndt neglected* I improved it 
by assiduous exercise ; I deaply re- 
flected on the use to which it might 
be applied. I was not destitute c^ 
pure intentions ; I delighted not in 
evil ; I was incapable of knowing- 
ly contributing to anether's misery, 
but the aole or principal end of 
my endeavours was not the happi- 
ness of others. 

I was actuated by ambition. I 
was delighted to possess superior 
power; I was prone to manifest 
that superiority, and was satisfied 
if this were done, without much 
solicitude concerning consequen- 
ces. I sported frequently with the 
apprehensions of my associates, 
and threw out a bait for their won- 
der, and supplied them with occa- 
sions for the structure of theories. 
It may not be amiss to enumerate 
one or two adventures in which I 
was engaged. 

[ To be continued.'] 



For $hc Utcmry Migaxine* 




3fte PytMan jifioUo: calied the 
Afiollo Belvedere* 

Thx son of Latona, in his rapid 
ocNiFsei has just overtaken the ser- 
pent Python. The mortal dart is 
already discharged from his dread- 
ful bow, which he holds in his left 
handy and from which his right is 
jnst withdrawn ; the^otion impres- 
sed on all his mnscles is still pre- 
served. indigDation sits on his lip, 
hut on his coonteaance the certain- 
ty of victory is imprinted, and his 
eye sparkles with satisfaction at 
having delivered Delphos firom the 
monster which ravaged its coasts. 

His hair, lightly curled, flows in 
vioglets down his neck, or rises 
yiitk grace to die summit of his 
head, which is encircled with the 
9trofihium^ the distinguishing band 
of gods and kings. His quiver is 
su^cndcd by a belt across his left 
shoulder. His robe (chlamys) at- 
tached to the shoulder, turned up 
on the left arm oxdy, is thrown back, 
shewing to greater advantage his 
divine form. The glow of youth 
enlivens hiselcgant person, in which 
nobleness and agility, with vigor and 
elegance are sublimely blended, 
preserving a happy medium be- 
tween the delicate form of Bacchus, 
and the more firm and masculine 
lines of Mercury. 

AJioILq^ the vanquisher of the ser- 
pent Python<i is the subject of an in- 
genious fable, invented by the an- 
cients to express the genial influence 
of the sun that renders the air more 
•salubrious, by correcting the inlecti- 
ous exhalations of the coasts of 
Which this reptile is- the emblem — 
ever)* thing in this figure, nay the 
very tnmk of the tree ind reduced 
to support it, presents some inte- 
resting allusion. This trunk is that 
of the ancient olive tree, of Delos, 

under whose shade the god was 
bom. It is adorned with fruit, and 
the serpent ascending it is the sym- 
bol of life and health, of which Apol- 
lo was the god. This statue, the 
most perfect of all that time has 
apared, was found about the close 
of the fifteenth century, on Cafio der 
Anzfi^ twelve leagues from Rome, 
on tlie margin of tlic sea, in the 
ruins of the ancient Antvum,^ a city 
celebrated for its teinpie of fortune, 
and for the rival viUns built by the 
emperors and embellished wiih the 
master pieces of art. 

Julius tlie second, while a cardi* 
nai, purchased this statue, and 
placed it, in the first instance, in 
the palace he occupied near the 
church of tlie hoiy apostles; but 
shortly aiber having attained the 
pontificate, he removed it to the 
Belvedere of the Vatican, where 
for three centuries it remained tlie 
admiration of the world ; when a 
hero, guided by victory, arrived to 
transplant and Ax it, perhaps for- 
ever, on tlie banks of the -Seine. 

It is a question for antiquaries 
and natopalists to detcrmme, from 
what quarry the marble of this 
Apollo has been cut. The statuaries 
of Rome, who from their occupation 
have an extensive knowledge of 
ancient marbles, liave invariably 
deemed it an artcient Grecian tnar^ 
bUy although of a quality very dif- 
ferent from the most known spe- 
cies. On the contrary, the painter 
Menffa^ lias asserted that this sta- 
tue is of the marble of Lwii or Cc* 
rffnz, the quarries of which, were 
known and worked in the time of 
Julius Cesar. Citizen Dolwnieu a 
learned mineralogist, laof the same 
opinion, and lie pretends to have 
found in one of the ancient quarries 
of Luni^ fragments of marble re- 
sembling that of the Apollo. Not- 
withsl^.nding these suthoritics, this 
subject may still be considered as 
very doubtful. 

The beauty of the statues of ^w- 
finous^ and the pcrfeciicn of sculp- 
ture at th it tiiTie evitlently demon- 
stnitcthut until Use epoch of -./tf>T*a« 
at IcAst, tlic Grecian hchool furniilt- 



ed artists TTorthy to be compared 
-«rith the most able statuaries of an- 
tiquit]^* Pliny entertaioed the same 
opinion of the artists of his age. 

The author of this chef d' oeu vre 
is urJuiown. The lower part of the 
right arm and the left hand, which 
were wanting, have been restored 
by Oiovarmi Jingch de Mentorsoiij 
sculptor and pupil of Michael An- 

KO. II. 

Venu9 of the CapitoL 
Vevus, the queen of love and 
the goddess of beauty, is here re- 
presented as just from the bath; 
ner divinely graceful form is unem- 
barrassed by drapery, her hair col- 
lected behind displays the beauties 
of her polished neck, and her head 
gently inclines to the left, as smil- 
ing affably upon the graces who are 
about to attire her. At her feet 
stand a vase of perfumes covered 
partially with a fringed drapery. 
The value of this Statue is height- 
ened by its perfect preservation.... 
it was found in Rome, about the 
middle of the last century, between 
the Quirinal and Viminal Mounts, 
and was placed in the capitol, of 
Benedict XIV. 

Ho, Til. 

Laocoon, the son of Priam and 
Heculia, and priest of Apollo, in- 
flamed by love for his country, vio- 
lently opposed the reception of the 
wooden horse within tlie walls of 
Troy. To awaken his countr} men 
*o the impending danger, he dared 
to hurl his javelin against the fatal 
machine, consecrated to Minerva. 

Enriged at his temerity, those of 
the gods hostile to Troy, resohcd 
to punish him, and shortly after, 
as Laocoon, crowned with laurel, 
was sacrificing to Keptune on the 
beach, two enormous serpents, 
emerged from the waves, and in- 
stantly sprang upon his two chil- 
dren, who had accompained him to 
the altar. The distracted father 
flies to their aid : in vain he strug- 
gles against these monsters, they 
enclose him with his sons.... they roll 
themselves around their bodies.... 

they crush them in their coils....the3r 
tear them with their venomous 
teeth.... in spite of their efforts to 
disengage themselves, this unfor- 
tunate mtiier with his sons, the 
victims oJF an unjust vengeance, fall 
attlie altar of the god....and turning 
their distracted eyes towards hea- 
ven, expire in the most cmd 

Such is the patlietic subject of this 
admirable group, one of the most 
perfect works which the chissel has 
ever produced, the master-piece of* 
composition, design, and sentiment ; 
and the impression of which, can 
only be enfeebled by commentary. 

It was found in the ruins of the 
palace of Titus, on the Esquiline 
Mount, during the pontificate of 
Julius II. Pliny, who speaks of it 
with admiration, saw it in tiiis place. 
To this writer we owe the know- 
ledge of the three skilful sculptors 
who executed it. Their names arc 
Agesandcr, Polydorus, and Athcne- 
dtrus. Agcsander was probably 
the father of the two others; they 
flourished in the first age of the 
vulgar sera. The group is com- 
posed of five blocks so artificially 
united, tiiat Pliny believed tiiem to 
Ix! but a single piece. The right 
arm of the father and the two arms 
of the children are wanting. 

NO. IT. 

Gladiator of the Borghese Palace* 
This statue has been improper- 
ly denominated the *^ Gladiator of 
tiie Borghese Palace." Fi-om the 
characters of its inscription it ap- 
pears to be of greater antiquity 
than any other characterized by the 
name of the artist. History gives 
us no pfirtjculars relative to Agasi- 
us of Kphesus, author of this chef 
d'oeuvrc; but the work which he 
has left, hears the strongest testi- 
mony of his merit. 

In the statue of the Apollo of Bel- 
vedere we arc struck with the sub- 
limity of ideal beauty. The group 
of the Laocoon ofiers us a repre- 
sentation of natural beauties unas- 
sisted by imagination : the former 
may be compared to ars epic poem, 
which, from probabiiit}*, jessing 



. Die bounds of truth, leads to the 
marvellous; the latter to faithful 
history, which in the exposition of 
truth, makes choice of the most re- 
fined ideas, and most elegant ex- 

The head of this fi[g;ure shews 
that nothing but the truth of nature 
has been consulted in its formation ; 
no traces of the ideal beauty of the 
Apollo are. to be found, and his 
whole air is that of a man in the ^U 
vigour of mature age, whose muscles 
are strengthened by liabitual activi- 
ty, and whose body is hardened by 

Antiquarians are divided in their 
judgment of tliis figure ; some have 
supposed it a discobolus, or throw- 
er of the disk ; but others with more 
probability have pronounced it, a 
statue erected to the honour of some 
Grecian warrior, who had signalis- 
. ed himself in a dangerous position : 
this appears perfectly to coincide 
'with tlie attitude of the figure, 
which is at the same time actively 
ofiensive and defensive ; on the left 
arm the strap of the buckler wliich 
he is supposed to carry is seen ; the 
right arm is supposed to hold a jave- 
lin : his looks are directed upwards, 
as if defending himself from a dan- 
ger threatening from above: this 
position militates ngaiost the idea 
of its being the statue of a fi)>;hting 
gladiator, as his opponent may be 
supposed on hors^ck: besides, it 
is believed the honour of a statue 
was never granted to a gladiator of 
of the public arena ; and tins pro- 
duction is supported anterior to the 
institution of gladiator^ in Greece. 

This statue as well as tlie Apollo, 
was discovered in tlie city of Anti- 
uni, tlie birth place of the emperor 
Kero, whicli he embelished at an 
enormous expense. 

NO. V. 

Castor and Pollux ^ 
Castor andPoLLUx, were twin 
bfotlierSf and sons' of Jupiter and 
Lcda. Mercury, immediately after 
^heir birth, cuiried them toPallena, 
where they were educated, and 
AS soon as they had ari'ived at tlie 
^cai'fi of maturity, they embarked 

witli Jason on the Argonautic expe- 
dition. In this adventure, they 
botli behaved wiih signal courage; 
the latter conquered and slew Amy- 
cus, in the combat of the cestus, 
and was ever after considered the 
^|od and patron of boxing and wrest- 
hng....the former distinguished him- 
self in the management of horses. 
After their return from Coldiis 
they cleared the Hellespont and the 
neighbouring pass from pirates, 
from which circumstance tl|ey have 
always been deemed the protectors 
of navigators. 

They made war against the A- 
theniansy to recover their sister 
Helen whom llieseus had ca rri e d 
away, and from their clemency to 
the conquered, they acquired the 
surname of Anaces or Bene&c- 

They were invited to the nuptial 
feasts of Lycas and Idas, where be- 
coming enamoured with the brides, 
(the daughters of Leucippus)....a 
battle ensued in which Lycas fell by 
the hand of Castor, who was killed 
by Idas. PoUux revenged the death 
of his brotlier in the blood of Idus« 
PoUux tenderly attached to his 
brother, and inconsolable for his 
loss, intreated Jupiter either to re- 
store Castor to lite, or permit him 
to resign his own immortality ; Ju- 
piter listenedbcnignly to his prayer^ 
and consented that the immortality 
of PoUux should be shared with his 
brother, and tliat it should be alter- 
nately enjoyed by them. This adt 
of fraternal love, Jupiter rewarded 
by making the two brothers constel- 
lations in heaven, under the name 
of Gemini, which never^Dpear 
together, but when one iHa the 
other sets. 

NS. VI. 

This fine statue has been sup« 
posed to represent Germanicus, 
son of Drusus and Antonia. The 
style of the hair indicates indeed « 
Roman personage ; but it cannot be 
tliis prince, for the medals and 
other monuments we have of him 
represent him very differently. 
A more attentive examiaatioa ef 



this figure ^scovers an analogy 
vrixh that of 'Mercury ; the ex- 
tended position of the right arm, 
the MamvB throim over the left, 
which holds the cadticeus, and rests 
on a tortoise, consecrated to this 
Kod as the inventor 'of the harp, 
Sivour this idea. Bot a more rea- 
sonable conjecture may perhaps be 
admitted, that, under these forms, 
and with the attributes of the god 
of eloquence^ the ingenious artist 
has pourtrayed a Roman orator, 
celebrated K>r his success in the 


Iw the person of Pandora were 
united all the perfections of her 
sex, but these were eclipsed by the 
Superior exceBencies of Herma- 
phrodite, the son of \^entts and 
Hermes, (as his Greek name 
imports) who, to tlie unrivalled 
beauty of his mother, united tlie^ 
genius, wit, and elegance of his 
father. Such is the intcrcstingpour- 
trait that poetry has given us of 
Hermupliro(ii'ce, and sculpture has 
Tcnturcd to materialize and exhibit 
tills rt lined idea in the animated 
form -which here claiins our admi- 
rnticn ; this noble competition of 
the poets and artiste of antiquity, 
shews us the elevation to which the 
aits had then attained. Poetry had 
exhausted the richness of her ima- 
gination in creating Hermaphrodite 
•• blending, thccharacteristics of 
masculine grace 'and beauty, with 
the soft anda.wcllin^ contour of the 
female form. This ideal union 
warmed the genius of the sculptor, 
and ^^ stubborn marble, under his 
aniimBhg chissel, started almost 
into existence. 

• The masters of antiquity have 
. left us several statues of Herma- 
phrodite, this, whose original forms 
tht great ornament of the Borghese 
palace at Rome, is considered of 
the most perfect beauty, aI;liough 
that of the Florence gallery has 
^ the advantage of having the Antique 
* Bed, with the Lion's Skin, on which 
the figure reix)se8. The matrass 
In this figure is a ridiculous conceit 

of the sculptor Bernini, who re^ 
stored it. It * is unnecessary to 
remark that this figure can have 
no analogy with those misshapen 
objects of the human race, who 
have passed under the name of 
Hermaphrodites, they ore partico-- 
larly remarked for an unDatnral 
and'heterogeneotts mixture <ii haM 
and uaharmonious ports* 



The original of this channnil^ 
figure is of Parian marble ; tlie 
correctness of its form, and deli- 
cacy of its drapery, entitle it to be 
called a model of taste. It is clad 
in a tunle, over which is thrown a 
mantle, or fiepium z both are finish- 
ed m so masterfy a manner, that 
through the mantle are perceived 
the knots of the cord which ties the 
tunic round her waist. 

llie artist who repaired tiiis 
statue, having placed in its hand 
some ears of wheat, the name of 
Ceres has probably from that cir- 
cumstance been given to it ; other- 
wise, the virginal character of the 
head, and simplicity of its head- 
dress, would induce a belief that 
the muse Clio was intended by it ; 
and that a book should have been 
placed in the hand, instead of the 
ears of wheat. 

It was taken from tlie Museum of 
tlic Vatican, having been placed 
there by Clement XIV. It pre- 
viously ornamented the Villa Mattel 
on Mount E^quilin. 

KO. IX. 

Venus of the Bath» 
It is not necessary that we should 
say much to recommend this beau- 
tiful little figure to those who can 
appreciate excellence, and it is 
rare to see a subject in which it has 
more charms. 

NO. X. 

7br*o of a Venu*. 
This Torso (or mutilated figure) 
of a Venus, is of most gracefbl 
beauty, and must recommend itself 
strongly to tlie amateurs of taste 
and discernment ; we have only to 
regret, that time has spai*ed us 
but a fragment of what in its perfect 



State mn^havebeen a chef d'oravre 
of the art. 

NO- xu 
Grecian Cu/iid, 

Tsis beautiftd figure is knowi^ 
by the name of the Grecian Cupid, 
who was sometimes, as in this 
instance, represented under the 
matarer age of Adolescence, and 
possessed a character much more 
nuldwndneasoaaUe than that attri- 
buted to the scm of Mars and Venus* 
The . sizpposition that this statue 
was intended for a Capidy is perhaps 
driewB Arom> thiS' evident marks of 
its having bicen originally with 
wings j one of the attributes of his 
divinity: but however the intention 
of the artist' may be mistaken as to 
the cubject, it wiU remain a beau«> 
tiful monument of the art in the 
age o£ its excellence, 
NO. xiu 

This fine bust represents the 
immortal Homer, > the father of 
Grecian poetry, and the ornament 
of/ human- natune; the diadetn 
which encircles his head is the 
emblem of th^ divinity which he 
merited by his exalted genius, and 
by which he obtained- th^ honour 
ix( his apotheosis. The formation 
of Che eyes, (of adrntrablis execu- 
tion), indicates the privation of 
sighi, .a misfortune under which 
diis celebrated poet is generally 
8i^>osed to have laboured* 

Although the portrait of Homer 
has always been considered doubt&l 
even among the ancients, it is yet 
well; known that busts similar toi 
this have passed imder his name. 


TftERE'isno reason to doubt 
that this is a faithful portrait of 
Demosthenes, the prince of orato- 
ry j whose name will live while 
eloquence in the cause of liberty, 
shall have power to command ve- 

NO. ziv. 
T/ie Family of Alobe* 
Abconcst the busts which orna- 
ment the Museum, this group, 
ivith the head of Klobe, ought to 

VOL. I....NO. III. 

engage particidar attention, from 
the acknowledged purity of style 
which reigns tliroughout the heads 
which compose it. The Abbe 
Winkleman the most classical judge 
of the arts, has pronounced the 
head of Niobe to be a model of the 
highest style of beauty^ and Guido, 
the painter of the graces , made it his 
peculiar study. The age of their ex- 
ecution is supposed to be that of the 
highest glory of the arts, that is, 
in the time of Phidias, but it is not 
ascertained whether the statues 
which now compose this interesting 
'group at Florence, are the originals 
or not. By the jealousy and hatred, 
cf Latona, the< children of Ni«be 
feU victims to the darts of Apollo 
and Diana, and the expression of 
the head of Niobe, is strongly indi-. 
catLve of such peculiar disti-ess. 

NO. XV. 

Bacchua, . 

This bust of a Bacchus is strikn 
ing^y beautiful, and offers to the 
admirers of the art, a fine study 
of XliQ. l>eau ideal f of the beauty of 
form dive^ed of any of tliose affec-. 
tions of the mind which give ex- 
pression to the countenance, and 
which, however they may increase 
its interest with us, tend to remove 
it from the ackf^owledge^ criterion 
of beauty, l^e appropriate orna- 
ment of the h^ildkis m a style pecu- 
liarly graceful^ Ymd corresponds 
perfectly with thfe , effeminate soft« 
ness intended to be expressed*. . 

It is necessary. t<^ remark that 
Bacchus is here repretented not as 
the hero and conqucrcj' of India, 
but as the voluptuar.y» sunk in the 
lap of ease and enjoyment; both 
of which characters ai-e ^Aibed 
to him inaacient mytholoj»:>\ Under 
the fii-st, sculpture has represented 
him bearded, muscular and active; 
under the last, as approaching tb 
the- luxurious fullness of the fcn^le 
form, and without beard. 



By the emblem on the helmet of 

tliis figure, wc arc enabled to iden- ■ 

tify the goddess Roma, which in 

other respects might be mistaken 




for Mmerva«**.««.Jt is of great 

The heads of Seneca and HipfiO' 
crates stand on each side of the 
door on entering; and together 
vith the head of JHuri/iides arc in- 
teresting as portraits of great men. 
The Grecian bust of a female is 
conddercd as deserving attention* 


For the Literary Magazine. 


£^ fVinthrofi Sergeant....Bo»ton^ 
Sfcragucy fi. /r. 23. 

Tbis poem seems intended as 
an imitation of Dr. Johnson's 
« London." There is, however, 
very little similarity in its topics. 
It is' a very brief descant on the dis- 
coura^ments "which genius meets 
ivith m Ameriai ; on the frailty 
and inelegance of our architecture, 
in that jnode of building which 
exposes our towns, and particularly 
Boston, to the ravages of fire ; on 
the broils and animosities of party, 
and on the absurdities of fashion 
and dress, manners, amusements, 
music and poetry. On each of these 
topics, the poet expatiates brieiy, 
but with considerable spirit and 
elegance. He is most copious, and 
writes with most etergy, on the 
folly of wooden buildings. Tlie 
lines on this subject, wiU afford a 
very advantageous specimen of the 
performance, and few readers will 
refuse to join in the justice of tlie 
sentence pronounced : 

et^icre no 

splendid monuments 


dome ascends, no turret itrikes 
^ the skies. 

where s])h*es should parley with the 

sctiing sun, 
Ai^ shine with lustre when the day 

is clone ; 
A pyre of shaj:elcss structures crowds 

t!ic spur, 
Where taste, ar.d all but cheapness, is 

One llt.Ie spark the funeral pile may 

And Boston blazing, see itself expire. 

Monstrous collection ! Where th« 

wondering sight, 
Beholds but few in symmetry unite. 
These, carelessly disposed among the 

Seem rough -hew'd diamonds meanly 

set at best. 
The wall's of these, in some sad future 

May serve to ahe^ir the traveUer wheie 

it lay ; 
Awake his pity, and etche a sig » 
For partimomaiu prodigality, 
£ach night the tenant, tiiongh with' 

fastened door. 
Awaking starts from slumbers tnae» 

cure ; 
Views the bright casement of his 

window glare, 
And hears the brazen clamour in 

the air. 
Ascending columns point the fatal 

And flashing, rend uncertain mid- 
night's gloom. 
Along the streets tumultuous thunders 

While vfoking vtatebmen join the 

dismal cry. 
All headlong rash, attracted by the 

And crowd around to moralize and 

Some more benevolence, than }adg- 

ment have, 
And, over anxious, ruin what they 

save ; 
Too idly active, mischievously kind, 
Throw from the windows every thing 

they find. 
Part 'gainst the rest unconsciously 

And loud confusion mounts on wings 

of fire. 
But half attir'd, and wrapp'd in night- 
ly dress, 
The shivering, houseless victims of 

A shelter seek ; pcrhvpB of all bereft, 
Or stav to guard the worthless little 

Yet with the blushes of another day. 
They scrape the ashes from the spot 

away ; 
And aided by subscription's liberal 

On the warm spot another mansion 

Larger by far, more comely to the 

Of better ^ar(/# and better #i6m^/tfr too. 

So tkose who llv^ near burning 

Etna's base, 
Cliann'd by the magic thnnders of 

the place, 
Though Bery torrents desolate, the 

Hetum enchanted to the spot again. 

The following lines on the f&sh- 
kmable style of poetry, reflect much 
credit on the writer : 

Soimeta and ridd{e9 celebrate the 

And ballad-mongers charter every 

Long ode9 to monkies, tquirrel elc- 

lineM and acrostics on dead butter. 

Endless effusions, some with Greek 

And hymns harmonious, sweet, as 

So freely flow, that poesy ere long 
Must yield to numbers, and expire by 

SU^ac lays such taste and truth 

The lap'dog lives and barks in every 




Each rebus-maker takes the, poet's 

And every rhymer is the heir of fame. 

On the whole, there is much 
strength of imagery, and spirited 
versification in this little perform- 
ance. Should the writer continue 
to pursue the same path, we doubt 
whether his own case would'' not 
prove an exception to the charge 
so often made against America, of 
being insensible and inattentive to 
genius of its own growth. It is the 
spirit of satire to deal out invec- 
tives wiiiout measure, and to' 
heap penalties on the breach of 
laws, the very breach of which 
carries ite own punishment along 
with it. Thus the insensibility to 
poetical and literary merit, so far 
as this insensibility is real, ought 
to entitle us to condolence and com- 
passion, rather than to chiding and 
rebuke, since to want this faculty, 
is to want a source of very great 
pleasure ; and since no man is ena- 
bled to acquire it by reproach and 
ridicole* O. 


For the Literary Magazine* 


As when the furious winds arc hu8h*d 
to rest, 
And the soft zephyr o'er the mea- 
dow blows ; 
No wave deforms the river's poUsh'd 
But calm and peaceful through the 
vale it flows ; 
But when dark clouds deform the 
azure skies. 
Red lightnings gleam, hoarse thun- 
der shakes the pole^, 
And whiriwinds rage ; the heaving 
billows rise. 
While ruin sits on ev'ry wave that 
rolls : 
No longer in their wonted bounds 
The waves o'erwhelming fierce 

destruction spread 

So when mild peace dwells in the 
human mind 
A sweet complacence through the 
frame is shed. 

But when the storms of fierce conten- 
tion rise, 
Destruction comes, and peace he 
bosom flies. 



Your village maid forever true, 
Will own no passion but for you. 

Your village maid believe. 
She knows no art, she knows no guile. 
No cunning lurks beneath her smik. 

She never wiU deceive 

Within these wild romantic dells. 
Far from the treacherous world she 

Your village maid so true. 
Say can you love ymir village maid. 
And live with her amid this shade, 

And bid the world adl^? 

The Stock-dove from the slumbering 

Shall sweetly swell the note of love. 

192 POETRT* 

And channt our nuptial song: And not onpleattng for the vorid to 

Serene our days shall pass awaf .... hear! 
O stay ye fluttering moments stay^y 

Nor glide so swift along ! A man revered within Montalm, 

^ I. o. lived, 

Alcestes named, low bow'd< with 

^^gg weight of years. 

He by his King in love and honour 


zv M. s. sxoKDiuM. ^^°' ^Y ^^^ popuUce esteem*d for 


ALCESTES AND AZORA. ^"^ manners mUd, pretended that hc 

could * 

Fa« in the east, washed by the rest. ^^*«« «^«"*» y«* buried in the 

less wave womb 

Montalvia spreads its boU and fruit. Of onward time ; he said the Gods 

ful shores; „ *^,Jl*"\. ^ _,. 

There dweh a people little known to Reveal d those secrets to the world 

fame unknown; 

But bravi and hardy. No historic That oft at midnight to his listening 

paafc ^^» 

Has held their picture to succeeding Some heavenly angel told in whis- 

ycars pcrs soft 

Nor told those customs, those heroic The wUl of those who rule the fates 

deeds ^^ men.... 

Those eaHy scenes of love, which ^" ^ * «***^ '*^**^ amoontain's 

might instruct „ j *!^ , • *. ^. - 

The children of a distant age and Stood the low mansion of this sged 

climt... ' „ "^e* , ^. ^ 

Through the long waste of time J O, let Some mossy trees bent over hu nide 

me look . ^c°*'. . , . ^ ^ . 

Upon these regions, on their waving ^^^ swinging to th« winds their 

woods giant-arms 

On their high rocks beat by unceasing Made music Uke the dashing of the 

Rise to my view embodied forms of P*>°^ ^^" ^^« ^^^ furniture with- 

men. . ^ , »f * 

And airy fancy hither speed thy A bed. some rushy scats, an age.wom 

flight; <^^«f» 

Unroll thy records; whisper to my Were almost all the best aputvent 

ear r / j^^i^. 

Thy burning thoughts; lend me thy Upon the hearth with some d«y fel 

wings and bear a ^ T. j i u j 

Me. over tracts unvisited by man! ^ watch-dog slumbered, grey with 

Thy fairy visions oft have met my ^ many years: ^. ^ ^ 

e/es Attendant on Alcestes his fond nas* 

When musing in the dark of soli- . J^^' ., ^ ^ . ,. , 

tuiie, And g;catcful to the hand which gave 

And night; Oft listening to thy way- „ f'"'J''?f , ^ ^ ,^ 

ward dreams, ** • ' ' He slmnbcr'd only where the old osan 

I've foUowedtheco'erdoud-capt hills, * J^/* j ^. . „ ^. 

o'er streams. And f llowed him m aU his miiseful 

0*er plains, o'er scorching sands o'er walks. 

unsunn'd inowi, ' 

O'er deserts wild, where tcmpestt ^" ®"^y ^^'^^ watch'd Xh€ declin- 

evcrhowl: mg age 

Now be my guide once more, and let Of this kind man, Azoft^ was she 

my song call'd ; 

Prove not unworthy of thy varying ^ ^V^^ "^^^^ no fancy ever form'd. 

powers Time had iiown by -and numher'd 

eighteen years, 



Sifi£e..on'her^irtkhev hM)P7 &Uier 

Her form was moulded hy the softest 

Bov'd o'er her iac^ the fascinating 

And o'er her shoulders fell a flood 

•f hair. 
No step so lightly as Azora's mov'd 
In the gay gambols to the tabor's 

When yeUow. moonlight slept upon 

the hills. 
Slciird was her father to draw music 

From a string'd instrum^tit, which like 

an harp, 
Breath*d sounds most sweet most 

ravishing and sad ; 
And he had taught his daughter all 

his art. 
And oft when twilight stole upon the 

And silence came upon the wings of 

Azora's harp was heard upoo the 

In union with a voice of magic 


I. O. 

(To be continued.) 



A LI. who delight to accompany the 

fenius . of Cowpce in animated 
ights of maral contemplation, will 

. deeply regret that he was precluded 

. . by a variety of trouble, from indulg- 
ing his ardent imagination in a 
work that would have afforded him 
such ample scope for all the sweet- 

, nesst and all the sublimity of his 
spirit. His feiici^ of description, 

,. and his excpiisite sensibility; his 
experience of life, and his sanctity 
of pharacter, rendered him singular- 
ly tit and worthy to delineate the 
progress of nature, in all the differ- 
ent stages of human existence. 

A poem of such extent and diver- 
sity, happily completed by such a 
poet, would be a national treasure, 
. of infinite value to the country that 
gave it birth ; and I had fervently 

. hoped, that England might receive 
it from the band of ClowrER. 

With 9, rfgret»;;p)nQport«oiied; to 
those hopes, I now insipaiA tp my 

. r^lkders the wvutf ^d iniperfect 
fragment of a .jprqiect so inighty. 
Yet even the few verses . which 

• C4>wpjc9..had. ti^ruw^ on p^pe^ as a 
commencement of such a ,work, 
wiA be rea4 with peculiar iuterest, 
if .there is, truth, asl fe<;],jthe^e is» 
in the foUo^y^ing repi^rk of t^e^l^er 

"Suprema opera artiJUum, MnpCT" 
. JefStqique.TainUMf in puijorifftimira' 

tione esse quam perfecta t ^uippe in 
. ii^ iiw^qn^ta rdiqua ipupifufi fiogi- 

tationes artificum specUuUur^ atque in 

icnodm'o comme^ationi* dolor ert a... 

Manus, qim id gg^rent eaftincUt, de- 


H ▲¥!«£¥. 

(A brief Fragment of an cxtonsive 
pfojectod poem.) 

Vl covLo be well content, aUow'd 

the use 
Of .past experience,, and the wisdom 

From wpm-out follies, now ackaow* 

ledg'd such. 
To recommfnee life's trial, in the 

Of fewer- errors* on a second proof!" 

Thus, while grey evening luU'dthe . 

wind, and c^U'd 
Fresh odours from the shrubb'ry at 

my side. 
Taking, my lonely winding walk t 

And held accustom'd conference with 

my heart; 
When, from within it, thus a voice 


" Could'st thou in truth .' and-art 
thou taught at length 
This wisdom, and but this from .all 

the past \ 
Is not the pardon of thy long ar- 

Time wasted, violated laws, abuse 
Of talents, judgments, mercies, bet- 
ter far 
Than opportunity vouchsaf 'd to err 
With less excuse, and haply, wone 



I hatrd, and acqukst'd: Then to 

and fro 
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck. 
My grav'Uy bounds, from self to hu* 

roan kind 
I pass'd, and next consider*d....What 

is Man ? 
Knows kevhis origin ?....can he ascend 
By^ reminiscence to his earliest date ? 
Slept he in Adam? and in those 

from him 
Through num'rous generations, till 

he found 
At length his destin'd moment to 

be bom ? 
Or was he not till fashion'd in the 

Deep myst'ries both ! which school- 
men much have toil'd 
T' unriddle, and have left them 

my&t'ries still. 

It is an evil, incident to man, 
And of the worst, that unexplor'd 

he leaves. 
Truths useful, and attainable with 

To search forbidden deeps, wherc 

myst'ry lies 
Not to be selv'd, and useless if it 

Myst'ries arc food for angels; they 

With ease, and find them nutriment ; 

but man. 
While yet he dwells below, must stoop 

to glean 
His manna from the ground, or 

starve, and die. 

Those who peruse the following 
Poem, may perhaps find themselves 
sufficiently interested in it, to wish 
for some account of the Author. 

He was the son of the Rev. Mr. 
Penrose, Rector of Newbury, 
Berks ; a man of high character and 
abilities, descended from an ancient 
Cornish family, beloved and re- 
Bpccted by all who knew him; 
Mr. Penrose, jun. being intended 
for the Church, pursued his studies 
with success, at Christ church, Ox- 
ford, until the summer of 1762, 
when his eager turn to the Naval 
and Military line overpowering his 
attachment to his real interest, he 
left his College, and embarked in 
the unfortunate expedition against 
Nova Colouia, in South America, 

mtder the cMnmand of Captain 
Macnamara. The issue was fatal..^ 
The Clivc, (the largest vessel) waa 
bumt....and though the Ambuscade 
escaped, (on board of which Mr. 
Penrose, acting as Lieutenant of 
Marines, was wounded) yet the 
hardships which he afterwards 
sustained in a prize sloop, in which 
he was stationed, utterly ruined his 
constitution. Returning to Eng- 
land, with ample testimonials of 
his gallantry and good behaviour, 
he finished, at Hertford College, 
Oxon, his course of studies'; and, 
having taken Orders, accepted the 
curacy of Newbury, the income of 
which, by the voluntary subscription 
of the inhabitants, was considerably 
augmented. After he had continued 
in that station about r.ine years, it^ 
seemed aS' if the clouds of disap- 
pointment, which had hitherto 
overshadowed his prospects, and 
tinctured his Poetical Essays with 
gloom, were clearing away ; for he 
was then presented by a friend, 
who knew his worth, and honoured 
his abilities, to a living worth near 
500/. per annum. It came, how- 
ever, two late ; for the state of Mr. 
Penrose's health was now such 
as left little hope, except in the 
assistance of the waters of Bristol. 
Thither he w^ent, and there he died 
in 1779, aged 36 years. In 1768, 
be married Miss Mary Slocock, of 
Newbury, by whom he had one child, 
Thomas, now on the foundation of 
Winton College. 

Mr Pevrosb was respected for 
his extensive erudition, admired for 
his eloquence, and equally beloved 
and esteemed for his social quali- 
ties...,. By the poor, towards whom 
he was liberal to his utmost, ability, 
he was venerated to the highest 
degree. In oratory and composi- 
tion his talents were great. His 
pencil was ready as his pen, and on 
subjects of humour had uncommon 
merit. To his, poetical abilities, 
the Public, by the reception of his 
FUgbu of FtMC^^ &c. have given a 
favourable testimony. To sum up 
the whole, his figure and address 
were pleasing, as his mind was 

Such was Mr. Penrose; to whose 
memory- 1 pay this just and willing 

POETRY. 195 

tribute, and to whom I consider it ** Unanxious of the paina, lon|[ 

as an honottr to be related. doom'd to feel, 

** Unthinking that the voyage misrht 

MoLTiB ILLS BOMI8 FLBBX1.IS end in noughte. 



, n . Pleased on the summer-sea I daim- 

TH£ CURATE " ^**** ^*^ companions, and with 

views as fair; 

A IFRACMEHT. " OutstrippM by these, I'm left to 

^. , . . i. , . humble toil, 

0'«B the pale «mbers of a dying « My fondest hope abandoned in 

nre, ^ despair 

His little lamp fed with but little 

The C^tc sate (for scantie wai his '* ^^ ™y. ambitious mind been led 

hire) *** "*^ 

And ruminated sad the morrowe's " ^o highest flights, to Crosier and 

toil. ^^ ^*^» 

** Scarce could I mourn the misting of 

Twaa Sunday's eve, meet season to „ •. *^® ^^®' . . ,, , 

prepare soannge wishes well deserve 

The stated lectures of a coming ^^" ^*^^' 
tyde ; 

No day of rest to him,....bttt day of " No tow'ring thoughts like these 

care, engag'd my breast. 

At manie a Church to preach with " I hoped (nor blame, ye proud, tbs 

tedious ride. lowly plan) 

" Some little cove, some parsonage 

Before him sprede, his various ser- of i^st, 

mons lay, " T^^^ scheme of duty suited to the 

Of explanation deepe, and sage man; 
advice ; 

The harvest gained from many a « Where, in my narrow sphere, i 

thoughtful daye 

at ease. 

The fruit of Icaminge, bought with m F^om vile dependence free, I 

heavy price. might remain, 

^ , " The guide to good, the counsellor 

On these he cast a fond but tearful of i>eace, 

cy«» " The friend', the shepherd of the 

Awhile he paused, for sorrow stop- village swain, 
ped his throte. 

Aroused at lengthe, he heaved a bit- „ «V ,- , .,, , „ 

tcr siehe * ^^^^ ^*** deni'd the small re- 

And thus complainede, as well ,, . quest, . 

indeed he mote: ^""^ ^^.'^^ me fast, m one lU- 

omen d hour, 

« Hard is the schoUr'slot, condemned " ^^^o^^ *!»« *^^*n" °^ remedic, to 

to sail ^^^^ 

" Unpatroniz'd o'er life's tempcstu- " The slave of wealthie pride and 

ouswave; priesthe pow'r. 
" Clouds blind his sight ; nor b ows a 

friendly gale, " Oft as in russet weeds I scour 

" To waft him to one porto..ezcept along, 

the grave. " In distant chappels hastilie to 


•* Big with presumptive hope, I *' By nod scarce notic'd of the pas- 

launch'd my keele, sing thronge, 

« With youthful ardour, and bright " 'Tis but the Curate, every childe 

science frauthe s will say. 



*' Nor cirenihacrib'd m dignitie alone " To labour doom'd, and deitin'd 'to 

" Do I mj rich superior's rassal 

** Sad penurie, as was in cottage 

"With' all its frowrts, does't>*er 

my roof preside. 

" Ah I not for me the harvest yields 
•* The bough-crown'd sheaf i 
vain slttyacts mine eye ; 

be poor, 

« I pass the field, I hope not <n« 
vious, by. 

" When at the alfar, ButpUce<lad I 
" The bride-gTQom*s joy draws 
forth the golden fee ; 
'* The gift I take, but dare not close 
my hand ; 
** The splendid present cefttRs not 
in me." 


On ike manner of hunting and 
•fiorting by the MiigHsh at Ben-^ 
gttL Uommunitated dy CoU G. 


Few parties of pleasure can be 
more agreeable than those for 
hunting, formed by ladies and gen- 
tlemen in Bengal, particularly at 
some distance from the presidency 
erf" Fort William, where me country 
is pleasanter, and game of every 
kind in greater plenty. Any time 
between the beginning of Novem^^ 
ber and end of February is taken 
for these excursions ; during which 
season tlie climate is delightfiiUy 
temperate, theair perfectly serene, 
and the sky often without a cloud. 

To transport the tents and other 
requisites, for the accommodation 
of the company, to some verdant 
qwt, near to a grove and rivulet, 
previously selected, elephants and 
camfelsarebonx)wed; small country 
carts, oxen, and bearers hired, at 
no considerable expense, the price 
of all kinds of grain, and wages of 
course, being exceeding reasona- 
ble. Nor does the commanding offi- 
cer of the troops within the district, 
oftfen refuse a guard of seapoys to 
protect the company from the 
danger of wild beasts, ffor such 
generally resort to the haunts of 

» JF'fvm the JitiadO' Jirmuai Re- 
gister^ for 180U 

game,) or the depredations of still 
wilder banditti, now and then per- 
vading the country. 

The larger tents are pitched in 
a square or circle, while those for 
thte guards and servants usuallj^ 
occupy the outer ^ace. Every 
marquee for a lady is divided into 
two or three apartments, for her 
camp-bed, her closet, and her 
dressing-room ; is carpetted or 
matted, and is covered with a 
spreading fly, for defence againac 
rain, or exclusion of casual heat^ 
the air ventilating powerfully be- 
tweefi the vacuity (about two feet) 
of the tent and its canopy ih unre- 
mitted undulation. The doors or 
curtains of the marquee, wattled 
with a sweet-scented grass, are, if 
the weather chance to become 
sultry, continually sprinkled with 
water from the outside ; and a 
chintz wall, stained in handsomely- 
figured compartments, encompasses 
the whole. 

For the supply of common food, 
if no village be very near, petty- 
chandlers shops enow are engaged 
by the family banyans (house stew- 
ards) to accompany them, glad to 
proiit of such an opportimity of 
gain. Liijuors, and every species 
of European articles, are provided 
by the party thchasclves. 

Horses are employed for the con* 
vcyance of the gentlemen^ and pa- 
laiiquinsifor the ladies, with their 
female attendants : aad, where the 



roads will admit of it, close and 
t>pen English carriages also. 

Part of the morning sports of 
the men, commencing at the dawn 
of day, consist in rousing and chasing 
the wild boar, the wolf, and ante- 
lope (or gazelle), the roebuck, the 
musk, thered and other deer, hares, 
Ibxes) and jaccals : besides the 
common red, the spotted and the 
small moose, there are ten or 
twelve sorts of hog or short-bristled 
deer. Boars are usually found 
amongst the uncultivated tracts, 
or the more regular plantations of 
sugar-canes, which give to their 
flesh the finest flavour imaginable. 
Wolves and jaccals are seen 
prowling and lurking, at break of 
day, about the skirts of towns and 
villages, or retiring from thence to 
their dens within woods ; or within 
pits, hollows, or ravines, on the 
downs. Hares shelter in the same 
situations as in England. The hog, 
roebuck, and musk-deer conceal 
themselves amongst the thickest 
heath and herbage, and the ante- 
lope and large deer rove on the 
plains. All these animals, however, 
resort not rarely to the jungles (or 
very high coarse and implicated 
grass), with which the levels of 
Hindostan abound, either to graze, 
to browse, or in pursuit of prey. 

A country of Asia, abounding in 
inch variety of game, is, of course, 
not destitute of wild beasts ; the 
principal of which are the tiger, 
leopanl, panther, tiger-cats, bear, 
wolf, jaccal, fox, hyena, and rhi- 
nocercs* The leopard^ are of three 
or four kinds. 

Or the gentlemen divert them- 
selves with shooting the same ani- 
mals ; as also common partridge, 
rock partridge, hurrial or green 
pigeons, quaU, plover, wild cocks 
and hens, curlews; black, white, 
and grey peacocks ; florikens, 
storks of several kinds and colours, 
together with water hens, Braroiny 
geese, cranes, wild geese and ducks, 
teal, widgeons, snipes, and other 
aquatic fowl, in infinite abundance ; 
many of them of extraordinary 
shape, of glowing variegated plum- 

VOL. I...,N0. Ill* 

age, and of unknown species; 
whose numbers almost cover th« 
water when they swim, and, when 
alarmed and flushed from the lakes, 
like a cloud, absolutely obscure the 

The foxes arc smdll, slenderly 
limbed, delicately furred with a 
soft brown hair, and by no means 
rank in smell ; feeding principally 
upon grain, vegetables, and fruit. 
They are exceedingly fleet and 
Hexibie, though not strong or per- 
severing. When running, they 
wind in successive evolutions to 
escape their pursuers, and aflbrd 
excellent sport. Their holes are 
usually excavated, not in woods, 
but on hillocks, upon a smooth £^en« 
sward or lawn, where, in a morning 
or evening, they are seen playing 
and frisking about with their young* 
They feed generally amongst the 
corn, and are oftenest found Within 
fields of mustard or linseed, when 
it has sprouted up high enough to 
conceal them. 

A minor critic, on perusal of 
-ffisop's, or rather Pilpay's Fables, 
ridiculed the idea of roxes feeding 
upon grapes ; but, had he consulted 
any Asiatic natural history, he 
would have learned that they subsist 
upon grain, pulse, and fruit, par- 
ticularly grapes and pine-apples, 
when within their range, much 
more than upon flesh or fowl. Or, 
had he turned to the Bible, he 
would have there found the following 
passage in confirmation of it :•••» 
" Take us the foxes, the little foxes, 
that spoil the vines, for our vinea 
have tender grapes".....Cem/ir/f«, 
c. ii. vcr. 15. 

Jaccals are rather larger than 
English foxes; but of a browa 
colour, clumsier shape, and p > 
pointed about the nose. In nature, 
they partake more of the wolf than 
of the dog or fox. Their real 
Asiatic name is shuganl, perverted 
by English seamen trading to the 
Levant (where they are in plenty 
on tlie coasts of Syria, and Asia 
Minor) into jaccals. 

Of the partridge there are seve- 
ral kinds, one with a white belVr , 



and another with aomethbg like 
frooae, only more motle)^ feathered* 
Florer too are various ; and, 
when the weather becomes warm, 
ortolans traverse the heaths and 
commons in immense flocks. 

There are no pheasants in the 
woods of Bengal or Bahar, nearer 
than the conuMs of Assam, Chit* 
tagong, and the range of mountains 
separating Ifindostan from Tibet 
and Napi^ul. But there, particu- 
larly about 'tile Morung and in Be- 
tiah, they are large and beautiful, 
more especially me golden, the 
burnished, the spotted, and the 
asure, as well as ue brown Argus 

As for peacocks, they are every- 
where in multitudes, and of two 
or three species. One tract in 
Orissa is denominated More4Hmje, 
or the Peacock district. 

Cranes are of three sorts, and 
all of a cerulean grey s the vtry 
lofty one, with a crimson head, 
called mru$i the smallest called 
turcurrah, iht(demoUelle of Lin- 
naeus and Bunbn), uncommonly 
boLUtiiul and elegant, whose snow- 
white tuf^ behind its scarlet-glowing 
eyes, is Uie appropriate ornament 
for the turban of the emperor alone, 
and the middle-sized one with a 
black head, the common grus. 
They return to the northern moun- 
tains about the autumnal equinox, 
after the cessation of the periodical 
rains, with their young, in myriads 
of flights, frequent as the wood* 
pigeon in North-America: and 
sometimes, when the wind is very 
violent, flocks of them mount to 
a vast height in the air, and there 
wind about in regular circles, seem- 
ingly with much delight, and venting 
all the time a harsh discordant 
scream, heard at a considerable 
V distance. 

In the wilds of Hindostan cer- 
tainly^ originated the common do- 
mestic fowl, for they are there dis- 
covered in almost every forest. 
They are all bantams, but without 
feathers on their legs; the cocks 
are in colour all alike, what 
^)ortsmen call ginger red ; they 

have a fine tufted duster of wlnt^ 
downy feathers upon their rumpsy 
are wonderfully stately in their 
gait, and fi[[^t like fiiries. The 
hens are invariably brown. It is 
extremely pleasant, in travelling 
through the woods early in a 
morning, to hear them crowing^ 
and to perceive the henf and 
chickens skulking and scudding 
between the bushes. For food, they 
are neither so palatable nor tender 
as the tame fowL 

Florekins are amongst the v^bncff^ 
9cri/iia^ I believe, in ornithology. 
A drawing can alone exhibit an 
adequate representation of this 
fine bird ; it harbours in natural 
pastures amohgst the long grass, 
on the extremity of lakes, and the 
borders of swampy grounds, lying 
between marshy soils and the 
uplands. Hence its flesh seems to 
partake, in colour and relish, of 
the nature and flavour of both the 
wild duck and the pheasant ; the 
colour of the flesh on the breast and 
wings being brown, but on the legs 
perfectly white, and the whole of 
the most delicate, juicy, and sa- 
voury flavour conceivable. 

There are only three claws to its 
feet : the roots of the feathers of 
the/emale are of a fine pink colour. 

Wfien the cock rises up, some 
fine black velvet feathers, which 
commonly lie smooth upon liis head, 
then stand up erect, and form a 
tuft upon his crown sjid his neck. 

When set by dogs, it lies close, 
and scarcely ever rises till the 
fowler is so near as abnost to tread 
npon it. The neit of it 19 made 

amongst tfie gnMs. 

You read of them in descriptions 
of ancient knightly festivals of the 
Nevilles, Percys, Mortimers, Beau- 
champs, Montacutes, DeCourceys, 
Mohuns, Courteneys, and Mow- 
braysy under the name, I believe, 
oi Jianderkina ; but whether they 
were then natives of England, I am 

The height of the cock florekta 
of Bengal, from the ground when 
he stands, to the top m his bdck> ia 
seventeen inclies. 



The height from the ground to 
the top of ms heady when he holdt 
It wpright, is twenty-seven inches. 

The leng^ from the tip of his 
back to the end of his tail, is twenty. 
seven inches. 

In no part of southern Asia did 
I ever hear of woodcocks ; but 
amongst the breed of snipes there 
is one called the painted snipe, 
larger than ordinary, and which 
well compensates for want of the 

Fishing) both with Unes and di- 
versity ci nets, is the employment 
of other sets of the party ; or the 
hawUng of herons, cranes, storks, 
and hares, with the falcon ; and of 
partridge and lesser birds, with tlie 
sparrow and amali hawks. 

Ladies now and t3&en attend the 
early field: if it be to view the 
coursing or hawking, they mount 
upon small, gentlest (for they are 
all gentle) female elephants, tur- 
mounted with arched-canopied and 
curtained seats ; otherwise they 
ride on horseback ; more frequent- 
ly however in palanquins, under 
which, as well as under the ele- 
phants and horses, the Inrds, (par- 
ticularly the white stork or paddy 
bird), when pounced at by the 
hawks, and the little foxes, when 
hard pressed by the dogs, often fly 
for belter and protection. In 
general, however, the ladies do not 
rise betimes, nor stir out till the 
hour of airing. 

The weapons in use on these ex- 
peditions are, fowling pieces, horse 
pistols, light lances or pikes, and 
heavy spears or javelins ; and every 
person has, besides, a servant 
armed with a scimitar or sabre, 
and a rifle with a bayonet, carrying 
a two ounce ball, in the event en 
meeting with tigers, hyenas, bears, 
orwildbuffiiloes. Some of the ladies 
(like Thalestris or Hypolita, quite 
in the Diana style), carry light 
bows and quivers to amuse them- 
selves with the lesser gam6. 

The dogs are, pointers, spaniels, 
Persian and European greyhounds, 
andstrongferociouslurchers. Keav 
Calcutta a few gentlemen keep 

English hounds; but their scent 
qmckly fades, and they soon dege- 

But the liveliest sport is exhibited 
when all the horsemen, elephants, 
servants, guard, and hired vil- 
lagers, are assembled and arranged 
in one even row, with small white 
fla^ (as being seen the furthest) 
hoisted pretty nigh at certain dis- 
tances, in order to prevent one 
part of the rank from advancing 
before the rest. Proceeding in this 
manner, in a regular andprogressive 
course, this line sweeps the surfeoe 
like a net, and impels before it M 
the game within its compass aad 
extent. When the jungle and 
coppice chance to open upon a plain* 
it is a most exhiUrating si^ht to 
behold the quantity and variety of 
animals issuing from thehr coverts : 
some are driven out reluctantly, 
others force their way back into 
the brake. During this scene of 
developement, rout, and dispersion, 
prodigious havoc is made by the 
fowlers, falconers, and huntsmen, 
whilst the country people and 
children, with sticks and staves, 
either catch or demolish the fawns, 
leverets, wild pigs, and other young 
animals, whidi have returned into 
tiie ceppice. 

Instances occasionally 'occur, 
when the natives of the vicinage 
petition the gentlemen to destroy a 
tiger that has infested the district, 
to the annoyance and devastation 
of their flocks and shepherds, and 
perpetual alarm of the poor cot- 
tagers themselves. Although an 
arduous and perilous adventure, and 
what the gentlemen all profess, in 
their cooler moments, to reprobate 
and decline, yet, when in the field, 
tliey generally comply with the soli- 
citation, and undertake the exploit. 
Their instant animation, not unat- 
tended with emotions of benevo- 
lence and compassion, presently 
supersedes every dictate of pru- 
dence, and, iptte of their predeter- 
mination, they proceed to the 
assault, the villagers aH the while 
standing aloof. If conducted d^ 
berately, with circQmspectitai and 



:v^ith the aid of the seapoys, they 
«oon accomplish tlieir purpose, and 
bring in the most dreadful and for- 
midable of all tremendous beasts, 
amidst the homage and acclama- 
tions of the peasantry. But should 
they lose their presence of mind, 
prolong or precipitate the conflict, 
.act with incaution, or attack the ex- 
asperated and infuriated beast with • 
tumult and confusion, the event Is 
often fatal, by his seizing, lacerat- 
ing, and crushing, every creature 
within his reach; not ceasing to 
rend, tear, claw, and destroy, to 
jthe very moment of his destruction, 
or of his flight. 

Sometimes do the natives intreat 
the gentlemen to rid them of wild 
^uflfaloes, (the largest of all known 
animals, the elephant excepted), 
that have laid waste their cultiva- 
tion ; and at others, to clear their 
vast tanks, or small neighbouring 
lakes, of alligators, which devour 
their fish^ or do mischief on shore. 
So much hazard is not incurred, 
however, by achievements of this 
sort, as from the encounter of a 
tiger ; for though the hides of those 
creatures resist a ball from a firelock 
at common musket distance, they 
are by no means impenetrable to a 
shot from a rifle, or other pieces with 
a chamber, or of a wider calibre. 

A drum, with a banner displayed 
from the hall tent, gives signals to 
the company for their meals. 

Breakfast is a most delightful 
repast : tlie sportsmen return Jteen, 
fresh, ruddy, and voracious ; and 
the appearance of the ladies jn 
fiimple loose attire, the elegant dish-' 
abille of clearest muslin, with plain 
floating ribbons, and dishevelled 
tresses, captivate to fascination. 
Nor is the palate less gratified : 
Englisb) French, Italian, and Dutch 
viands, aU combine to provoke it, 
by a pnoftision of cold victuals, 
salted and dried meats and fish) 
hams, tongues, sausages, hung-beef, 
salladsj chocolate, coffee, tea, fresli 
^ilk,. ]^rcserYCs, fruit, and eggs, 
rendered Vtin more grateful by Ae 
lyst *^priglitly cheerfiilness> and 

Vcral gaiety. 


Afler breakfast, conveyanect of 
different sorts are prepared for an 
airing, not merely for the sake of 
airing only, but to view some natu- 
ral or artificial curiosity or mant»- 
£iicture ; some noted town, distin- 
guished mosque, celebrated pago-» 
da, renowned dirgah, or venera- 
ble mausoleum ; some consecrated 
grove, tlie sequestered residence 
of fakeers, or some extensive 
prospect from the summit of rugged 
clifi^, impending over an expanse 
of water, bordering perhaps a level 
lawn, whose verdure is vaulted only, 
not concealed, by a diffused assem- 
blage of stately columniated palms 
of four different species, tufted and 
foliaged only, in graceful inclina- 
tions at their capitals, all equally 
bmamental, the date, the cocoar 
nut, the beetel, and the palmyra* 

Between the airing and an early 
dinner, the hours are irregularly 
disposed, as chance may dictate, or 
caprice suggest. Some play at 
cricket and quoits, swim, jump, 
fence, t*un a match of horses, or 
shoot at a mark ; whilst otiiei's direct 
the mountaineers and woodmen 
(who rove about in bands for this 
express purpose) where to inveigle^ 
entangle, or kill beasts, birds, fish, 
and snakes, for which tliey are fur- 
nished with variety of implements^ 
such as matchlocks, tiger4x)ws9 
spears, darts in grooves, balls in 
tubes, pcllet'>bow8, limed rods, 
stakes, and bushes ; fascinating al- 
lurements, such as painted, spotted, 
and foliaged sci*eens, bells, net$y 
and torches, bundles of twigs, rushes, 
and reeds, artificial ducks and decoy 
birds, with traps, gins, springs, 
snares, and other stratagems and 
inventions of wonderful enchant, 
ment, ingenuity, mechanism, and 

It is somewhat extraordinary, 
but nevertheless a fact, the influence 
I'f fascination possessed by the tiger, 
and all of his, (the feline) species, 
over many other creatures. Espied 
by deer particularly, they stop at 
once, as if struck by a spell, while 
the tiger lies still, his eyes fixed oa 
thepi, and quietly waiting their 



Approach, which they seldom fail 
to make gradually withiA his spring ; 
for tiie large royal tiger cannot run 
speedily or far. The glow of their 
eyes is fierce and powerful. I 
myself once passed a royal tiger in 
the night near a wood, and could 
plainly perceive the scintillations 
from his eyes. He was deterred 
from approaching us by the light of 
Bambeaux, and the noise of a small 
drum which we carried, and was 
beat by a servant for the purpose of 
scaring him away. 

Wherever tigers roam or couch, 
« number of birdis continually collect 
or hover about them, screaming 
and crying, as if to create an alarm. 
But the peacock seems to be par- 
ticularly allured by him ; for the 
instant a flock of pea-fowl perceive 
him, they advance towards him di- 
rectly, and begin strutting round 
him with wings fluttering, quiver- 
ing feathers, and bristling and ex- 
panded tails. Of this enticement 
the fowlers also make their advan- 
tage ; for, by painting a brown 
cloth screen, with black spots or 
streaks, about six feet square, and 
advancing under its cover, fronting 
the sun, the birds either approach 
towards them, or suffer thetn to 
steal near enough to be sure of their 
mark, by a hole left in the canvas 
for them to fire through. 

Several other instances of , the 
fescination of animals I have myself 
been witness to in Bengal. Three 
or four times, where a line of troops 
were marching in a long uninter- 
rupted series, passed a herd of 
deer ; I observed that when their 
attention was taken off from grazing, 
by the humming murmuring noise 
proceeding from the troops in 
passing, they at first and for a 
while, stood staring and aghast, aa 
if attracted by the successive pro- 
gression of the files, all clothed in 
red. At *length, however, the 
leading stag, *' vir gre^'a ifiae" 
•triking the ground, snorted, and 
immediately rushed forward across 
the ranks, followed by the whole 
collection, to the utter distnay and 
confusion of tlie soldiery : thus 

running into the very danger 09e 
naturally supposes they must have 
at first been anxious to avoid. The 
men, who were apprised by the 
sound of their approach, stopped, 
and made way for theoi. Overthe 
heads of the others,' who were 
heedlees and inattentive, they 
bounded with wonderful agility, and 
fled over the plain. 

Driving one evening along the 
road in a phaeton, and pretty fast, 
I perceived a yoimg heifer running 
near the carriage, witli her eyes 
intently fixed upon one of the hind 
wheels ; by the whirling of which, 
the animal seemed completely 
struck and afiected. Thus pursu- 
ing her object for about a quarter of 
a mile, she, by a sudden impulse, 
rapidly darted forward towards the 
wheel, whidi then striking her 
nose, the attention of the creature 
became interrupted by the violence 
of the friction, and was, of course^ 
withdrawn : she then immediately 
stood still, and presently after 
turned about slowly, and made oSL 

Beyond all other animals, how- 
ever, serpents possess most emi- 
nently this occult power : frequently" 
are they seen revolved on the 
branches of trees, or on the groundf 
meditating their prey, either birds, 
squirrels^ rats, mice, bats, frogSf 
hares, or other animals. 

The ladies, as they are inclinedi 
eitheii read, walk, swing, exercise 
themselves in archery, or at shut- 
tlecock in the groves ; or they sing 
and play in their tents. Others, 
whilst at work, are read to by their 
companions ; of all amusements, 
perhaps, the most delectable. 

At the end of a convivial dinner, 
every soul, provided the weather 
prove sultry, or they find themselves 
fatigued, retire to repose. 

On rising from this siesta, (of 
all listless indulgences the most 
soothing, comfortable, and refresh- 
ing, and certainly most wholesome, 
all animals inclining to sleep after 
nourishment), carriages are again 
in readiness, or light boats, where 
a stream or lake is near, to give 
the company the evening's respira- 



tion (uliich the inhabitants of cold- 
er regions taste only in poetical 
description,) breathing health as 
urell as recreation. 

The twilight being short under 
the tropics,' .the day, of course, 
•huts In presently after sun-set, 
when cards and dice become part 
of the evening's entertainment* 
Chess, backgammon, whist, pi- 
quet, tredrille, quint, and loo, 
are the favourite games. These, 
with domestic sports, antics, gam- 
bols, tricks, pranks, and frolics, 
where the humour prevails ; to- 
gether with the sleights of jugglers, 
feats of tumblers, (in which per- 
formances tlie Hindoos are expert 
adepts,) and dances of the natives, 
wile away the time and beguile it 
not unpleasantly to the hour of sup- 
per, the principal meal; when a 
repast, enlivened by every eleva- 
tion of spirit and kindly disposition 
that can conduce to promote good- 
humour and festive hilarityy ter- 
minates the day. 

These parties generally continue, 
with some variation in Uie amuse- 
ments, fifteen or twenty da} 8 ; and 
the dissolution of them is as gene- 
rally lamented, with heart-felt re- 
gret, by the individuals who com- 
pose them. 

Fw the Literary Magazine. 



{Continued from fiage 115.) 
Parades remained only two 
days at Versailles, then returned to 
London, where finding his vessel 
completely equipped, he took the 
command of her, sailed from the 
Thames to Spithead, where he 
anchored near the English fleet* 

The East-India company having 
received advice, by a swift-sailing 
cutter dispatched nrom a large and 
rich fleet belonging to them, that 
they might then be in soundings, an 
express was forwarded to Admiral 
Keppel, with orders to put to sea 
with the ships under his command 
without delay, for the safe- guard of 
this valuable fleet, and to secure 
its entrance into the English porta 

by every means in his power, bat t* 
avoid engaging the enemy, except 

In the meantime cutters were* 
dispatched to this fleet, with orders 
to its commanders to keep at a di»- 
tance from the coast till joined bj 
Admiral Keppel, or assured from 
him that the passage was clear. 

Advice of this was immediately 
sent by Parades to M. de Sartine, 
and the French fleet under d'Orvil- 
liers put instantly to sea. 

Keppel sailed from Portsmouth 
on the 10th of July, 1778, with 25 
saU of the line, and being joined by 
three more off Plymouth^ his fleet 
consisted of 28 ships of the line of 

This fleet was attended and close- 
ly watched by Parades in his vessel 
of 14 guns, under English colours, 
furnished with suitable ugnals to 
apprise d'Orvilliers of every move- 
ment of consequence. 

The English and French fleets 
discovered each other in the en- 
trance of the Channel, but theN. £• 
winds drove them considerably to 
the westward: the British admiral 
used every practicable mansuvre 
to favour the passage of the India 
ships. On the 2rth of July, the two 
fleets approaching each other, an 
indecisive en^|;ement ensued : the 
Count d'Orvilliers then threw out 
the signal for action, which brought 
on a general engagement that con- 
tinued the greatest part of the day ; 
after which both fleets separated, 
without much damage on either 
side. On tlie morning of the 28tfa, 
the East-India fleet passed over the 
scene of action, and entered the 
Channel in sight of several French 
vessels, which had been disabled in 
the combat* Thb fleet would ine- 
vitably have been taken, had the 
French squadron, or even a division 
of it, continued on the station twen« 
ty-four hours longer. 

The campaign being now nearly 
finished, the Count Parades, unwil- 
ling to remain idle, turned his 
thoughts towards Plymouth: he 
accordingly set sail for that place 
and anchored in the Sound, under a 

xxMoxas or count de parades. 


pretence of wantinr provisions : he 
went on shore prof^sedly to pro- 
cure necessaries, and immediately 
repairing to the citatel, soon recog- 
nized his old friend the sergeant, 
whom he invited on board his ship, 
which invitation was next day 
eagerly excepted. Parades gave 
the sergeant ten guineas, and half a 
dozen bottles of brandy ; and after 
some artful circumlocution, made 
him a direct offer of fifty guineas, 
if he would assist in tran^erring' 
the citadel of Plymouth into the 
power of the French Kin^; and if 
that could be effected by his means, 
the Count would insure to him the 
pa}rment of 10,000/. sterling. 

The sergeant, whose feelings had 
been artfully wrought upon, by a 
comparison between the penury 
and subordination of his present 
life, and the independent opulence 
that awaited him, (in addition td 
the splendid presents he ha4 re- 
ceived,) was prepared for some 
sudi like oflfer, but trembled at the 
greatness of die danger he had to 
encounter. Parades did not give 
him time to reflect ; but putting into 
his hands a solemn promise in writ- 
ing, in the name of the French 
King, for the 10,000/., made him 
completely his own. 

The honest sergeant then received 
his instructions; which were, to 
form a close intimacy with the 
keeper of the colours, and by act- 
ing with caution, to gain him if pos- 
sible ; next, the porter of the gate, 
which might be easily accomplished 
he being a particular intimate of 
the sergeant; but above all, the 
keeper of the signals, on whom no 
expense was to be spared : Parades, 
strongly enjoining prudence and 
secrecy, saw his friend safely on 
shore, and two days after quitting 
Plymouth, arrived in a short time 
at Brest. 

After delivering to the marine 
minister, details of his proceedings, 
M. Parades was gratified with a 
brevet, dated the 31th of August, 
17r9, appointing liim a captain of 
cavalry, witli a pension of 10,000 

The Count then returned to Lon- 
don, where he arrived on the 18th 
of September ; from thence he went 
in a post-chaise to Plymouth, and 
found the flag-keeper and porter 
entirely gained over to his interest; 
for by means of a lodger and friend 
of the keeper, a copy of all the 
friendly signals was procured; to 
each of those persons was assigned 
a pension of 25/. per month. 

The sergeant then undertook, 
should the enterprise be attempted, 
that the great gate should be shut, 
but not locked ; the same was to be 
done at the postern in the angle of 
the bastion, through which the 
troops might defile; he likewise 
engaged to spike the cannon. After 
which Parades, with a handsoni^e 
remuneration, once more took leave 
of his friends. 

After making a tour to Bristol 
and the western seaports, where 
he exercised his usual adroitness in 
gaining useful information, Parades 
again presented his memorials to 
M. de Sartine, who called a coun- 
cil of the ministry to take into con- 
sideration the probable advantage 
that might result from putting his 
plans into execution ; and whether 
it would not be for the interest of 
the state, to take immediate advan- 
tage of the negligence of the ene-; 

Though the Count's plans were 
approved of by a part, others 
thought some of his narrations al- 
most incredible, and his proposi- 
tions of too romantic a cast. After 
much debate it was at lengUi re« 
solved, that a person who posses- 
sed the confidence of the ministry, 
should be sent to England, for the 
purpose of examining into the truth 
of Parades' reports : M. de Ber- 
thols, an officer of genius, was 
instantly sent for from Calais, where 
he was then employed. On his 
arrival at Paris, and being made 
acquainted with his intended busi- 
ness, he requested twenty-four hours 
to consider of it : but the Prince of 
Montbarrey informing him that the 
cross of St. Le w is, a brevet of lieu te- 
nant-colonel, and a pension of 400O 



livres awdted his acceptance, he 
immediately complied ; and Para- 
des was also promised, if he brought 
back M. Berthois in safety from his 
mission, the cross of St. Lewis, to- 
gether with a pension. 

At the appointed time, they em- 
barked in the vessel belonging to 
Parades, and set sail for England. 
M. Berthois wishing to begin his 
observations with Plymouth, they 
-directed their course to that port, 
■where they arrived on the second 
day of their leaving Brest. As ill 
fortune would have it, the crew 
were drunk at the time of their 
coming to an anchor, and being hail- 
ed from a frigate riding in the 
Sound, demanding tlie vessel's 
name and her destination, the mas- 
ter gave an insolent answer. The 
captain of this frigate slept at Dock, 
and the commanding lieutenant 
being offended at the reply, imme- 
diately ordered the barge to be 
manned, and boarded Parades' ves- 
sel with twenty-five marines under 
urms, demanding to know to whom 
tiie vessel belonged, and the name 
of the fellow who had returned 
such an insolent answer. The terri- 
fied M. de Berthois hid himself 
among the crowd of sailors on the 
deck: the master, confounded at 
the appearance of the marines, im- 
prudently answered, «*The vessel 
belongs to those gentlemen," (point- 
ing to Parades and Berthois, who 
were both dressed as sailors.) The 
lieutenant, astonished, addressing 
himself to Berthois, asked him, if 
he was the owner. He understand- 
ing English very imperfectly, an- 
swered Outy (yes in French,) The 
master was so embarrassed, as to 
be incapable of replying to the 
lieutenant, who said, it was his duty 
to secure them; and they were 
immediately taken on shore, under 
a guard, to Dock. 

By singular good fortune, the of- 
ficer whose duty it was to. examine 
them, was a correspondent of Para- 
des, and likewise on terms of inti- 
macy with the captain of the fi-i- 
gate : the consequence was that by 
means of a draft of 15001. on Para- 

des' banker in London, he otitained 
the release of his people and the 
discharge of his vessel. 

The two adventurers now tliink- 
ing themselves perfectly secure, 
took a lodging and changed their 
dresses. Returning from one of 
their evening walks, they were 
surprised to see a soldier mounting 
guard at the door where they lodged t 
tliough this sight was far from bein^ 
agreeable. Parades with his usual 
effrontery, entered the house, fol- 
lowed by M. Berthois. Here they 
found an old acquaintance of the 
Count, who was an officer of rank 
quartered at Dock, to whom he 
had before made himself agreeable s 
this gentleman reproached Parades 
for not having called uix)n him at 
his quarters, and requested to see 
him and his friend at the barracks ^ 
after which he took his leave. 

The fertile genius of Parades 
immediately saw the use to be made 
of this; M. Berthois was shewn 
every part of the citadel, and from 
the commanding eminence on which 
it is situated, had a favourable op- 
portunity of viewing the dificrent 
branches of the sea, as Hamoaze, 
Catwater, and Sutton Pool ; all of 
which he found tacorrespond exact- 
ly with the descriptions given to 
M. de Sartine. 

In the meantime their vessel wa» 
riding in the Sound, and the Union 
of 90 guns in her passage thither 
being becalmed, and obliged to 
anchor too near the citadel, the 
captain sent to press the boats and 
crews belonging to four vesseb 
then in the Sound, to as&ist in tow- 
ing her off, the crew in Parades* 
was consequently included, except 
his secretary, whom they had just 
time enough to hide in a cask. 

Before they quitted Plymouth, 
Parades, who had frequently pur- 
chased stores at the dock-yard sales, 
and was veil known there in the 
character of an English merchant, 
bought nine condemned French 
vessels for 4,600/. and having resc Id 
them by his agents, cleared by the 
speculation 7000/. sterling,' « 
166000 livres Tourncis. 

{To be coniinued.) 







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Hi ^^ 

^ a ° 2 2^ 


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» 3- 

e si* 
Xi '^ A c n 

S" a * 2 








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U 'l 


I J 


>» p rt <» 

P p o 








hi -^ 

a tg 

ot o> 00 1^ a ^ ^ ^ ^ 

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§ 2 

Ok ^ 
JO H» 

s s 

Udmhurumera of Six per CenU at the ahove date. 
Brousftt forward, 82,909,636 86 


»iunt torwara, o-^,:n/y,ojv oq 

28.202,007 41fll6 857635-> S> 

ioooooo:f^5,o8r.r40 5r 

On 1Z,677^17 82 a 2 


S> Unredeemed principal l8tjan.l802, 77,881,890 29 

▼9L« I«.«.KO. Ill 


' iC7*The interest on the public 
deot7 including the reimbursement 
of the six per cent, stock, is pay-* 
able quarterly ; either at the seat 
of Government, or the Commis^ 
uoner of loans, where the certifi- 
cates have been issued. 

Transfers and dividends of every 
kind of stock (including that of the 
U. S, Bank, the capital of which 
b, Ten MUHoM ofDoHav divided 
iijto 25^000 shares of 400 dollars 
each, dividends paid in January and 
Jiily,) can be made and received 
everyday hi the wed^; excepting 
that the hcx>ks for transforming 
funded stock, are dosea Ibr fourteen 
days previous to the end of each 
quarter, and for Bank stock in like 
mamter half yearly. 

The reimbursement of old six per 
cents, commenced on the 1st of Jan- 
uary, 1796, and of the new, on the 
1st of January, 1802. On the Ist of 
January, there is 3} per cent, paid 
on the nominal amount, a]id inevery 
succeeding quarter 1\\ making 8 
. per cent, per annum, on account of 
mtetest and principal. On the 1st of 
January 1804, there will have been 
^redeemed of the old sixes 23 11 and 
01^ new 6 37 per cent. 

iivthe Secretary's report of De- 
cember X802, he states, that an im- 
pression >ad been made on the 
public debt M*tj^at year, by thb sale 
of 2,220 U. S. ^nk shares, and 
otherwise, to tbii^ amount of 
5,440,469: 66 dollars, v 

The president in his tiHssage of 
the 17th October 1803, iiOv^ned 
Congress, that the revenue for ^ 
year ending the 30th of September 
1803, amounted to between 11 and 
12 millions, and exceeded the sum 
counted on«...That there was dis- 
charged of the public debt in the 
same period, about 3,100)000 dol- 
lars, isid, ^at by the purchase of 
Louisiana an addition will be made 
to the debt, of nearly 13 millions, 
besides 2 millions which had been 
appropriated ; most of which will 
be payable after fifteen days 

M. M'CoNNEL, Broker. 
Philadelphia, 21st Nov. 1803. 

REPORT....The committee vp-' 

pointed to execute the several acta 
of Gongress to provide more efibc* 
tuaOy for the settlement of the ac^ 
counts between the United States 
and the individual States, report, 
that there is due including interest 
to the Slst day of December, 1789, 
to the states of 
New-HampshireM...M 75yO$^ 
Massachusetts.......... 1,248,801 

Rhode Island........*... 299,511 

Connecticut.....—**.*. 519,131 

New Jersey...........^. 49,030 

South CaroliBa.....M.. 1,205,978 

Georgia •.•••....•«»••.. 19,988 

And there is due including interest 
to the third day of December, 1789, 
from the state of 
New*York.......*.....M. 3,074,846 

Pennsylvania...... 76,739 

Delaware •••...••.••...•.. 612,128 
Maryland .M..........M.. 151,640 

Virginia....M....M....... 100,870 

North Carolina......... 501,082 

Which several sums they, by virtue 
of the authority to them deleigated, 
declare to be the final and conchi- 
sive balances due to and from the 
several states. 

wf deacri/ition of aapetUt <f Coai 
found near Woodcock* 
Th& moimtain which contains 
this coal, is situated about twelve 
miles north-west from Esopus. By 
the people, who reside near itsbase, 
it is called Blue Mountain: the 
coal is found in the horizontal fis- 
sure of an almost perpendicular 
rock, upon the S. E^ part of it, about 
^^]f the distance to its summit, which 
isu^posed to be nearly two miles 
above thelevel of the Hudson Ri- 
ver. The stratum is of various 
thickness, fpOM seven to ten inches 
and Inwards. It i«. visible in dif- 
ferent parts, at considerable dis- 
tances from each other. The incum- 
bent mass of rack is not less than 

twenty feet in depth In one place 

it is of a grey colour, and argiUace- 
ous composition, though s^jparently 
very hard ; in another, it is brown, 
and composed of hprvspu,tal layers, 
easily split or divided. 



The coal ^pcan to form a con- 
siderable angle with the strata of 
the rock, and dips into the mountain* 
Its colour is brownish* It yery 
mnch resembles that species of coal, 
which is foutid in Great Britain^ in 
the crevices of rocks ; and generally 
known bv the name of Suturbrand* 
By the Mineralogists it is called 
brown coal, or carbonated wood; 
aome pieces have a glossy lustre* 
It is very brittle* It sinks in wa- 
ter* A small bit of it was kept in 
diluted nitrous acid, for the n)ace 
of two days, which caused it to 
sepKarate and crumble by the appli* 
cation of a gentle force* It disco- 
vers no impression of leaves, nor 
any internal indication of vjegetable 
origin* In some specimens the 
fracture is slaty, in others uneven; 
exposed to the blow pipe It swells, 
and bums very slowly, giving out 
a slightly sulphurous smell*.***A 
small quantity of it was used, some 
vears ago in a forge in this village, 
md was found to give a strong heat, 
vhen mixed withcharcoaL The 
;uide who conducted us up the 
aountain, mentioned, that he late- 
> procured some of iu at the re- 
ciest of a blacksmith, for the pur- 
pse of fbrging an axe.*..Thi8 side 
(f the mountain is the joint proper* 
t' of Major De Zeng, and Capt* 
dark, who intend to blast the rock, 
ii order to discover the .extent and 
qiantity of the coal****lt may not be 
uinteresting to mention,that in the 
lime rock, atthe western extrerair 
y or the stratum of coal, we found 
I luminous etirdi, consisdng of 
alum, silex and iron* 

J'rom the Mw-Tork Commerciat 
It has been a subject of contro- 
nrersy, whether intense application 
of mind tends to shorten life* Opi^ 
mons on this point are various, and 
perhaps we may throw light on it 
by an appeal to facts* 

The following list of names has 
been made from a promiscuous 
K^Barcby and the names and ages 

of all men distingiiished by their 
intellectual imprav^nxents, have 
been noticed, as they liave occurred 
to the writer : 

AnctetU Writcru 


Age* Died before 
. . Cbruu 

Xenophilos. • - « « • • 169 .•• 
TheQphrastus.* • • i 106 ... S88 

Xenoptuiiics 100 . . . 500 

Democritiu 100 ... 

Isocrates. 98 . . . 338 

ThaOes 92 ... 548 

Cameades 90 ... 

Pyrrho 90 ... 28i 

Sophocles 91 ..^406 

Slmonides 90 ..* 468 

^.eno 97 ... '264 

Pythagoras 90 ... 510 

Hypocrates 80 ... 

Chrysippus 83 ^.. 204 

Diogenes 88 ..« 

Pherycides 85 ..« 

Solon «...«•• £2 • . • 558 

Periander 80 ... 579 

Plato 81 ... 348 

Thucydides 80 ... 391 

Xenophor... 89 ... 359 

Xenocrates....... 81 ... 314 

Polybius 81 ... 134 

Socrates 70 ... 400 

Anaxagoras 72 ... 428 

Euripides 7^ ... 407 

i£schyius 70 ... 456 . 

Aristodc 63 ... 322 

Ana^imander 64 ... 547 

Pindar.... 69 ... 45S 

Grttk Autbort Total .... 30 

Died above a hundred 4 

Above 90 8 

Ditto 80 11 

Ditto 60 ^....•.. 7 

Socrates died prematurely by poison. 

^nciera Writere* 


Age. Died hefore 

Varro 87 .-. 28 

Lucian 80 ... 

Epicurus 73 ... 168 

Cicero 63 ... 43 

[by a violent death. 

Livy 67 A. D IT 

Pliny, the elder 56 ... 79 

[by a violent death. 

Fliny« the younger, 52 ... lU 



Ovid 59 ... 17 

Honce 57 

Virgil 51B.C... 19 

JMxUm jiuthort on the continent 
qf Eurofie. 

Died, Age. 

Voltaire 1779 ... 85 

Swedenbofirg 1772 ... 83 

Boerhaave 1738 ... 70 

Galilleo 1643 ... 7^ 

Scaliger, J. Cxsar . 1558 ... 74 

Scaltger, J. J 1909 ... 69 

Vossius, J. G 1649 ... 72 

Voftutu, Isaa£.... 1683 ... 70 

Copernicus 1543 ... 71 

Grevius, 1703 ... 71 

Gronovius 1671 ... 58 

Grotios 1645 ... 63 

Erasmus 1536 69 

Thuanus 1617 ... 64 

Spinosa 1677 ... SS 

Hallcr 1777 ... 69 

Kepler 1631 ... 60 

PufTendorf 1693 ... 62 

Leibnitz 1715 ... 69 

Des Cartes 1650 ... 54 

TychoBrahe 1601 ... 55 

Total.... 21 

Above eighty. 
Ditto.... 70 
Ditto.... 50 

EngUah jiuthor; 

Whiston .... 







Sloane, Hans 
Sherlock. B.. 
Bacon, R.... 




Johnson, S... 
Robertson. •• 
Hale, M.... 
Baccn, N. . . . 
Fothergill . . . 
Bacon, F.... 


Sherlock, W. 





. 84 
. 83 
. 85 

Tillotton.... 1630 1694 ••• 6i 

Boyie 1627 1691 ... 65 

Kennicot.... 1718 1783 ... 6$ 

Pope 1688 1744 ... 56 

Steele 1676 1729 ... 53 

Addison 1672 1719 ... 47 

Spenser 1553 1599 ... 45 

Total.... 31 

Above ninety 3 

Ditto.... 80 8 

Ditto.... 70 6 

Ditto 45 14 

That country is esteemed veiy 
healthy, in which fifteen penonfl to 
a hundred bom, arrive to 70 years 
of age. Among the emment Greek 
authors, 17 of 30 arrived to that 
age. llie fact is almost incredible* 
But the climate and modes of life 
practised b^ the old Greek philo- 
sophers, will bring the &ct within 
the compass of belief 

The ages of the Roman writers 
indicate a less salubrious climate, 
or more luxurious habits of life, or 

The ages of the modem writers 
far surpass the due proportion. O 
21 authors on the continent, nin< 
reached the age of 70....or almos 
half..».whereas, the usual propor 
tiim is not more than an eighth, or . 
seventh at most. 

Of 31 English authors, 17, c 
more than half, died above 70* 

These results do not justify th 
opinion that intense applicatia 
abridges human life. It is probt- 
ble, however, that the uousal prt» 
portion of learned men who live U 
a great age, may be in part as 
cribed to their temperate habits a 
life....and to an original firmnesi 
of constitution. Their great inteJ. 
lectual acquirements, and their oil 
are, may not improbably be thi 
effect of a common cause— the or* 
ginal organization of the body. 


JProm the JsTew-York Commerdd 


The following table exhiUta 
certain results from the census of 



ISOO, which are Interesting to the 
inquiries hito the state and progress 
of pc^ation in the United States, 
as also into l&e longevity of the in- 
habitants in different districts or 
portions of territory. The first 
column gives the number of free 
persons under ten years of age in 
each state, and each district of the 
state, which are divided in the of- 

ficial report published by congress ; 
the second gives the propiortion 
which that number bears to a 
hundred of the whole population ; 
the third exhibits the number of 
persons above forty-five years of 
age, in each state and district ; and 
the fourth, the proportion of that 
number to a hundred : 

Under 10. pro. to bund. 

New-Hampshire 60.565133 17-182 

Maine 54.896 36 54-150 

Massachusetts 124.566 39 381-416 

Connecticut 73,682 30 36-244 

Vermont 57,692 37 74-253 

Rhode-Island 19,469 29 49-065 

New-York 195,ii70 S5 139-555 

New-Jersey 66,522 34 45-194 

East-Pennsylvania 103,943 32 276-316 

West- Pennsylvania 98.907 36 166-270 

Delaware 15,878 31 42-049 

Maryland 71,454 33 40-222 

East-Virginia 113.993 33 156-340 

West-Virginia 67.327 37 147-177 

North-Carolina 122,192 36 59-337 

South-Carolina 72,075 36 143-296 

Georgia 38,248:37 85-101 

Kentucky 72,223.40 27-179 

Tennessee 27,677l4l 7-091 

abone 45 pronto buni 





13 6-182 
10 138-150 
16 5-416 
16 64-344 
9 127-153 
16 8-65 
10 499-555 

12 91-194 

13 221-316 
12 211-279 

9 11-49 

10 210-222 

11 84-340 

14 177-177 
10 244-337 

8 76-101 

9 12-197 
8 27-91 

From the foregoing table, if the 
figures are correct, result the fol- 
lowing observations : 

1st. The states, and parts of 
states which contain new land, and 
are now settling, contain the 
greatest proportion of children*... 
witness Maine, New-York, Ver- 
mont, &c This fact evinces, that 
the migration to the new lands are 
chiefly by the young and middle 
aged....and that such hardy, labo- 
rious people are most prolific* 

2d. The excess of children in 
Kentucky and Tennessee, demon- 
strates, in addition to the forego- 
ingconsiderations, the mildnessand 
silubrity of the climate, which are 
favourable to the rearing of child- 

Sd. The greatest proportion of 
persons above 45 years of age, are 
in Massachusetts, Connecticut, and 
Rhode-Island.. ..and in these, the 
lughest fraction is in Connccticut,t«. 

this arises from two causes..*.first, 
these states have no uncultivated 
lands, and of course are continually 
sufiering a loss of young persons 
by emigration.«..and second, the 
salubrity of the climate. As these 
states have the greatest proportion 
of old people, so they have the 
smallest proportion of those under 
ten years of age«...and it is observ- 
able how nearly this proportion is 
the same in three states. Of the 
three, however, Connecticut has 
not only more old people, but more 
young..*.and hence is proved to be 
either the most healthy, or it is 
demonstrated that her state society 
is most favourable to long life, by 
afifording to all conditions of people 
the best m^ans of subsistence, and 
by restraining the vices wliich 
shorten life. 

4th. From the northern to the 
southern extremity of the union, as 
there are more children under tcoi 



SO tbeve ave fewer peraons above 
45, as we prooeed southward. •••«Q 
ih&t Georgia has but half the pro- 
portion of elderly peraoos as Con- 
BecticuU Itisobaervable^however, 
that the difference b chiefly in the 
iat country «* for in the western^ 
and of course mountainous parts of 
VirKinia, the persons above 4Sy are 
to those in the eastern states, as 14 
to 16 ; while the proportion in the 
eastern district, and in Maryland, 
is onty as 11 and 10 to 16. This 
shows the salubrity of a hilly 
country, and its preference over 
plains and low gprounds. 

In making mrther comparisons 
and deductions on this subject, a 
philosophical mind may find much 
amusement and useful information. 
One striking fact deserves notice. 
In the six northern and eastern 
states, which cover the territoipr 
north of the 40th degree of lati- 
tilde, there are someu'hat more 
than hatf a million of persons under 
ten years of age....and more than 
two hundred thousand above 45.«.. 
In the sik ssuthern and western 
states, there are nearly the sama 
numbers under ten, but not so many 
above 45, by a fourth, or more than 
fifty thoiuand souls ! 

It is a remarkable fact, that the 
proportion of all who are above 45 
in the eastern states, is almost ex- 
actly the same as the proportion of 
persons who reach Uie age of 70 
f^ears, viz, 16...«The number of 
persons out of each hundred bom, 
who die at 70 or upwards, is in 
Kew-England between 15 and 16.... 
the number living above 45, is 16, 
and a fraction to each hundred* 

• I^rom the Prmtidence Gazette* 


For the State t^f Rhode^hlandj 
Anno 1803* 
This has been rather a singu- 
lar season. We had sleighing from 
the 20th to the 23d of April, and 
sharp frosts continued, with only 
two intermissions, till the 8th <» 

May. On that day the ground wss 
agam covered with snow. About 
20 miles westward of Providence, 
the SDOW covered tiiegronnd to the 
depth of five inches on a leveL On 
the 10th of May there was ice oct 
the water half an ioch thick I and 
tfie frost made its appearance seve- 
ral times in the course of the month, 
particularly on the 29th day. We 
had frost again on the 7th of Sep- 
tember, so Aat we were free from 
it only three months and eight days. 
There was not a sufficiency of rain 
north-west of Bristol befi>rethe 23d 
6[ July, but from that day till the 
Itth of August, a great quantity 
fiell everywhere. Since then, rain 
has been much wanted. The pas- 
tures have suffered much thnnigh 
the whole the qyring, 
from the cMd and want of rain ; 
and in the fall from the dry weather* 
The after-seed has been generally 
cut off, which is much against the 
farmers ; as the crop of hay was 
^ort. The products of the year 
may be stated as follow : 

Haym In some places the crop 
was promising till the last week in 
June...but we then had several days 
of very harsh drying weather, 
witho\^t dew, which was very inju- 
rious to the grass. It never reco- 
vered the check it I'eccived, and 
in most places there was not more 
than hal f a common crop. The very 
best land sufibred considerably. 
Oats sowed for fodder, suflered 
more than the grass. These, and 
a great portion of hay, were much 
damagedby the rains. Com fodder 
is abundant, and never was better. 

Rye. Winter rye was tolerably 
good, but summer ryefiuled^totally^ 
m many places. 

Flaxm l*his article seems to be 
nmou/, in this state. The crop 
never was worse than this year, it 
being almost destitute of coating.' 
There will be a considerable quan- 
tity of good seed. 

Peaches. In warm situations none, 
but they were plenty in very cold 

* I presume that this paradoxical 
circumstance is to be accounted for ia 



Corn. Before the rain set in, 
Almost every one had g^iven up tins 
com for lo6t«...the prospect was 
truly discouraging*, .tbut the rain 
had a most surprising effect on it. 
On warm rich land it never grew 
with greater rapidity, and the crop 
is very great*««.but on cold land, 
where the growth was slower, it 
did not fill out quick enough to 
escape a check from the frost on 
the 7th of SeptemberM..there it is 
light... .but upon the whole the cn^ 
is an extraordinary one. 

Afiple: Many orchards have 
lailcMl this year, but others have 
been successful ; and it appears that 
iBore cider will be made in this, 
than in either of the three preced- 
ing years* 

pQtato9» We hear many com- 
plaints of their having feiled.... 
but, on some kinds of land, they 
have succeeded very well, and 
doubtless our market will be well 
supplied with them. 

Tobacco, Remarkably good. 

Vegetfd)le9. They have suffered 
considerably from the dry weather. 
Green Peas were scarce, and sold 
high....but upon the whole, we had 
a tolerable supply. 

A Fabkek* 



Sir Benjamin employed the 
four first years of his abode at Mu- 
nich in acquiring the political and 
statistical knowledge necessary for 

this way : wc had some warm sultry 
weather in January, which put the 
buds into motion on the trees in shel- 
tered places » and warm land ; and the 
coU weather which succeeded, killed 
them ; but in cold places, where the 
bods did not surt in the winter, the 
peaches were safe. The season ope- 
rated on apples much in the same 
way. A great many trees bore fruit 
on tha north tide. It is said the fruit 
to the southward wascntirely«de8troy- 
cd by the coldneit of the spring. 

realizing the plana trhkh h^.phi-' 
lanthropy suggested to him for im- 
proving the condition of the lower 
orders. He did not neglect in the 
meantime his favourite studies and 
it was in tlie year 1766, in a jour-^ 
ney to Manheim, that he made his 
first experiments on heat. Politi- 
cal and literary honours poured in 
upon him during that interval. In 
1785 he was made Chamberlain of 
the Elector, and admitted a mem- 
ber of the academies of science of 
Munich and Manheim* In 1786 he 
received from the King of Poland 
tlie order of St. Stanislaus ; in 1787 
he made a journey to Prussia, dur- 
ing which he was elected a member 
of the academy of BerUn. In 1788 
he was appointed major-general 
of cavalry and privy counsellor of 
state. He was placed at the head 
of the war department, and parti- 
cularly charged with the execution 
of the plans whidi he had proposed 
for improving the state of the Bava- 
rian army. 

At last, the following year (1^89) 
witnessed the accomplishment of 
the numerous projects meditated, 
during those which preceded. The 
house of industry of Manheim was 
established ; the isUnds of Mulhan 
near Manheim, which till that time 
bad been nothing but a pestilential 
morass, useless for culture and per- 
nicious to the health of the inhabit- 
ants of the city, were joined toge- 
ther, surrounded by a mound and 
ditch, and transformed into a fertile 
garden, consecrated to the industry- 
of the garrison. The fine esta- 
blishment of the military academy 
of Munich was founded ; a scheme 
of military police was founded to 
deliver the country from the nume- 
rous gangs of vagabonds, robbers, 
and beggars, who infested it : schools 
of industry, belonging to every regi- 
ment, were established, to employ 
the wives and children of the sol- 
diers ; a veterinary school was in- 
stituted, and a stud of horses pro- 
vided for improving the breed of 
the country. 

At the beginning of the year 1790 
the house of industry at Munich, 



that fine establishment, which the 
Count himself has described at 
length in his essays, was formed, 
for bettering the condition of the 
poor; and mendicity was complete- 
ly abolished : nor has it again made 
its appearance in Bavaria since that 
memorable epoch. The beautiful 
Elnglish garden of Munich was be- 
gun, and military gardens establish- 
ed in all the garrisons. The sove- 
reign exi>res8ed his obligation for 
these numerous services,by confer- 
ring on Sir Benjamin the rank of 
lieutenant-general of his armies, 
and giving him a regiment of artil- 

mh 1791 he was created a Count 
of the Holy Roman Empire, and 
honoured with the order of the 
White Eagle, He employed that 
year and the following in complet- 
mg his projects, in removing the 
obstacles by which attempts were 
made to interrupt their progress ; 
in a word, since the truth should be 
spoken, in resisting the attacks of 
enemies who envied hb success* 
This species of labour, and the anx- 
iety of mind inseparable from it, 
impaired his health to such a de- 
gree, that his physicians declared 
Uiat his hfe was m danger, unless 
he retired for some time from busi- 
ness, and had recourse to a change 
of climate. He obtained permis- 
uon from the elector to take a jour- 
ney into Italy ; and before leaving 
him, communicated, in a detailed 
account, the principal results of his 
four years administration, compar- 
ed with the four years which had 
preceded his entrance into office. 

The joum^ lasted sixteen months. 
Count Rumford, after having tra- 
velled over all Italy, and a part of 
Swisserland, returned to Bavaria in 
the month of August, 1794. He had 
been attacked with a dangerous ill- 
ness in Naples, and his slow reco- 
very did not permit him to resume, 
on his return, the transaction of the 
business of his department, over 
which he contented himself with 
exercising a general superintend- 
ance* He laboured in lus closet ; 

and it was at this time that he pre- 
pared the first five of the essays 
which he has published. 

In the month of September, 1795, 
he returned to Eng^Uuid, after wa 
absence of more than eleven years. 
The principal object of his journey 
was to publish his essays, and to 
direct the attention of the English, 
nation towards the plans of public 
and domestic economy which he 
had conceived, and reaUxed in Ger- 
many. One of the most respectaUe 
men in England, lord Pelham, now 
one of the ministers, was then secre- 
tary of state in Ireland. The Count 
complied with his invitation in the 
spring of 1796, and took that occa- 
sion of visiting that interesting coun- 
try. He introduced, at Dublin, 
several important improvements 
into the hospitals and houses of 
bdustry, and left there modeb of a 
number of useful mechanical inven- 
tions. They were the first objects 
that struck mv attention when I 
visited the Society of Dublin. 

Every testimony of honour and 
gratitude was lavished upon him in 
this country. The royal academy 
of Ireland, the society for the en- 
couragement of arts and manufac- 
tures, both elected him an honorary 
member : and after having left the 
country, he received a letter of 
thanks from the grand jury of the 
county of Dublin, an official letter 
from the lord mayor of the city, and 
one from the lord lieutenant of Ire- 
land. These pieces, all of which I 
have seen, are filled with the most 
flattering expressions of esteem 
and of gratitude. 

On his return to London, he di« 
rected the alterations, which had 
been adopted, on his recommenda- 
tion, in the foundling-hospital, and 
he presented to the board of agri- 
culture several machines, as models 
for imitation. 

^ ITie philanthropic activity which 
distinguished this epocii of his life 
manifests itself in evtfry form. It 
was at this time he placed in the 
English and American fonds, two 
sums of lOOOU sterling each, U 



establish a premium to be given eve- 
ry two vears to the author of the most 
"Useful discovery, made respectively 
in Europe or America, on light or 
heat. The premium is a g:old medal 
-worth 1500 francs. It must be ad- 
judged in Europe by the royal so- 
ciety of London, and in America by 
the academy of sciences of Ame- 

Nothing seemed sufficient to with- 
draw him from these tranquil and 
important occupations, when the 
events of war called upon him to 
display his military talents for the 
service of his adopted country. 
General Moreau having crossed the 
Rhine, and defeated several bodies 
of soldiers, who disputed him its 
passage, advanced by quick marches 
to Bavaria. Count Rumford, on re- 
ceiving this intelligence, immedi- 
ately set out to join the elector. His 
arrival at Munich was eight days 
previous to the epoch when the 
sovereign was called upon to quit 
his residence, and to take refuge in 
Saxony. Rumfbrd remained in 
Munich, with instructions from the 
elector to wait events, and to act 
according to the exigency of cir- 
cumstances ; they were not long in 
requiring his interffercnce. After 
tiie battle of Friedberg, the Aus- 
trians repulsed by the French, fell 
back upon Munich ; the gates of the 
city were shut against them. They 
marched round it, passed the Inn, 
by the bridge, and ported themselves 
on the other side of the river, on a 
height which commanded the bridge 
and the town, lliere they erected 
batteries, and firmly waited for the 
French. In tliis situation, some 
inconsiderate transactions which 
happened in Munich, were inter- 
preted by the Austrian general as 
an insult pointed against himself, 
and he demanded an explanation of 
th^n from the council of regency, 
threatening to order the town to be 
fired upon, if a single Frenchman 
entered the city. At this critical 
moment, the Count made use of the 
eventual ordei-s of the Elector, to 
take the command in chief of tlie 

TOL» 1..«|K0. Hit 

Bavarian forces. His firmness and 
presence of mind awed botli par- 
ties ; neither the French nor the 
Austrians entered Munich ; and 
that city escaped all the dangers 
with which it had been threatened. 
On the return of the elector, he 
was i>laced at the head of the de- 
partment of the general police in 
Bavaria. The services which he 
rendered in that capacity, though 
less brilliant than his military ex- 
ploits, have been neither less valua- 
ble, nor less conspicuous. But the 
excessive labour to which his zeal 
and activity betrayed him, the op» 
position which he often experienced 
in the exercise of his office, again 
affected his health to such a degree, 
as threatened his life. The elec- 
tor impressed with esteem and gra- 
titude towards him, wished not to 
allow him to sink under a labour too 
severe for him, and desired to find 
the means of procuring him the 
repose which he required, without 
altogether depriving himself of his 
services : he appointed him his en- 
voy extraordinary and minister 
plenipotentiary at the court of Lon- 
don. But the rules of England not 
permitting a subject of the king to 
be accredited as a foreign minister, 
the Count has not exercised tliat 
office, and has lived, since his re- 
turn to England in 1798, as a private 

Meanwhile it was reported in 
America that hehad quitted Bavaria 
forever, and the government of the 
United States addressed to him, 
through the medium of the Ameri- 
can ambassador at London, a formal 
and official invitation to return to 
his native country, where an honour- 
able establishment was destined for 
him. The offer was accompanied 
with the most flattering assurances 
of consideration and confidence. 
He replied, declaring at the same 
time his profound gratitude for such 
a mark of esteem, " That eiy^age-. 
mcnts, rendered sacred and invio- 
lable by great cbligatlons, did not 
permit liim to disjiose of himFclf in 
such a manner as to be aUc W 



accept of the oflfer which was made 
to him." There remains nnt, sure- 
ly, in that reciprocril language, tlie 
least mark of enmity ; ami the His- 
torical Society of Massachusetts, on 
electing Count Rum ford a member, 
coramumcated to him, by their pre- 
sident, al^out the same time, their 
unanimous desire of seeing him re- 
turn to his own country, and take 
up his rcs^idence among them. His 
answer, which is to I>e found in tlie 
American paj)crs of Uiat time, was 
very much admired. 

Towards the autumn of 1800, 
Count Rumford went to Scotland. 
The magistrates of Edinburgh paid 
him a visit of ceremony ; gave a pub- 
lic dinner on his accoimt,and to these 
m.^rkTof distinction added tlie free- 
dom of the city, conceived in terms 
the most flattcrini^. l!hey consult* 
ed him on the means of improving 
the existing charitable institutions, 
and on tlio measures proper for 
abolishing mendicity. The work 
was luulertaken without loss of 
tin.e, and that great enterprise was 
finished in a few months with com- 
plete success. In Edinburgh, beg- 
giirs are no longer seen, and all the 
j)(>or tit ffir work are become indus- 
trious. The royal society of Edin- 
burgh, and the college of physicians, 
elected hnn at the same time, re- 
spectively, an honorary member, 
and the university l)cstjnwcd upon 
hrn the degree of doctor of laws. 
The dipUiUia was inserted in the 
Kuiii!)urgh newspapers; it is writ- 
ten in the nn)st Latin, and 
rrronnts sliprtly aiul truly tlic obli- 
gations of humcnity towards my 
illustrious friend. 

He employed himself duriiig his 
stay in that city in superiutcii:ling 
the cxccut'Mu, ir the gi e;it est:i!:li-.h- 
ment of Hcrioi's hosj;ital, of the 
jn;p! ovcmcnts which he has in\ enl- 
ed with rc' to the cmpU>\ ment 
of fuel in the prcpjiration of food. 
1 nivbclt ha^ e heard the high appi o- 
balif'vi '.viih which tl.e c>.ok ct this 
h V T>iuil sjjf5.:ks oi these improAe- 
mr^t^. 1 have herure me a more 
rcj-pt'vt.'.ble te-iinojiV and in .ij)pro- 
b^iion oi whiciv the grounds are 

better expressed, on the same sub* 
ject. It is a letter lately received 
from Mr. Jackson, one of the chief 
manage IS of the hospital, to the 
author of these improvements* The 
foliowing is a copy of it : 

Edinbur^hj Jtdy 21, 1801. 


*' In order to aflbrd you the most 
exact information with regard to the 
result of the preparations made 
in Heriot's hospital, I have thought 
it better to let a considerable time 
elapse, that their utility might be 
the better confirmed. 1 have now 
the satisfaction of informing you, 
that an experience of six months 
proves with certainty, that the 
same operations are executed with 
a sixth part only of the fuel which 
was employed before. The sav- 
ing, however, will be onty two- 
thirds, because the price of char- 
red coal (coak) is nearly double that 
of the fiiel which was used before. 
I assure you too, with much plea- 
sure, that the victuals are much 
better dressed than before, and 
with ofie half less trouble to the 
servants. In a word I cannot ex- 
press to you the convenience, the 
neatness, and the saving, which 
distinguish the improvements intro- 
duced into the hospital under your 
direction. The kitchen, the wash- 
ing-room, and the drying-room, are 
so admirably contrived, that in my 
humble opinion, it would be impos- 
sible to improve them. 

The Lord-Provost and th^ Ma- 
gistrates join me in acknowledg- 



{Continued from /lage 124.] 


The subject, touched upon in my 
labt, has taken such strong hold of 



my imagination, that T cannot for- 
bc^ recalling your attention to it. 
I do this with the less scruple, as I 
do not mean to trouble you witli 
any of those " vulgar fia^ages" 

Wluchthe LEARNED CRITIC, with 

a delicacy highly commendable, 
** 9partd his friend the dUguat of 
coimdering. Under this restric- 
tion, it may not be unentertaining 
Jo see in what manner writers of 
the first rank, and acknowledged 
abilities, imitate their predeces- 
sors so, as to make what they bor- 
row appear their own. You will 
not, I apprehend, require any apo- 
logy from me, for suspending awhile 
the design, with which I seemed to 
set out. I see no reason why, in 
our conversation or correspondence 
with each other, we should confine 
ourselves within any 'one certain 
track. Whatever subject may ac- 
cidentally be started in our way, we 
are, I think, at full liberty to follow, 
whithersoever it may lead ; and to 
continue the pursuit, so long as it 
affords amusement. 

We have often, you will recollect, 
read together, and been as often 
charmed with the introductory 
stanza to the first of Mr. G ray's 
two Pindaric Odes....the Progress 
of Poetry : where you have these 
admirable lines : 

Now the rich stream of music winds 

Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong ; 

Through verdant vales, and Ceres' 
golden reign : 

Now rolling from the steep amain, 

Hradlong imj^tumis see it pour ; 

Tlie rocks and nodJing groves rebel- 
low to the roar. 

The great excellencies of die sub- 
limcst poetry arc here united, with 
an ease and cU'giiuce which give to 
the composition so much the air of 
an original, that none of ^ir. Gray's 
editors, or commentators on his 
works, seem to have suspected an 
Mr. Mason, who appears to have 
been suflTicicntly assiduous in biing- 
ing together every sentiment, or 
expression » from other auihois. 

bearing resemblance to any part of 
the writings of his respected friend, 
has produced no parallel to this 
exquisitely beautifiil passage. 

Mr. Wakefield has also given U6 
an edition of Mr. Gray's poems, 
enriched with many valuable and 
interesting notes : in which he pro- 
fesses " not to be sparing of quota- 
tions from the poets," and conceiyes 
" no author to be a more proper 
vehicle for remarks of this sort, at 
once usefiil and entertaining," than 
Mr. Gray :" yet, in all his extensive 
range through tlie fields of- classic 
lore, he notices only one or two 
slight resemblances. 

Having thus taken the liberty of 
introducing Mr. Wakefield, I can- 
not suffer so favourable an opportu- 
nity to escape me, without return- 
ing to that candid and discerning 
critic my warmest thanks ; in whicli 
I am persuaded I shall be joined by 
every friend to genius, and lover of 
the muses, for his very able and 
spirited defence of the Britijh Pin- 
dar against the illibei*al attacks of a 
prejudiced commentator ; whose 
puerile strictures on these divine 
poems certainly cast a shade on his 
literary character. 

Even Dr.Johnson himself, willing, 
as he evidently wasyfrom whatever 
cause^ to degrade the high charac- 
ter which Mr. Gray deservedly 
held, of an original writer, with 
uncommon powers of fancy and in- 
vention, and, therefore, ever on the 
watch to detect any latent imita- 
tion, has been able to discover no 
instance of similar composition. 

Now allow me to submit to your 
consideration the following lines, 
wtiich, I am inclined to believe you 
have already in imaginntion antici- 
pated, from one of tlie sublimest 
Odes in Horace : 

Quod adest, memento 

Comptnicve a(]iiuj. Civtera Hiiminis 
Ritu IcruritiiT, nunc medio ulveo 

Cum j.acL* dclabcntis Eiruscum 

In niufc ; nunc lajndes adcsos 
Stirjjcquc raptas, et ]jccus, ct domes, 
^<.lvcnt".s una; non s;ne nnmtium 

CLmore, >ic;nx(jiic svlvjr. 

B. 111. O. 29. 


sPEcmKVs or litkiaat bbsbmblavcb. 

With tUi stanza before ut, will 
there not arise in the mind some* 
thing like 9U9picion^ that Mr. 
Gray, when he wrote the fine lines 

3 noted above, had hU eye on Horace ? 
lUow me to mark the principal 
features of resemblance. \Ve have 
In each poet a stream, applied by 
the one to the various forms of 
poetrj-, by the other to the vicissi- 
tudes of human afiiiirs, with espe* 
cial reference to political revolu- 
tions* It is conducted by both, first 
in a course of placid serenity, then in 
torrents of rapid impetuosity ; and 
marked at tlie close, by the same 
striking and impressive conse- 
quence. I 

" The rocks and aodding groves re-' 
bellow to the roar." 

Ven' nearly a verbal translation of 
the Latin text, 

" Non sine montium 

*' Clamore, vicinxque sylvx." 

Here is certainly in these two pas- 
sages an extraordinary coincidence 
of thought and imagery. In addi- 
tion to which, the varying circum- 
stances, described in boUi, follow 
each other exactly in the same or- 
der. The attentive reader will 
however discover, under this gene- 
ral similitude,* a considerable dif- 
ference in tlie mode of composition 
between the British and tlie Roman 
Pifndar. Enough, perhaps you will 
think, to remove all appearance of 
direct imitaticn. It is most proba- 
ble that Gray, without recurring to 
the text of Horace, has only copied 
from the traces, which a fi*equent 
perusal had left upon his memory. 
This hypothesis will appear more 
credible, when we analyze tlie dif- 
ferent forms of composition. W hile 
the stream of Horace glides quietly 
into the Etrus-can ocean, with no 
other distinction than that uf gen- 

** C«w/>flce ddabentisElruicum 
" In marc ; 

the Stream of Grmy winds Bkngiritk 
a marked character, ^)pn^»riate to 

his subject: 

^Decp, majestic, smooth, and steo^i;." 

Mr. Gray gives also peculiar graof 
and beauty to the piece, by his sky- 
fid use of tlie metaphorical style, 
blending the simile with the subject, 
so much in the manner of Pindar ; 
and not making, as Horace has 
done, a formal comparison of the 
one with the other. 

I cannot here resist the tempta- 
tion of recalling to your recollection 
an exquisitely fine passage in the 
book of Psalms ; in whidi similar 
imagerv is applied, under the same 
form, m a manner most awfiiUy 
sublime. It is where the divinely 
inspired poet, magnifying the God 
of his salvation, describes, in the 
true spirit of Eastei*n poetry, his 
protecting power as follows : 

•* Who stillest the ragtj^ <>f the Mea, 
and the noise of his waves, and th# 
tnaduett (f the people " 

Psalm Ixv. V. 7. 

Pope has, in many instances, adopt- 
ed this graceful manner ; and in 
none more successfidly than in that 
celebrated address to his guidej 
philosopher, and friend, in th» 
Essay on Man, £p.'iii« 

'' Oh ! while along the stream of time 

thy name, 
" Expanded, flies, and gathers all its 

fame ; 
" Say, shall my little bark attendant 

" Pursue the triumph, and paruke 

the gale V 

It will be rather a matter of curi». 
osity, if I do not appear too trifling, 
to see how this beautiful passage 
would read, taken out of metaphori 
and delivered in the plain compara- 
tive form. I will endeavour to ren- 
der it in this form, as correctly as 

may be Oh ! while your name 

flics abroad along^ the course cf time, 
and gatliers all its fame, like a sliip 
going down the stream, and, '\\itk 



^laptMSkd ails, gathering* as it goes, 
the wind ; say ! shall I attend, like 
A little bark, pursue the triumph, 
and share in your fame, as the little 
bark partakes the gale, which 
awelia the canvass of the larger 
vessel ? You will not, I trust, require 
any fiirther coviment to ascertain 
the respective merits attached to 
these different* forms of compo- 

Mr. Gray, it will be seen, has 
still further improved upon the 
Roman bard, by the addition of 
those verdant vales, and golden 
fields of com, through wliich, in 
the first division of his subject, he 
conducts the peaceful stream : 

Through verdant vftles and Ceres' 
golden reign. 

In the second division he simply 
describes it, now swollen into an 
overflowing river, rolling impetu- 
ously down the steep descent/ 
which Horace emphatically ex- 
presses from Homer, by the effects. 

You, who are wont to view all 
works of taste with so correct and 
critical an eye, cannot £ail to observe, 
and at the same time to admire, the 
masterly skill of these great artikts 
in the execution of their separate 

In Mr. Gray's Ode, the varying 
movements of music, or poetry, 
are very happily illustrated by the 
inconstant cnrrent of a riter ; as- 
suming in different places, a dif- 
ferent character; presenting you 
by turns, either with rich and beau- 
tiful prospects, in sootliing com- 
posure; or rousing the mind into 
emotions of wonder and astonish- 
ment, by scenes of a bolder feature ; 
rolling, with the roar of thunder, 
down broken rocks and precipices. 

The imagery of Horace is equally 
well cho&cn, and suiied tu his 
purpose. His object was the course 
of events, which altet iiAlely take 
place in a popular government, at 
onetime peaceful and oiderly, dis- 
pensing case, security, and happi- 
ness to all around ; at another, ir- 
regular^ tumultuous, and turbulent, 

marking its progress with terror 
and destruction ; like thechang-efui 
course of a river, the Tiber for 
instance, which was daily in liis 
view, flowing at one time quietly 
and equably within its accustomed 
banks, atanotlier, 

" Cum fera diluvies quietos 
*< Irritat amnes ;" 

raising its swollen waves above afl 
bounds, breaking witli irresistible 
fury through all obstacles, and, 
with wide-spreading desolation, 
bearing down every thing in its way : 

....*' lapides adescs, 
'* Stirpesque raptas, et pec us, et do- 


It is the more remarkable that 
Dr. Johnson should have overlooked 
this apparent imitation, when he 
has chosen, with Algarotti, he says, 
to consider the Bard as an imitation 
of the Prophecy of Nereus. This 
is more than Algarotti anywhere 
affirms. In his letter to Mr. How, 
he says th:it tlie Bard is very far 
superior to the Prophecy of Nereus* 

" Che quel vaticinio mi sembra di 
graniuuga kuperioreal vaticinio di 
Nereo supra lu eccidio Oi Troia." 

In whidi opinion Dr. Johnson does 
not seem equally disposed to concur 
with the learned Italian. 

This Is a question which does not 
admit of argument. If there be a 
man who can bear the sudden 
breaking fortli cf those terriAc 
sounds in tlie exordium, at which 
alout Gloucester Htood aghaaty and 
Mor tinier cried to artna^ and not 
thrill with horror: if tliere be a 
man, who can behold tlie awi'ul 
figure of the bard, in hisi aaola 
•veatmentSy wiih his haggard tyea^ 
hi« looae deardj and /loary huiry 

** Streamed like a meteor tj the troubleJl 

and hear him 



•* StrUe the deep wmmM ofbu iyrt/* 

without emotion : this man, if such 
a man there be, has no feelings, to 
which a critic on the works of a 
great poet can apply. It were as 
vain and useless to converse with a 
man of this description on such 
subjects, as to commune with a deaf 
man on the enchantments of music, 
or with one blind on the charms of 


( Continued Jrom/iage 152, J 

" What had I,....thc outcast of 
•ociety...,tlie poor, rightless de- 
pendant on the caprice of others**., 
what had I to do with high feeling, 
conscious worth, the sense of ex- 
alted gcnerosit}', or the haughty 
indignation of innocence aguinst op- 
prcsbion....Ah, dear and amiable 
Miss Goldney, when I shed those 
bitter tears over your untimely 
grave, when I refused comfort, 
when I shunned society, and aban- 
doned myself to a despair that was 
imputed to mc as a crime, I doubtless 
foresaw that I was to hear no more 
the soothing tones of knidncss.... 
tliat I was no more to experience 
the blessing of a friend ! 

" How can I bear to dwell on the 
melancholy scene of her illness ; 
and yet, in my hours of misery, I 
love to recal her patient and dig- 
nified suffering*. ..the resignation 
with which she awaited the stroke 
which was to release her from a 
painful disease, and a world, in 
which for my sake alone, she 
wislicd to continue. 

" Pliilip," said she to me one 
day, while I sat beside her, " I 
look forward with anxiety to your 
fate. Your ardent, impeluous tem- 
per, when I am no longer at hand 
to rcstr ain it., .your gloon^y firmnesF, 
when tlie voice ot kindness shull 
no longer attempt to soften it, will 
expose you to serious calamity ! 
Fhihp l)ellwyn) when injustice 

rouses yoo, when capricfc despises 
you, when meanness injures, or 
when t>Tanny oppresses you, Uiink 
of me:....Oh then be gentle, be 
patient !....Your situation, my dear 
boy, will not admit of those high* 
spirited virtues, which yet, I trust, 
will, one day or other, when all 
yonr difficulties shall be surmounted, 
render you respectable and happy, 
the exalted, the dignified being I 
wish to see you ;..*.but remember, 
Dellwyn, through patient suffering 
lies the road to peace." 

*' Her woihIs were surely pro- 
phetic.***! promised to remember 
her ; alas i could I ever forget the 
sweet mouitress of my early days, 
whose smile had cheered me, and 
whose approbation had exalted me ? 

" I besought her to tell me who 
I was. She refused ; but was it in 
Miss Goldney *s power to preserve 
a silence which she felt it was in* 
jurious to keep i I entreated, I 
reasoned: ....her steadiness totter- 
ed, the secret trembled on her lips, 
and a few minutes would have put 
me in possession of a truth, which 
slie would have softened to mc, 
when Mr* Goldney entered* She 
was worse in the night, and the 
next day •••* *•.••••* 

^^ Mr* Goldney now kept no 
terms with me ; he ridiculed my 
sorrow, and scoffed at my feelings : 
my answers he treated as the wild 
e^sions of enthusiasm, almost to 
madness ; but the cautions of my 
lost friend kept down the irritation 
of my temper. Mine was, how- 
ever, naturally combustible : I was 
was no longer a child. The know- 
ledge Mr. Goldney had communi- 
cated, had enlarged my under- 
standing ;...*his mind was not to 
be enlarged, even by learning: 
learning burdened his head and 
memory with much cumbrous pomp, 
but his heart could not open 'to 
wisdom. He continued to treat , 
me with the same intolerable sar- 
casm ; it seemed as if he strove to 
provoke the consequences* Long 
did I bear, without explosion, the 
irritiiting taunts of malice, the 
biting irony of spleen, the mean 



jdlkisions to a secret he refused to 
disclose, the threats of low-minded 
oppression, and the stings of unjust 
opprobrium. At length I could bear 
these no longer ; my spirit revolted 
against such palliating conduct as 
mean and servile :••••! retorted 
when next Goldney taunted me, 
add retorted with such keenness, 
that I shook his very soul. We 
knew no limits ; I reproached him 
with his conduct in terms which 
took fipm him all self-command : 
I acted on principle, and therefore 
possessed fnine. I had argued with 
myself, that, with a body strong, 
hc»lthy, and active, with a mind 
well cultivated, and no rebellious 
will, I could not fail to support 
myself. I cared little, therefore, 
what consequences I provoked, and 
I forbore no reproach, no expres- 
sion, that could set before him, in 
its true light, the abominableness of 
his conduct. At length he ordered 
me to quit his house, and to see it 
no more....^< This conduct, young 
man," Said he, *' absolves me from 
•all fiirther care of you, and exo- 
nerates me and all concerned from 
any engagements. Had you de- 
served it, the munificence of your 
father would have given jou, at 
twenty-one, one thousand pounds ; 
now go forth, a high-souled, pen- 
ny less bastard !" 

^' I refiised to go, till I knew the 
name of this munificent parent: 
but Goldney, well aware that his 
silence on this head would be a far 
greater punishment than the po- 
verty he had denounced against me, 
resolutely maintained it, nor could 
all my exertions obtain the least 

** Irritated and dejected, I went 
to weep over the grave of Miss 
Goldney. I recalled her mild and 
complacent manners, her concilia- 
tory advice, her patient spirit ; 
yet I reproached not myself. For 
her sake, I had boine for months, 
treatment the most injurious ; to 
have submitted longer, had been 
to deserve it....hadbeen to shew a 
spirit nitlier servile than resigned, 
a spirit even my patient monitrcbs 

could never have approved :....but 
on her grave I wept so long that 
night found me still there. I had 
taken with me a small packet of 
linen, a book, the valued present 
of Miss Goldney, and two guineas 
....all in the world I could call my 
own ; for it appeared to have been 
Goldney *s policy or orders to keep 
me wholly without property 1 I was, 
however, rich enough to pay for a 
supper and a lodging, and walked 
away to a village a few miles distant. 

" The night brought no sleep to 
my eyes ; the world was now before 
me. " The moment," said I to 
myself, *' must have arrived, when 
I must have made choice of some 
mode of obtaining subsistence ^ it 
has advanced rather more rapidly, 
that is all." 

" At eighteen, with health, 
strength, and talents, one does not 
readily despair. "London," thought 
I, " is the great mart for talent :".... 
and to London I determined to go. 
The pen offered itself as the readi- 
est means of gaining bread, and I 
resolved to wri^c. Already had I 
laid the plan of my futui*e labours, 
already had I turned some very 
eloquent periods, when I fell into a 
doze, from which I was awakened 
b> the morning sun. As I prepared 
for my journey, I felt the spirit of 
independence rise within me: I 
took a hasty breakfast, and set 
forward on foot for London, exult- 
ing in the thought of the shame 
with which I should so soon over- 
whelm Goldney. I felt invigorated 
with hope, and enlivened with tlic 
thought of depending only on myself. 
Full of delightful reveries, I forgot 
that I was a hundred and hfty miles 
from London, that I was unused to 
long journies, and unacquainted 
with the world :...alas 1 at eighteen, 
all difficulties fade before the con- 
sciousness of health, talents, uud 

(^2o be continued, J 

This man, v/ho became the 
victim of an ungovernable propcn- 



«ity to deceptioit, was, when a 
youth, employed in the capacity of 
a rider to a linen draper in the north 
of En^and* In the course of this 
service he became acquainted with 
a young woman, who was nursed 
and resided at a farmer's house in 
the neighbourhood of his employer. 
8hc had been, m her earlier life, 
taught to consider the people with 
whom she lived, as her parents. 
Remote fi*om the gaieties and follies 
of what is so idly denominated po- 
lished life, she was unacquainted 
with tlic allurements of fashion, 
and considered her domestic duties 
as the only object of her considera- 
tion. When this deserving girl 
had arrived at a certain age, the 
honest farmer explained to her the 
secret of her birth ; he told her, 
that notwithstanding she had always 
considered him as her parent, he 
was in fact only her poor guardian, 
and that she was the natural 
daughter of Lord Robert Manners, 
wIk) intended to give her one 
thousand pounds, provided she 
rnaiTicd witli his approbation. 

This discovery soon reached the 
ears of Hatfield : he immediately 
p lid his respects at the farmer's, 
and, having represented himself as 
a young man of considerable ex- 
pectations in tlic wholesale linen 
business, bis >isits were not dis- 
ctiiiutcnanced. 'Die fcirmer, how- 
e'ver, thought it incumbent to 
acquaint his Icivdship with a propo- 
cnl made to him by Hatfield; that 
he would marry the young woman 
if her relations were sjitisfied with 
their union, but on no other terms. 
TItis hi 6 so much the appearance 
of hn honourable and prudent in- 
tentitin, that' his Loidship, en being 
acquainted with the circumstances, 
desired to see the lover. He accor- 
dingly puidhis respects to the noble 
find uusus]:ccting parent, who, con- 
ceiving tlie young man to be what 
he represented himself, gave his 
consent at tlie first interview, and, 
the day after the marriage took 
jjlace, ];rcscnted the bridegroom 
>itli a draft on liis banker for 15001. 

lliis transftCtiofn txyck pLwct ab6Qt 
32 or 33 years ago. 

Shortly after the receipt of his 
Lordship's bounty, Hatfield set off* 
for London, and was perpetually^ 
at the coffee-houses in Co vent 
Garden ; describing himself to 
whatever company he chanced to 
meet, as a nefir relation of the Rut- 
land family ; would frequently pur- 
chase a haunch of venison ; invite 
his coffee-house acquaintance to 
dine with him, and entertain them 
with a flowing description of his 
park in Yorkshire, and the flavour 
of the venison it produced, a spc* 
cimen of which he passed curmit 
for a few weeks ; when some of his 
new acquaintances began to find 
him out, and frequently jeer him 
on his being an adept in what they 
styled " poetical prose, or th€ 
beauties of imagination." Hatfield, 
however, was insensible to all these 
rebukes, and continued to retail hia 
preposterous fabrication with such 
an air of confidence, that he became 
generally known throughout Co* 
vent Garden by the name of Lying 

I'he marriage portion bemg 
nearly exhausted, he retreated from 
London, and was scarcely herrd 
of until about the year 1782, when 
he again visited the metropolis, and 
was shortly afterwards arrested, 
and committed to the King's -Bench 
prison for a debt, amountmg to the 
sum of 1601. Several unfortunate 
gentlemen then confined in the same 
place, had been df his parties when 
he flourished in Co vent Garden, 
and perceiving him in extreme 
poverty, frequently invited him to 
dinner; yet, such was the unac- 
countable disposition of this man, 
that, notwithstandinghe knew there 
were people present who were tho- 
roughly aequainted wjjth his cha<». 
racter, still he woulcfcontinuc to 
describe his Yorkshire park, hift 
estate in Rutlandshire, settled upon 
his wife, and generally wind up the 
whole with observing how vexa- 
tious it was to be confined at the 
suit of a paltry tradesman for «e 



iDMgnificaDt a vufh at the Viory 
moment wlwn he had thirty men 
employed in cutting h piece of wa;t^r 
i^eAr the iaipUy oiaofiioii in York- 

At the time Hatfield bec^iine a 
pnaoner i^ the Kii^g's Benchs the 
late imfortunate Valentine Morri39 
formerly Govemoi: of the island 
of St. Vincent^ was confined in the 
same place* Tnis gentleman was 
frequently visited by a clergyman 
of the most benevolent and humane 
disposition* Hatfield soon directed 
his attention to this good man, and 
one day earnestly invited him to his 
chamber* After some preliminary* 
apologies, he implored t^e worthy 
pastor never to disclose what he 
vas going to communicate. The 
divine assured him the whole should 
remain in his bosom. ''Then," 
said Hatfield, '< you see before you 
^ man nearly allied to the house of 
Rutlahdj and possessed of estates : 
(here followed the old story of the 
Yorkshire park, the Rutlandshire 
property, &c. &c.) yet, notwith- 
ftanding all this wealth, continued 
he, I am detained in this wretched 
place for the inaignificant sum of 
1601. But the truth is, Sir, I would 
not have my situation known to 
any man in the world but my 
worthy relative his Grace of Rut- 
land (the father of the present 
Duke was then living)«...inideed I 
would rather remain a captive for- 
ever. But, Sir, if you would have 
the goodness to pay your respects 
to this worthy nobleman, and frankly 
describe how matters are, he will 
at once send me the money by you, 
and this mighty business will not 
only be instantly settled, but I shall 
have the satisfaction of introducing 
you to a connexion which may be 
attended with happy consequences." 

The honest clergyman readily 
undertook the commission; paid 
his respects to the Duke, and pa- 
thetically described the imfortunate 
situation of his amiable relative. 
His Grace of Rutland, not recol- 
lecting at the moment such a name 
as Hatfield, expressed his astonish- 
ment at the application. This re- 

TOL. I....KOft III. 

4mcjQ4 4^ w<9r4iy divide to an 
awkward situf^tion, and he faul- 
tered in his speech, >yhen he began 
qoaking an apology, which Uie Duke 
f^coiying, he very kindly pbjserye<|, 
that he beMeved iho whole wa^ 
some idle tale of an impostor, for 
tliat he ney^ )uiew any persgn of 
the name mentioned, althotig^ h^ 
had some faii^t recollection of 
hearing Lord Robert, his relation, 
say that he had marned a natural 
daughter of his to ^ tradesman m 
the north of England, and whose 
name he believed was Hatfield* 

7^he reverend missionary was fo 
eonfounded, that he immediately 
retired and proceeded to theprison, 
where he gave the unhappy gent^e^ 
roan, in tlie presence of Mr, Morris, 
^ most severe lecture. But the ap-> 
pearance of this venerable man aft 
his friend, had the effect which 
Hatfield expected ; for the J)\ji^(^ 
sent to inquire if he were th^ m^ 
that married the natural .daughter 
of Loi*d .Robert Manners ; ai¥l 
being satisfied as to tl^e fact, dis^ 

Satched a messenger with 2001* and 
ad him released. 
In the year 1784 or 1785, hi9 
Grace of Rutland was appointed 
Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and, 
shortly after Ixis arrival in Dublin^ 
Hatfield made his appearance ii| 
that city. He immediately on his 
landing, engaged a suit of apart- 
ments at a hotel in CoUege-green, 
and represented himself as nearly 
allied to the vicerpy, but that ho 
could not appear fit tiie castle until 
his horses, servants, apd carriages 
were arrived, which he ordered^ 
before his leaving England, to be 
shipped at Liverpool. The easy 
and familiar manner in which he 
addressed the master of the hotel, 
perfectly satisfied him that he had 
a man of consequence in his house, 
and matters were arranged accord- 
ingly. This being adjusted, Hat- 
field soon found his way to Lucas's 
coffee-house, a place where people 
of a certain rank generally frequent, 
and, it being a new scene, the 
Yorkshire park, the Rutlandshire 
estate, and the connexion with the, 



Rotlmid familf , stood their ground 
"eery well for about a month. 

At the expiration of this timey 
the bill at the hotel amounted to 601. 
and upwards. The landlord became 
importunate, and, after expressing 
his astonishment at the non-arrival 
of Mr. Hatfield's domestics, Bcc 
requested he might be permitted to 
fiend his bill, lliis did not in the 
least confose Hatfield ; he imme« 
diately told the master of the hotel, 
that very fortunately his agent, who 
received the rents of his estates iir 
the north of England, was then in 
Ireland, and held a public emplo)*- 
ment ; he lamented that his agent 
was not then in Dublin, but he had 
the pleasure to know his stay in the 
country would not exceed three 
days. This satisfied the landlord, 
and at the expiration of three days 
he called upon the gentleman whose 
name Hatfield had given him, and 
presented the account. Here fol- 
lowed another scene of confiision 
and surprize. The supposed agent 
of the Yorkshire estate very frankly 
told the man who delivered the bill, 
that he had no other knowledge of 
tlie person who sent him, than what 
common report fiimishedhim with, 
and that his general character in 
London was that of a romantic sim- 
pleton, whose plausibilities had im- 
posed on several people, and plunged 
himself into repeated difficulties. 

The landlord returned highly 
thankful for the information, and 
immediately arrested his guest, who 
was lodged in the prison of the 
Marshalsea. Hatfield had scarcely 
seated himself in his new lodg- 
ings, when he visited the jailer's 
wife in her apartment, ai^d, in a 
whisper, requested her not to tell 
any person, that she had in custody 
a near relation of the then viceroy. 
The wonjan, astonished at the dis- 
ccvery, immecliatelv shewed him 
into the best apartment in the prison, 
had a table provided, and she, her 
husband, and Hatfield, conjitantly 
dined top;ether for nearly three 
weeks, in the utmcst harmony rjid 
gccd humour. 

Daring this time he had petition--' 
ed the Duke for another supply, who, 
apprehensive that the fellow might:' 
continue his impositions in Dublin^ 
released him, on condition of his im- 
mediately quitting Ireland ; and his 
Grace sent a servant, who conduct* 
ed him on board the packet that 
sailed the next tide for HoUyhead. 

A few years after his arrival oir 
the other side of the water, we- 
understand he was arrested for a 
debt contracted in the north of 
England, and that he remained in 
prison for seven years* 

Sometime after he was liberated, 
he had the good fortune to cotmect 
himself with some respectable 
tradesmen in Devonshire, where 
he might have lived happily, se- 
cluded from those who formerly 
knew him, and acquired an honest 
independency; but deception was 
so rooted in his nature, that he 
could never shake it off. He was 
soon detected in fraudulent pactices, 
and, as we have heard, declared 
a bankrupt. His flight succeeded^ 
and unfortunately some evil genius 
directed his steps to the once happy 
cottage of poor Mary of Butter^ 
mere. Her story is well known, 
and generally lamented ; but let us 
in charity hope that this wretch's 
crimes will be forgiven " in another 
and better world,".. ..and that his 
punishment in this, will answer 
tlie salutary purposes of example ! 


[The frllowin(3^ is so agreeable a spe- 
cimen of wit, that though it has 
already appeared in a daily pftper, 
wc cannot re&ist tUe inclination t« 
insert it in this ccUccticn.] 

To Mr. Andrew Quoz. 

Dear Sir^ 
I concluded my former letter, 
with an accoimt of our melancholy 
lack of auditors, on our first even- 
ing of performance, in consequence 
of a miraculous draught of Slur^eoa. 



FuBy conrinced, however, that 
it was not thi-oagh want of faaie 
tliat the Albanians did not attend, 
we immediately went to work with 
renewed spirit, and determined to 
melt them with tragedy on the next 

An army was equipped, equal in 
number and splendor to those who 
generally tag at the heels of our 
theatric warriors in New York ^ 
our military music consisted of a 
drum, fife, and tvvo pot lids, by 
way of cymbals, and for want of a 
trumpeter, the entree of our heroes 
was announced by a ferryman, with 
his conk-shell. Our orchestra was 
in a style equally superb, and con- 
eisted of three most inveterate 
£ddlers. Their music was much 
admired, being a selection of vete^^ 
ran aymphoniea^ from the ancient 
stock of the New York leader, that 
"hsid.grown grey in the service* 

For a few evenings we succeeded 
liappily. The novelty of a theatre 
was attractive ; our sceneries were 
■admired ; the citizens were pleased 
to express their approbation of our 
operas, because '^ we sung wiihaiu 
vmrbling^ tliat defect so common 
to modern sinj^crs ! !" and as to our 
dander and blixum^ it gave uni- 
versal satisfaction. Indeed, we 
ibund our thunder of most material 
service, for whenever any of us 
were out in our parts, or an actor 
was tardy in making his appear- 
ance, we had but to wink to the 
prompter, and a peal of thunder 
came happily to our assistance; 
the audience clapped their hands^ 
encored, and pronounced the gen- 
tleman who roiled the thunder ball, 
A most promising performer. 

Ah happy days ! Ah prosperous 
4jmcs of hearty dinners and hot 
suppers, why was your date so 
short 1 why were your enjoyments 
80 transient! Poor dogs ihat we 
were, no sooner had we begun to 
get familiar with our new patrons, . 
and to display our talents with con- 
Adcnce, but we had the misfortune 
to experience a general desertion. 

Far be it from me, Mr. Quoz, 
4^ question the taste of tlie good 

people of Albany; their love of 
Sturgeon, and hatred of warbling, 
place that far beyond the reach of 
dispute. Unfortunately, however, 
they were too much engaged in 
more 9QUd and firqfitable pursuits 
to pay us that attention they 
doubtless would otherwise have 
shewn. Of course, the number of 
citizens who attended our exhibi- 
tions, was rather circumscribed, 
and tlieir curiosity was unluckily 
diverted into another channel. 

An er/unent artist^ arrived from 
New York, loaded to the muzzle 
with fire-works ; his bills blazed 
conspicuously at every comer ; his 
rockets soared over the city, and 
dazzled every eye. The honest 
folks gaped at them with astonish- 
ment, " they swore in faith, 'twas 
strange ! 'twas passing strange !*^ 
and then, so cheap....wondrous 
cheap; at our place they had to 
pay a dollar admittance, while 
here, it was but climbing on a 
fence, and they miglit see the whole 
^^free gratia'* for nothing at all ! 1 
In vain we essayed every art to 
draw them back ; in vain we rein- 
forced our orchestra with a music« 
grinder, and advertised an extra 
storm of dunder and bitjcum,,,* 
all would not do. ...the artist still 
kept his gi*ound. To be sure, he 
sometimes got out of gun-powder, 
but then he always gave them///^yi/y 
qf brimntone. 

How long fire-works would have 
been tlie rage, I cannot say, had 
not brimstone disagreed as much 
with their nerves, as it did with 
those of the honest citizens of New 
York, on a certain fourth of JuLy 
exhibition ; we should therefore, 
most probably have experienced a 
return of their patronage, hrul not, 
as ill luck would have it, a company 
of wooden puppets arrested their 
attentioiu To see a number of 
persons act a play, even tliough 
they did it tolerably well, was 
notliin g remarkable ; for what could 
be more natural or easy, than for 
a- man to walk and talk in his own. 
manner and language ; but to sec- 
several little sticks 01 wood, stmt? 


it TRBATKltrAL CAH^AlOlr* 

ting about, squeaking tiirongh tire 
nose, and hopping a hompi|)c like 
men and women. .;.Lord, it was so 
strange, bo qncer, so nut of the 
T^ay, every lady was In raptures. 

In a short time, however, their 
surprise wore off, end they begn.n 
to look upon ud with returning 
complHcency, when who should ar- 
rive in town, but another formi- 
dable enemy... .the learned Pig! 
There was new matter for astonish- 
ment and admiration ! A pig that 
understood, one nnd one made two, 
and could cast up a sum according 
to Cocker or Dil worth, was not to 
be passed over with neglect, by a 
mercantile people. Every one was 
for seeing the remarkable animal.... 
every one was ft*r having some of 
the breed to stock their counting 
rooms. For some time we kept 
the field agamst the pig, with unequal 
Micce«8, when, fortunately we ad- 
vertised a play for the benefit of 
Mr. Hogf^. Here then, the match 
stood, Hogg against Kg, the bets 
tan high in favour of Pig, when as a 
desperate resource, we promised in 
the bills a dissertation between the 
^lay and the farce, on the art to 
^jrow rich, to be spoken in the cha- 
racter of Major Sturgeon. The 
pbn succeeded, Hogg beat Ae Pig 
aft hollow, and the knowing one^ 
■^erc finelv taken in. 

Thus, Mr* Quoz, were the honest 
people of the metropolis, distracted 
with a variety of amusements, and 
their judgments continually unde- 
termined, on which they should 
bestow their patronage....good 
aouls ! how do I wonder, that pos- 
*6esscd of such a flow of spirits, 
such volatile imaginations, you ma- 
naged to keep your senses in such a 
confused medley of plays, puppets, 
"pigs and brimstone ! 

Satisfied with the meagre success 
of our expedition, we determined to 
return once more to our old situation 
in New York, and henceforth be 
content with the humble honours of a 
firoiunciai theatre. We accord- 
ingly took our leave of Albany, 
fans drtimj san» trumfiet^ a la mode 
Jhyaiicauc^ and arrived safely ia 

this city, Where #e h«t* ahriiyfl 
found the inhabitants not t«io re^ 
fined to relish our performances, 
but indulgent in our Rtulta^ and sen- 
gibleof our merits. Happy were^ 
we, to meet once more our fellow 
performers who had not aecom^ 
pained us in our unfortunate excur- 
sion, and infinitely more so w e r ^ 
we on our first evening's exhibition^ 
to behold once more the smilinf^ 
faces of our patrons, and receive 
their kind and friendly salutattons* 
We f oimd the theatre in some little 
derangement on our return, having 
been converted during the sickly 

season, into a printing-office* 

Tliis change, however, was mate- 
rial in its nature, as the place had 
fttill been devoted to the instmctioB 
and amu^ment of the public ; things 
Vere much in ^e state we left 
them, except the robes of Dr. Last, 
which were considerably worn by 
the Editor, during his medical 

This reminds nie of an obsenra- 
tion 1 have somewhere seen, ^tfr 
temfiora Mtctantnr ei trumpery 
mutantur etiam.** 

Your humble tiervant, 
Dick Buckham. 



Japies Boswell wasbomaboQt 
the >iear 1740. He was the eldest 
son of Alexander Boswell of Auchtn- 
leek, the representative of a very 
ancient and respectable family, and 
one of the senators of the CoHege of 
Justice, the supreme tivil court fh 

He received his early education 
at the sdiools and in the miiveratty 
of Edinlborgfa, where his fafter^s 
professional pursuits necessarily 
fixed his residence. In his very 
boyish years, he was distrnguished 
among his young companions for a 
quickness and precocity of parts, 
and for a playfol vivacity of humour. 
During his attendance at the uni- 
versity, '^e powers which lie dis- 

xsMora or james boswcll, S8<^ 


ykmd in his exciues, and in the 
societies of his feUow-8tudeiits> ex- 
cited an applause vhich wanned 
Ills opening mind with hopes of 
ftitare literary greatness. 
. Some eminent Scotsmen, s^ch as 
Hume^ KaimeS) and Robertson, had 
about this time, dbtinguished them- 
selves in literature. Those ancient 
preiodlces had been gradually ef« 
faoediby which the Soots were too 
long withheld from the liberal cul- 
tivation of every Engliali art. A 
theatre for the exhibition of the 
works of the English drama had, 
in spite of presbyterian prejudices, 
at length, begun to attract, at £dm« 
burgh, the resort of the leaders in 
the sphere of fiEtthiOD. Even the 
pleaders at the Scottish bar began 
to become ambitious of discarding 
from their speech the broad gabble 
of tl)eir native dialect, and anxious- 
ly asked the players to tutor them 
to prattle English. The voice of 
fashion, loudly echoing the softer 
suggestions of academical erudition 
and taste, catted all the gay and the 
young to cultivate and to prize ele- 
gant letters. 

Passionately desirous to flutter 
and to shine among the young and 
faahioiQable, as well as ambitious to 
merit the esteem of the learned, 
Boswell, the farther he entered 
upon the scenes of life, became still 
more ardently the votary of wit 
and of the literary arts. The greater 
number of the young men of for- 
tune, in many countries, are com- 
monly so idle, and of course so silly, 
in the first years of opening man- 
hood, that a very small portion of 
wit and common sense must be 
easily sufficient to constitute a pro- 
^gy of parts among them. Boswell, 
acoordingl)', fennd no difficulty in 
making himself the dictator of a 
little circle. He was taught to be- 
lieve himself a native genius, 
destined to attain to all that was 
great in elegant literature, ahnost 
without the aid of study. Hh socie- 
ty Iras eagerly courted ; hissayiiigs 
were repeated; his little composi- 
tious, however light and friyohnis, 
were praised^ as flowing from an 

unrivalled felicity of humour, wit^ 
and fancy. So much hasty applausa 
would have been enough to spoil 
any young man. Not pride, but 
the vanity of literary ancl colloquial 
eminence, was thus early i*ooted in 
Boswell's bosom, and became hia 
ruling passion. lie learned to ac* 
count it the supreme felicity of life^ 
to ^Murkle in gay convivial converse 
over wine, and to mingle with pas* 
sionate delight in the society of 
professed wits. He was encouraged 
to try his fortune, far too rashly, 
as a youthAil author ; and to send 
to the press various levities in poe* 
try and prose, which had been 
much more wisely condemned to 
the fire. Of these, several a{^iear-r 
ed in a small Collection of Poems, 
by Scottish p;entlemen, which was, 
about this time, published at Edin- 
burgh. BosweU's pieces in this 
Collection possess scarcely any 
other merit than that of a giddy 
vivacity, h was fortnately ea- 
riched with some more precious 
materials, the compositions of Dr* 
Thomas Blacklock, of Gilbert Gor- 
don, Esq. of Halleaths, and of 
Jerome Stone, rector of the schodl 
of DunkeUL A series of letters 
between Boswell and his friend^ the 
late Hon. Andrew Erskine, were, 
with similar imprudence, published 
about the same time, but certainly 
not at all to the honour of ^ther of 
the young gentlemen. So little fit- 
ted tsoftenthat which has enlivened 
the gaiety of convivial con versatioa, 
or has, in manuscript, been ap» 
pkuded, to meet, from the press, 
the examination of an unprejudicod 
jury^ before which none but its 
genuine independent merits can 
have weight in its favour. 

Thus far, young BosweU's life 
had been gay and flattering: he 
was now to launch farther out upon 
the ocean of the world. In the 
choice of professional destination, 
he hesitated between a life of lite- 
rature and business, and one of idle- 
ness and fashion. Had it not been 
for his father's authoi^ty, the latter 
would have gained his preference. 
Bat liocd Auclunkck, belleviqg 


irtMOIl or JAMES B08WKLL, CSQ*' 

that the lively talents of his son 
could not fail of success at the bar, 
vrged him to become a lawyer, 
ivith flatteries, promises, and some 
threats, which at last subdued 
James's passion for a red coat, a 
cockade and a commission in the 
Guanls. A sort of compromise 
took place between the father and 
the son ; in consequence of which, 
the latter obtained permisiiion, with 
a suitable pecuniary allowance, to 
visit London, to study the civil law 
nt Utrecht, and to make the tour of 
Europe, before he should, finally, 
fix himself at home as a practising 

With abreast agitated by a tumult 
of h<^8, wishes, and uncertain fan- 
cies, young Boswell repiiiredto that 
great mart of business, knowledge, 
and pleasure, London. He was 
impatient to mingle in its scenes of 
amusement, to drink of all that was 
elegant in its letters and its arts at 
the very fountain-head, to gratify 
an ingenuous curiosity, which he 
long continued to feel, of approach- 
ing the presence, and obtaining the 
personal acquaintance, of all those 
who were, on any accotmt, the most 
illustrious among his contempora- 
ries« A young man of manners so 
lively and agreeable, talents so 
promising, and a family and fortune 
«o respectable, could not but meet 
vith nn easy indroduction, by means 
of his father's friends and his own. 
Into tlie hirhest and the most fa- 
shionable circles of polite company 
which the metropolis afforded. The 
charm of his sprightly conversation 
and good natured manners was uni- 
Tersally felt. He became a general 
fevoarite ; and quickly led to diffiise 
himself, if we may so speak, very 
widely in the society of London. 
He plunged eageriy into the stream 
of convivial festivity and of gay 
amusement. No young man ever 
enjoyed, with a keener and more 
exquisite f^st, the flatteries of par- 
tial friends, the success of a bril- 
Kant repartee, the attentions of that 
fascinating politeness which aims to 
win your heart by making you in 
4ove with yourself} or thut happy 

play of convivial conversation te 
which wisdom, wit, elegance, and 
good breeding, temper sensual and 
social enjoyment with the generooa 
flow of liberal intelligence. For the 
sake of knowledge, of social con- 
verge, of commendation, of celebri- 
ty, he was rtill ready to forsake his 
study to mingle with company; and 
he might pcrhai^s gain in the one 
way more than he lost in the other* 
But, in the meantime, the dissipatioo 
of perpetual company-keeping, and 
the use of the sensualities with which 
it was accompained, made them- 
selves still more and more necesary 
to the >'oung man, who thought on- 
ly of enjoying them without making 
himself their slave* 

His passion for the acquaintance 
of men of great intellectual emi* 
nence had, however, in the first 
instance, the merit of saving him 
from the emptiness of mere fop- 
pery, as from brutal and profligate 
debauchery. Even in the society 
of a Wilkes and a Foote, in their 
loosest and most convivial hours, k 
was not possible, that there should 
not be more of the feast of reasooi 
and the flow of son], than of sensual 
grossncss* Men of well-earned 
celebrity for any sort of intellectual 
excellence, although they may have 
their hours of relaxation, can never 
be acceptable associates to tlie sot- 
tish dcbaucliec. He who lores to 
converse with them, even in these 
hours, must possess a mind some- 
what congenial with theirs: nor 
will he long seek their company 
with fondness, imless his heart and 
understanding become inprcgnated 
with their sentiments. Attaching 
himself to Dr. Samuel Johnson, 
Boswell thus acquired a protection 
from frivolity and vice, and the ad- 
vantage of the lessons of an instruc- 
tor in wisdom, scarcely less benefi- 
cial than when the Athenian youth, 
with sudden emotion, dashed his 
crown of roses on the ground, and, 
abjuring the false joys of love and 
-wine, devoted all his future life to 
the study of ]jhilosophy, and the 
practice of austcro Tirtae* 



The eloquence of the Ramblers, 
being of that gorgeous and strongly 
discriminated character which the 
most easily engages the attention of 
yooth, had powerfully impressed 
the imagination of Boswell during 
his studies at Edinburgh. Johnson's 
Dictionary, presenting its autlv>r in 
tlie character of the great censor 
and dictator of the English language, 
aided and confirmed tlie impres- 
sion. When, in addition to this, he 
learned, that Johnson's conversation 
was not less rich and original than 
his books, there needed nothing 
more to-make him earnestly ambi- 
tious of the great lexicographer's 
acquaintance. He found in John- 
son, when the desired introduction 
•was at last obtained, not pi'cdsely 
what he had imagined, but of a d'lf- 
fereat sort even more than his 
hopes and wishes had taught him 
to expect. He courted with every 
wimung assiduity a man of whom 
he was proud to profess himself the 
follower. Almost from the very 
first days of their acquaintance, he 
gladly haunted the prescfice of the 
illustrious moralist, and watched 
and preserved the treasures which 
fell from his lips, as if he had al- 
ready determined to become his 
biogi*aphcr. Attentions so resp e c t- 
fiilly flattering are not easily resist- 
ed by either philosoplicrs or he- 
roes ; Johnson could not but become 
partial to an admirer who professed 
to court his com])any almost Avith 
the humble devotion of a mortal 
attendingthe footstepsof a divinity ; 
who was himself a youth of genius, 
fortune and fashion ; and vf^\o ar- 
dently professed to be ambitious of 
notliing so much as of makin«^ emi- 
nent improvement in piety, virtue, 
and liberal intelligence. 

Satiated, at lenj^th, with the en- 
joyments of London, Boswell depart- 
ed, witli a new flutter of hopes and 
wishes, to pursue knowlcl^e and 
pleasure in those new varieties of 
form, in which they might present 
themselves on the contiiicnt. At 
Utrecht he studied lav/ far some 
time, under an eminent civilian; 
•Uity as I should suspect, >Yi|Ucut 

such enlamd and successful appre- 
hension of the noble collection of 
Tribonian, as might have enabled 
him to see in it a wonderfully per- 
fect system of moral wisdom, ap* 
plied, upon the principles of right 
and expediency, t% a very extensive 
variety of cases in the practice of 
social and political life ^ or to trace 
it, with a curious and philosophical 
eye, as one of the naost faithful, 
minute, and interesting,^ of all re- 
cords of the detail of manners. He 
failed not, however, to make a few 
slight inquiries into the laws and 
the language of the country, which 
ser\'ed to fill with erudition his let- 
ters to Johnson, and, it may be, 
also, to his Scottish friends, Lord 
Kaimes and Lord Hailes. From 
Utrecht, he, after a while, continued 
his travels through Germany into 
Switzerland. The ambition of be- 
coming known to eminent men, 
was still one of his predominant 
foibles; and, to tlie unspeakable 
gi'atification of that passion of his, 
he had the felicity of l^ing, in his 
tour through Germany, the travel- 
ling companion of tlie Right Ho- 
nourable George Keith, the last Earl 
Marischal of Scotland. In Switzer- 
land, Lord Marischal introduced 
his young cowitry man to Rmisscau ; 
who then, an exile from France 
and from Geneva, resided at Mo- 
tiers, in the principality of Neuf. 
chatel, under the protection of the 
grent King of Prussia. Boswell ia 
due time, found occasion to tell the 
world how fondly he had visited 
Jean-Jaques Rou' scan ; how kindly 
he had been receded by the solita- 
ry philosopher ; witli wliat flatter- 
ing and confidential commendation* 
a man so discerning and so suspi- 
cious had dei^.ied to honour his 
merits ! But, when Rousseau's Con- 
fessions were, long after, published, 
it did not appear from them, that 
he preserved the recollection of 
having ever seen such a man^ as 
James Boswell. To have seen only 
Citizen Rousrccu, would have beea 
little. Boswell had ihc pleasure of 
visiting also the patriarch of Fcr- 
uey, and xho deliglit of hearmi; 


XBvoim or jaxks BeywBLL^ B6(^ 

Voltaire deri out sarcasms and 
malicious fictionS) the inspirations 
of fear and envy, againat a rival 
wit and philosopher, who was as 
vain and as (embous as himseif. 

From Rousseau, BoswdQ obtained 
an indirect reconunoidation, which 
procured him one of the most 
splendid and lasting friendships of 
tus subsequent li£e. But it is proba- 
ble that he was more charmed with 
tlie conversation and manners of 
Voltaire, than wi^ those of the ex- 
citizen of Geneva. 

Having thus seen the lion* in 
Germany andSwitzerland, Boswell 
hastened away over the Alps to 
Italy. It was not enough for this 
youth's ambition, to make nothing 
more than the common tour which 
was or<finarily made by every one 
rise* Addison had pervaded and 
celebrated the republic of San Ma- 
rino ; BosweU resolved to visit that 
of Corsica. The Corsicans, after 
«truggling wit^ various success, for 
a long course of years, to throw off 
tlie yoke of the Genoese, were at 
iast about to be transferred to mas- 
ters against whose power their 
efforts would be vain. At this 
moment th^ enjoyod, in the inte- 
rior parts of tlie isle, a miserable 
Independence, purchased at the 
expense of almost all besides that 
■was precious in life. Their last 
generous exertions to secure the 
prize of liberty had, more than all 
the former, drawn upon them the 
mlmiration and the eager sympathy 
of Europe. Courts and cabinets 
might see their fortunes with indif- 
fei'ence, or might even cabal against 
them ; but the people, true philosp- 
•phers, the benevolent and humane 
in ever)' condition, and particularly 
all the enthusiastic admirers of man- 
ly fortitude and gallant enterprise, 
were ardent in their wishes for the 
^milnuccess of the Corsicans. Paoli, 
4hcir leader, was celebrated as a 
•hero and a lawgiver, worthy of the 
most lHustrious times of Grecian or 
of Roman liberty. Rousseau, the 
^arm friend of Corsican freedom, 
•had receivefl Paoli *s invitation to 
iH^Gome the historianand the assist- 

ant^legidator of the rismg rcfmb^ 
lie llie fiuae of Pa(^ ajid ths 
Corsicans had greatfy iaterested 
the curiosi^ of BosweU, as a young 
Scottish Whig, evi^ before he saw 
Itousseau. Rouascftii's conversa- 
tion completed the charm* The 
Genevan philosopher was too cau<i 
tious, however, to give BosweU 
more than an indirect letter of in- 
troduction to the Corsican general. 
With this, and such other rea>m«> 
mendations as he could procurey 
our traveller Eiade his way to Pao- 
li's head^uiuiers. Pleased with 
^e visit crt an admirer trho wiu a 
man of ftLshion, a Briton, a young 
enthusiast for liberty, Uie Corsicaoa 
rec^ved BosweU with kindness and 
respect, and entertained him with 
liberal ho^tality. He was too 
polite and good-natoved, too much 
an enthusiast for freedom, not to 
express himself to be more than 
pleased with all that he experienc- 
ed and all he saw. General Paoli, 
who was truly a man of keen an4 
oomprehensive understanding, with 
a heart pregpoant with heroic an^ 
patriotic sentiments, seems to have 
been not less sensible to admiration 
and praise, than almost all other 
fi^reat men whose hearts have been 
frankly unfolded to the world, are 
known to have commonly been* 
Boswell flattered the General, and 
the General flattered him in return. 
l*he legislature, the administratioa 
of justice, the arms, the vigilance 
for defence, the modes of Industry^ 
the familiar manners of the Corsi- 
cans, every thing in truth that 
could r.c perceived bv a few liveljr 
superficial glances ; but, above all, 
^he conversation, the figure, the 
looks, the gestures of Paoli, were 
observed by the young Scotsman 
witii the enthusiasm of an admirer, 
and with the care of one that meant 
to treasure up his present observa. 
tions for foture use. Paoli, and his 
Corsicans, could not help express-, 
ing, in Bos well's hearini^, their 
wishes, that they might obtain the 
protection and aid of Britain : and 
Boswell, in the Don Quixote-like 
fervour of his imagination^ was aU 



most moyed) when these wishes met 
liis ear^ and when he saw himself 
lodged, feasted, and attended in 
ceremonious state, to believe him- 
self a British ambassador, deputed 
to declare Britain the tutelar divini- 
ty of Corsican freedom. To flatter 
him in a manner the most intoxicat- 
ing,, it was supposed by some wise 
headed politicians on the Continent, 
that it was not for nothing such a 
man as Boswell could have gone 
among the Corsican savages ; and 
all the newspapers of Europe soon 
told, th^t he had adventured thither 
as the secret agent of the British 
court. After he retired from the 
court of Paoli, he was politely re- 
ceived, and entertained with cour- 
teous hospitality, by the French of- 
ficers on the isle : he returned' at 
last to the Italian continent, vain of 
his expedition, and gratefully boast- 
ing of all the favours and honours 
which it had procured him. 

He did not now prolong the time 
of his absence from his native coun- 
try. Taking his way through 
France, he had soon the pleasure 
of presenting himself to his old 
friends in London. His temper and 
manners were still as conciliating 
as formerly ; his briskness of talk 
was now somewhat softened; his 
politeness was improved by a grace- 
ful polish, which the converse of 
elegant strangers had naturally 
communicated : and, as it is not so 
much from study as from the obser- 
vation of nature, and from mingling 
in society, that the traveller's pro- 
per improvements are to be obtain- 
ed; Boswell had proRted in the 
acquisition of knowledge, much 
more than nine-tenths of the young 
men of fortune from Britain are 
commonly wont to profit in the same 
course of fashionable travel; he 
could boast, too, of having kept, in 
his absence, some of the best com- 
pany in Europe; and, whenever 
any of the wits or the heroes of the 
Continent were mentioned, might 
speak of them almost as famili<ir 
acquaintance. None of all his 
friends in London welcomed his re. 
turn wiUi more cordial kindness 

VOL. I. ...NO. III. 

than Johnson. From the Continent 
he had held an epistolary corres- 
pondence with this Coryphaeus of 
English philology ; and from John- 
son had received several letters fil- 
led with such benignity and wisdom, 
as but few of the wits or philoso- 
phers of the Continent had hearts 
and understandings to supply; 

He soon hastened down to Scot- 
land. His father and his Scottish 
friends were sufficiently charmed 
with his new acquirements, and still 
partial to his genius and merits. A 
while he was busied in paying his 
compliments, in displaying his im- 
provehients, and in receiving flat- 
teries and congratulations. In com- 
pliance with the wishes of his liter- 
ary friends, he then prepared to 
give to the public, through the press, 
those observations which l^e had 
made in the Corsican part of his 
travels. From his boolu, and from 
the information of his learned 
friends, he sought a knowledge of 
aU those facts conceniing the an- 
cient and modem state of that isle, 
with which his personal observation 
and inquiries in the isle had not 
already furnished him. His book 
at length appeared : and as Corsica 
was, just at that time, a very popu- 
lar subject of conversation and in- 
quiry ; a work upon it, from a young 
man of whom the fashionable dicta- 
tors in literature were inclined to 
speak favourably, could not be 
otherwise than well received. Its 
genuine merits deserved no less. 
It is written in a pure, lively, cor- 
rect, and easy style and 'flow of 
composition. With the anecdotical 
sprightliness of Boswell himself, it 
mingles in no sparing proportion a 
seasoning of the erudition of his 
friend Lord Hailes, and of the light 
philosopliical speculation of Lord 
Kaimes. The history, natural, 
civil, and military, which it exhibits, 
of the isle of Corsica, is, as proprie- 
ty required, on a small scale, but 
in all its p:irts wonderfully complete. 
It marks the character of the Corsi- 
can people ^ixh a picturesque feli- 
city which few historians liave 
excelled. Above all, he paints the 



character of Paoli, it may be, with 
a very flattering pencil, but cer- 
tainly with exquisite skill and efllect, 
and with many nice and delicate 
touches which bespeak the hand of 
the artist of genius ; but, after all, 
this book is not the work of a pow- 
erfil mind. It displays neither 
piercing discernment, nor any ex- 
traordinary vigour of imagination. 
]t IS, plainly, the composition of a 
man who possessed no rich stores 
of learning, so familiar to his mind 
as to intermingle itself impercepti- 
bly with the ordinary current of his 
thoughts. Even the learning which 
it shews, comes in such a shape, 
as to evince the author to have pos* 
sessed very little erudition at all, 
tare what he sought from books or 
friends for this express occasion. 
An ill-natured critic might say, 
'that the Pao liana which fill a 
part of this volume, are at least not 
superior to the jests of Joe Miller, 
or Swift's well known Critical 
Bssay. But the author's friends 
praised the book; the world, in 
general, were amused with it ; and 
Boswell was made superlatively 
happy. Compared with his more 
Juvenile performances, his account 
of Corsica undenialily proves his 
mind to have made very great ad- 
vances in knowledge and good sense, 
in the time which intervened be- 
tween the publication of the former 
works and that of the latter. 

About the same period, he sub- 
mitted to the usual course of trials 
which the candidates for admission 
into the Scottish faculty of advo- 
cates are, by the regulations of this 
Incorporated body, required to un- 
dergo, before they received 
in to it as members. He passed 
through Uiese trials with honour. 
Called to the bar he distinguished 
himself in his first appearances by 
an ingenious invention of argu- 
ments, a brilliancy of eloquence, 
and a quickness of wit, such as suf- 
ficiently confirmed that favourable 
opinion of his talents, which his 
friends had long entertained, l^'hc 
famous legal contest for the succes- 

sion to the estates of the Rouse of 
Douglas, being, about this time, ia 
its progress, engaged tlie attenticm} 
and divided the wishes, of the Scot- 
tish public, almost as if it had been 
a matter of great national concern. 
Young Bosweirs passions were far 
a time, mterested to a pitch of ex- 
traordinar}' enthusiasm in fevour of 
the heir, whom it was attempted to 
exclude from his inheritance upon 
the pretence that he was 9u/t/iositi^ 
tiouM. Lady Margaret Macdonald 
gave a masquerade, a species of 
amusement very unusual at £^n<4 
burgh ; and James BosweU, almost 
alone of all the masqued characters^ 
was admired as having acted the 
part he had assumed with charmins 
felicity. To fix his son the more cC 
fectually to a sober, habitual appli^ 
cation to business, it was the ear<% 
nest desire of Lord Auchinleck to 
see him settled in marriage with 
some amiable and deserving woman* 
James obeyed, and gave his hand 
to his cousin Miss Montgomeiy. He 
was extensively acquainted in the 
country, and was beloved amon^hia 
acQuuintance : he was an ingenious 
and winning pleader, if not yet a 
profound lawyer: In the papers, 
manuscript ^or printed, which he 
had occasicn to prepare for the in- 
foionation of tlie Judges in those 
causes in which he was employed, 
there appeared commonly a erace, 
an eloquence, a correctness ol com- 
position, which were as little to be 
expected from most of his brother 
advocates, as an air of Haydin's 
from a dying sow. The Court, too, 
were not dispoted to frown on his 
merits ; and the partiality of the 
Court towards any advocate never 
fails to recommend him to increas- 
ing employment at the bar. All 
things c(^curred, therefore, to en- 
courage this young lawyer with the 
hopes of acquiring, in due time, 
whatever honours and emoluments 
his profession had to bestow, fa 
the meanwhile, that he might net 
be ill at ease in his domestic cir- 
cumstances, his father was suffi- 
ciently liberal. 



AlMJ poor Boswell's colloquial 
mod convivial talenta were too fasci* 
Bating to permit that he should be left 
hf his compaDions and admirers, to 
tte sober pursuits of busiaess, or to 
quiet domestic bliss: nor could he 
himself resist, with efiectual steadi- 
nesSfthoae allurements which too of- 
ten called him away to join in elegant 
and witty conversation, and to enli- 
▼en social festivity. Even during 
the terms of the business of the 
Court of Session, Boswell*s after- 
noons and evenings 'Were so fre* 
quently passed in company, that 
those who could have wished to em^ 
ploy him, durst not always confide 
mhis attention to their affairs. The 
heir to a considerable estate, and 
enjoying already an ample allow«> 
ance from his father, he did not feel 
the strong necessity of pleading 
causes that he might live. Hence, 
content with the praise of colloquial 
talents and of captivating social 
qualities, he suffered men of far 
inferior powers, without other me- 
rit save that of plodding assiduity, 
to outstrip him in his juridical 
career, and to engross that business 
at the bar which their clients would 
much rather have committed to 
him. Though i>erhaps never a 
deeply learned and acutely discri- 
ninating counsellor, he might un- 
doubtedly have soon attained, if he 
himself had so chosen, to almost 
unrivalled eminence as a pleader. 
He was a man of the kindliest affec- 
tions towards all his domestic rela- 
tions; yet, carried away by his 
irresistible passion for that gay and 
enlightened society in which he was 
qualified to shine, he still hastened 
impatiently away to London, as 
soon as the vernal cr autumnal vaca- 
tion of the Court of Session com- 
menced, leaving a lovely and excel- 
lent wife to hmgiiish for his return, 
consuming in his own ])ersonal ex- 
pense too large a portion out of an 
income which it had been better to 
appropriate almost entirely to fami- 
ly uses. His father might from 
tin^ to time murmur against this 
plan of life, his wife might with 
lean see him depart : but the kind- 

ness of his natiu^, the honesty of 
his heart, the sweet undesigning 
vivacity and insinuation of his man- 
ners, were ever sufficient to conci- 
liate the wonted fondness of both at 
his return. Another evil than infe«> 
licity in domestic connexions arose . 
to make the quiet of his home un- 
pleasant to liim : Gay social con- 
verse and convivial enjoyment had 
been so long and so habitu ally court- 
ed by him, that their excitement 
became at last absolutely necessary 
to maintain his mind in a tone at 
all above dejection and melancholy* 
He had been wont at one time per- 
haps to affect occasional fits of low 
spirits, accounting them, I suppose, 
a proof of high refinement of soul, 
and of the ebbings and flowings of 
genius ; but such affectations soon 
ceased to be necessary. 

Yet, sure, if foibles like these 
could be pardoned to any man. Bos- 
well well deserved that he should 
not be scorned for them. It was 
ever <^ the feast of reason and the 
fiow of soul" Which he sought in 
those scenes of conviviality' which 
he delighted to frequent. Hia 
friends and companions were all 
men of the first rank in intellectual 
powers and social virtues.... Who 
is there that would not have sacri- 
ficed as much as Boswell did for the 
sake of enjoying the familiar con« 
verse of such men as Johnson, Beau* 
clerk, Reynolds, Burke, Fox, Gar- 
rick, to whom it was imposMble to 
listen without receiving equal im- 
provement and delight ? Who 
would not have been willing to 
forego almost every other advan^ 
tagc, in order to merit the praise 
of havinj* made his presence accept- 
able to the&e men in tlieir hours at 
unrestrained social joy ? Not sullen 
selfish Pride, neither courting a 
brother's praise, nor greatly con* 
cemed for his scorn, but gentle, 
caressing, entreating Vanity, was 
the nightmare which still bestrode 
honest iJoswell's fancy. He never 
assumed such arrogance as to throw 
off his veneration for talents which 
he had once accustomed himself 
to respect. While mingling with 



wits, philosophers, and men of 
fasihion, he never suffered his reli- 
rious belief to be shaken, nor the 
impressions of piety to be effaced 
from his mind* Rough manners 
could not drive him away from the 
friendship of Johnson, whose wit, 
ethical sagacity, and stern virtue, 
he had the discernment to regard 
with a continually growing esteem. 
Scarcely any other man in these 
kingdoms enjoyed a more extensive 
acquaintance than Boswell had by 
this time acquired ; and there was 
hardly another man whose pre- 
sence was so generally agreeable to 
all who were of his acquaintance* 

It was, 1 think, in the year 1773, 
that -he at last prevailed with Dr* 
Johnson to accompany him in an 
autumnal journey through the 
Highlands and the* Western Isles of 
Scotland* Johnson joined him at 
Edinburgh, nearly at the com- 
mencement of the vacation of the 
Court of Session for that season. 
Boswell, with pride, introduced his 
great literary friend to all the best 
company in the Scottish metropolis, 
and carried him to view every ob- 
ject whether of modem elegance 
or venerable for its antiquity, which 
he supposed likely to give him clear 
and not unfavourable notions of the 
state of the arts, manners, and 
wealth of Scotland. Leaving Edin- 
burgh, they crossed the frith of 
Forth, passed through Fife to St« 
Andrew's, and, after sighing over 
the ruins of its cathedral and dilapi- 
dated colleges, preceded across the 
Tay to A!)erbi'otliwick. ITie ruined 
priory and conventual church of 
Arberbrothwick again awakened 
their solemn indignation and regret. 
Tliey were made burgessea of 
Aberdeen ; were lulled to sleep in 
Slains castle by the winds breaking 
on its battlements and the billows 
dashing against its base ; looked in 
vain for the xveird^Uters^ on the 
heath on which Macbeth heard 
those doubtful prophecies which 
urged him to his fate; talked of 
savages and shopkeepers with Lord 
Monboddo; and, "//rr varios ca^ 
«««, per muUa ducHmina rerumj** 

arrived at length at lOTeniess* 
From Inverness they, travelled 
across the isthmus of theHighlaads 
to Glenelg* Ferried over from the 
5kx>ttish continent to the Isle of 
Skye, the greatest of the Hdiudse, 
they then wandered about for 
a while among these isles, charmed 
with the kind and luxurious hospi-^ 
tality of the iusular chieftains, inte- 
rested by the simplicity and peca* 
liarity of the n^anners of the High- 
land rustics ; now astonished, now 
amused, by the 'wild scenery of sea 
and land which they beheld around 
them ; having their devotional feel- 
ings occasionally elevated to the 
height of pious rapture » by the con- 
templation of ruined convents and 
the recollection of the monks hj 
whom these had once been tenant- 
ed; and wondering what all the 
world was in the meanwhile saying 
of them and of their adventurous 
voyages! Atlast they returned within 
the bourne of lowland life. John- 
son, havihg talked down the Edin- 
burgh-men, departed for London ; 
and Boswell betook himself for the 
winter to the ungrateful business of 
the Scottish bar. 

But while the analogy of nature 
remains the same, it will ever be 
the final cause of all the actions of 
a true man of letters to produce a 
book. The world expected a book 
or two to be the results of the He- 
budean travels of Boswell and John- 
son; nor were they disappointed. 
Within a reasonable lengdi of time 
after Johnson's return to London, 
appeared his account of his ** Jour- 
ney to the Western Isles of Scot- 
land**' It is perhaps the best work 
of its author. In it nature is dis- 
played, and life and manners are 
pictured out with the happiest skill* 
There are a noble pathos and sub- 
limity in those indignantly plaintive 
reflections wliith burst from John- 
son's bosom at sight of the august 
ruins of those saci-cd edifices which 
the Scottih Reformation dcmo- 
lished....'rhat ethiral wisdom in 
which he the most eminently ex- 
celled, continually breaks forth 
amid those observatious which are 



tnggested by the passing series of 
objects of different characters* In 
oeconomical science, Johnson has 
in this small work displayed the 
elements of a skill more just and 
profound than that of Adam Smith 
and the philosophers of France. 
Even in the physical sciences and 
the mechanical arts, which he could 
be the least expected to understand, 
Johnson has, in this book, evinced 
no common intelligence. A doi^Ie 
portion of that sagacity which we 
call common sense, pervades the 
whole....In nothing is this more re- 
.markably exhibited than in the logi- 
cal discrimination with which he 
asserts the possibility, while he 
allows the improbability, of those 
supernatural appearances which 
superstition has ever too credulously 
believed, and scepticism perhaps 
too pertly and unthinkingly denied. 
Johnson's remarks on tlie incredi- 
bility of tlie tale which had been 
S'ven out to the public concerning 
ssian's Poems, happily served to 
check the evil arts of a race of pre- 
tended men of taste and erudition, 
who were degrading the literature 
of their country by going about to 
exalt its glory upon the tricks of 
imposture. All the genuine par- , 
tialities of an old-fashioned English- 
man, were interwoven into tlic 
very stamina of Johnson's soul : yet 
it must be confessed, that no man 
who was resolutely determined not 
to sacrifice truth to courtesy, could 
have spoken with greater kindness 
and favour of tlie Scots and of their 
country. This journey of Johnson's 
may be regarded as the most useful 
memorial of the state of Scotland, 
that has even hitherto been pub- 
lished : it is certain, that no other 
publication has ever contributed 
half so much toward the improve- 
ment of the general condition of 
things among the Scots. It is ex- 
tremely painful to reflect, that veiy 
few of the Scots are so candid us to 
acknowledge this ! Boswell's little 
bark^ although not quite so soon 
launched as the great 7?;*^? rate of 
his friend, was, however, to sail at- 
tendant on its triumph. His** Tour 

to the Hebrides" did not appear in 
print till a number of years after* 
It was then received by the public 
with an avidity which even ex- 
ceeded that with which Johnson's 
book had been bought and read* 
It was tilled chiefly with the detail 
of Johnson's conversation and minu- 
test acts during the journey. It 
added also lights, shades, drapery, 
and colouring^, to that great pour- 
trait of the Scottish Highlands, 
which Johnson had drawn with a 
pencil, careless of all but the pri- 
mary and essential proportions and 
the grandest effects : it had in it too 
much of gossiping colloquial tattle, 
and betrayed in the mind of its wri- 
ter a siUy proneness to gawky ad- 
miration of trifles, which none but a 
weak mind can admire. It shewed 
Bos well to have acquired new acute- 
ness of discernment, and new stores 
of* knowledge, since he wrote his 
account of Corsica ; but it at the 
same time proved him to have bu- 
sied himself about trifles, tftl trifling 
was almost all the business of which 
he was capable . It evinced the 
truth of Johnson's observation of 
him, "that he wanted bottom !" 

From the era of this famed Hebu- 
dean excursion till the time of his ' 
father's death, Boswell's life ran on 
in its usual tenor, undistinguished 
by any remaikable change in its 
circumstances or habits.. ..He con- 
tinued to make frequent visits to 
London, to linger as long as possi- 
ble upon every visit, amidst the fas- 
cinating society to which his pre- 
sence was there acceptable, to leave 
it ai)on every occasion of his return 
to Scc>tland,witli the reluctance and 
depression of one driven into exile 
from a scene of pureunmingled joy. 
To the business of the Scottish bar, 
to that career for ambition which 
was open before him in Scotland, 
to the company, the scenery, the 
amusements of his native country, 
he became continually more indiffe- 
rent.. ..Seeing men of less shewy 
talents, but more diligent applica- 
tion to business, outstrip him in suc- 
cess as counsellors and ple:iders 
he cowld not regard without an in- 



dignation which moved him to quit 
the com])etition, that tasteless and 
undiscerning stupidity which could 
prefer them to him. Finding his 
allowance from his father, to which 
the addition from the prohts of his 
business was not considerai)le, to 
be scaixely sufficient for both the 
suit^le support of his family and 
his own personal expenses, he be- 
came in vain sohcitous to obtain a 
Csirther supply from the emoluments 
of some place under governnoent. 
Naturally ambitious to obtain ad- 
mission into that convivial Literary 
Society, in which Johnson and Rey- 
nolds united some of their select 
friends^ for the good purposes of 
dining and talking occasionally 
together, he succeiled in this object 
of his wishes thrtfugh the powerful 
recommend-ition of Johns<>n. Ready 
to swear aju-r Jolmson in almost 
every thincr else, he ventured, how- 
ever, to r1if;er in opinion, from his 
gre^t friend, on the subject of the 
American war ; and in this instance 
icniT led not to prefer to the stem 
tor\-lr,gic of Johnson, the more 
generous whiggish declamation of 
Burke. But in tnith, lioswell's 
political principles seem to have 
Deen a medley of torvism and whig- 
gism, not very harmoniously inter- 
mingled. He had been educated 
among staunch Whigs ; he had 
conversed not a little with Jacobites 
and Tories ; he always adopted his 
principles of belief and action, not 
from deep i)hilosophical investiga- 
tion, but from the authorities of 
the most eminent persons with 
whom he was wont to converse ; 
from ^xcry one somewhat : and in 
regard to many things, therefore, 
he was still as heartily a Tory as 
even Johnson could possibly desire. 
During all this while, Boswell, if 
sometimes a little negligent as a 
son, a husband, or a fatlicr, was, 
however, blamelessly kind-hearted 
in all these relations, and anxious 
to fulfil aright their resi3cctive du- 
ties. His religious sensibility be- 
came continually more delicate and 
just ; and the impressions of piety 
upon his heart became still deeper 

and more habitnallf Ti^id* Kw 
moral wisdom, and his knoiHedge 
of life and manners, were at £e 
same time considerably enlarged*. • 
But still he studied litUe ; lie taught 
Uie world to regard him at tncapft- 
ble of the sedate habits of business; 
he acquired the character of % 
giddy flutterer on the stage of life ; 
while he became the acquaintance 
and the convivial companion of al* 
most every one, he lost the power 
of commanding the substantial 
friendship of ail but a very few. 
His predilection for London deter* 
mined him, at length, entirely to 
relinquish the Scottish bar lor the 
£n(>;lish bar, and he entered himsdf 
as a student at the Temple. 

Lord Auchinleck soon after died, 
James, as his eldest son, succeeded 
to the possession of the family es-> 
tates. He might perhaps expect 
to find himself now affluent, inde* 
pendent, and happy. But the rents 
of the estate exceeded not fifteen 
hundred pounds a year : a jointure 
to his mothcr-in-Uw was to be paid 
out of tlys income : James himself 
was but a life renter, enjoying the 
produce, but bound up by a strict 
entail, from impairing the capital : 
for a little he found the change ia 
his condition not unpleasant ; but 
his revenue was soon experienced 
to be inadequate to his wishes*.... 
Mrs. Boswell 's health began to de- 
cline : the affairs of his estate for a 
time detained him from revisiting 
London : his wonted fits of low- 
spirits occasionally returned ; and • 
his ordinary happiness quickly set^ 
tied rather under than above the 
same mediate level as before. He 
however pleased himself with the 
prospect of going to settle perma- 
nently in London, and probably- 
hoped that then indeed would his 
felicity be complete ! 

Being ambitious of that celebrity 
which was to be gained by dabbling 
in politics, his keenest attention was 
attracted l»y those nii:nsterial con- 
tests and re volutions amidst which 
the late war with America was 
brought to its close. Wliether from 
paitiality to the name of the great 



«arlof Chatham, or because he him- 
self was persooaily acquainted with 
the preheat Mr. Pitt, Boswell be- 
came a zealous parti zan of the young 
minister ; whose popularity, alas I 
though then in its^l and seemingly 
amaranthine bloom, has long since 
gone perhaps in quest of the maiden- 
head of Orlando Furioso's mistress* 
He even at one time wrote some few 
short politicaf letters, by which he 
expected to stir up a mighty fer- 
ment among the good people of 
Scotland ; but is it not said, that 
maggots will sometimes burrow in 
the snout of a |ow, without exciting 
in the poor animal any sense of their 
presence I He had hopes that Mr* 
Pitt, with the generous gratitude of 
a youthful heart, would reward his 
services with a place or pension ; 
but Mr. Pitt found it easier to put 
him off with a simple complimen- 
tary letter. Upon a subtioquent 
occasion he ventured to offer him- 
self a candidate for the representa- 
tion of tlie county of Ayr in the 
house of commons : but other inte- 
rests quickly threw him at a dis- 
tance m the competition. I own 
I think it is to be regretted that he 
did not succeed ; for he would pei^ 
haps have proved a tolerably honest 
member of parliament ; md his 
flights and his witticisms might have 
served to enliven many a dull de- 

He at length fixed his residence 
in London, and offered himself as a 
candidate for business at the Eng- 
lish bar. His beginnings were here 
also not unpromising. By the fa- 
vour of Lord Lonsdale he obtained 
the respectable appointment of Re 
corder of Carlisle. He attended tlie 
Judges, in pursuit of business, upon 
several of their circuits. He was 
sometimes retained to plead in a 
Scottish Appeal. But his habits of 
conviviality, his character for flighty 
gaiety, incompatible with eminence 
m business, the lateness of the 
time in his life at which he made 
the attempt, and perhaps, also, his 
want of perseverance, soon stopped 
him short in his career of juridical 
practice in England as before in 

Scotland. The levities and the 
flowers of literature were forever 
tempting him to stra>' with truant 
steps from the thorny paths of law. 
The publication of his Hebudean 
Tour too, as 1 have been taught to 
believe, exhibiting him as the mi- 
nute recorder and retailer of what- 
ever careless conversations might 
have passed between persons of any 
eminence in hts presence, excited 
among his acquaintance a general 
alarm, that tended at once to hurty 
in some small degree, his practice 
at the bar, and to exclude him from 
some of those social circles in Which 
he had been before a familiar and 
welcome guest. His first ardour 
was gradually extinguished: he 
relinquished the hope of becoming 
more eminent in Westminster- hall, 
than he had been in the Parliament 
house, at Edinburgh. He saw, when 
it was too late, that the man who 
consumes in conviviality, and in the 
pursuit of witty and splendid socv- 
ety, those prime years of youth, in 
which our permanent habits are 
usually formed, must be content to 
forego those ' successes of avarice 
and ambition, which incessant and 
nerve-strung industry in the toils 
of study or business, is alone desti- 
ned by Nature to command. He 
even resigned the office of Recorder 
of the city of Cciriisle, and resolved 
henceforth to court only the praise 
of literature, of song-singing, and 
of colloquial sprightliness. 

It was extremely fortunate for 
the lovers of literary anecdote, and 
of the memory of Johnson, that he 
was driven to adopt this resolution* 
Much more had his feelings been 
gratified by the eager curiosity with 
which all the world bought and 
read his Hebudean Tourj than of- 
fended by the puetical raillery of 
Dr. Walcot, by the complaints of a 
violation of the ordinary mutual 
confidence of men in convivial inter- 
course^ or by that ridicule which 
men, far weaker than himself, de- 
lighed to throw out agi:inst the va- 
nity and the love of trifles, which 
that book betrayed. Having trea- 
sured up, with woaderfiil diligence 



the better part of what had fallen 
from his late friend Johnson, in 
many of the conversations in which 
be had excited or listened to John- 
ton's wisdom and colloquial elo- 
quence, from the commencement of 
their acquaintance to the period of 
his friend's death, he now under- 
took to compose a bio^aphical ac- 
count of that wise and good man, 
in which those treasured glean- 
bigs from his colloquial dictates 
ihould be carefully interwoven. 

This book was, with much care 
and pains, conducted through the 
press, presented to the public* 
Its composition delightfully soothed 
the author's mind, by calling up to 
]iim> in retrospective view, theas- 
■ociates, the amusements, the con- 
versations of the prime years of his 
past life. By the public it was, at 
£rst sight, received with some mea- 
inre of prejudice against it; for 
vho could suppose that he who could , 
not make up a moderate octavo, f 
'without introducing into it, a num- 
ber of trifles unworthy to be written 
or read, should have furnished out 
two copious quartos of the biogra- 
phy of a single man of letters, other- 
wise than by filling tliem with tri- 
fles to sense, in the pro]K>rtion of a 
, bag of chaff to a few grains of wheat I 
Bat every reader was soon pleas- 
ingly disappointed. This work was 
quickly found to exhibit an inimita- 
bly faithful picture of the mingled 
genius and weakness, of the virtues 
and the vices, the sound sense and 
the pedantry, the benignity and the 
passionate harshness, of the great 
and excellent, although not consum- 
mately perfect man, the train of 
whose life it endeavoured to unfold. 
It appeared to be filled with a rich 
•tore of his genuine dictates, so elo- 
quent and wise, that they need hard- 
ly shun comparison with the most 
elaborate of those works which he 
himself published. Johnson was 
ieen in it, not as a solitary figure, 
but associated with those groupcs 
of his distinguished contemporaries 
with which it was his good fortune, 
in the latter and more illustrious 
jearsaf his lifC) often to meet and 

to converse. It displayed many 
fine specimens of that proportion, 
in which, in the latter part of the 
eighteenth century, literature and 
philosophical wisdom were liable to 
be carelessly intermingled in the or- 
dinary conversation of the best 
company in Britain. It preserved 
a thousand precious anecdotical 
memorials of the state of arts, man* 
ners, and policy among us during 
this period, such as must be invalu* 
able to the philosophers and anti- 
quarians of a future age. It gave 
in the most pleasing mode of insti- 
tution, and in many different points 
of view, almost all the elementary 
practical principles both of taste and 
of moral science. It showed the 
colloquial tattle of Boswell, dulf 
chastened by the grave and rounded 
eloquence of Johnson. It presented 
a collection of a number ot the roost 
elaborate of Johnson's smaller oe- 
casional composition^, which might 
otherwise, perhaps, have been en- 
tirely lost to future times. Shew- 
ing BosweU's skill in literary com- 
position, his general acquaintance 
with learning and science, hu 
knowledge of the manners, the for- 
tunes, and the actuating principles 
of mankind, to have been greatly 
extended and improved, since the 
time when he wrote his Account of 
Corsica, it exalted the character of 
his talents in the estimation of the 
world; and was reckoned to be such 
a master-piece in its particular 
species, as perhaps the literature 
of no other nation* ancient or mo- 
dem, could boast. It did not indeed 
present its author to the world in 
another light than as a genius of tl^e 
second class ; yet it seemed to rank 
him nearer to the first tlian to the 
third. This estimation of the cha- 
racter of BosweJl's Life of Johnson, 
formed by the best critics soon after 
its publication, seems to haA e been 
smce fiilly confirmed. I am well 
persuaded that not one, even of the 
most successful cf his contempora- 
ries at the Scottish bar, could have 
produced a work equally replete 
with charmingly amusive elegance 
and wisdom* 

XEJiont OF jAxxs ISOSWSLL9 Esqjt. 


Hie' pabficatioa of this capital 
irork was the last eminently •con- 
spicuous event in Boswell's life* 
Mrs* Boswelly an amiable, accom- 
plished, and prudent woman, had 
died about the time when he 
went to settle permanently in Lon- 
don. Some of his children had 
been cut off in early infancy ; but 
two sons and three daughters still 
remained to him« Over tlieir edu- 
cation he watched with a solicitude 
worthy of the tendercst and the 
most prudent of parents. Elegant 
accomplishments, virtuous princi- 
ples, a taste for moderate, simple, 
and innocent pleasures, and for 
these only, were earnestly, and not 
unsuccessfully, endeavoured to be 
impressed, as lasting endowments 
and ornaments of their minds. To 
the necessary e^cnse of his chil- 
dren's education, he is indeed said 
to have appropriated a very large 
proportion of hb income, in the 
latter years of his life. With the 
principles of piety, his own mind 
was too habitually and deeply im- 
pressed, not to make liim anxiously 
careful to instruct persons who were 
so dear to him, in the Christian 
&ith, the consolations of which 
afford ever our best resource amidst 
all the sorrows of human life. I 
have been informed, tliat, with a 
tacit condemnation of his own plan 
of life, he was exceedingly desirous 
that his eldest son, a young man of 
very promising disjiositiona and 
talents, ahould, after studying the 
civil law at the Saxon University 
of Leipsic, qualify liimsclf at Edin^ 
baigh for admission into the Scottish 
Faculty of Advocates, and after 
that, be content to spend his time 
/quietly in his native country, witlv- 
out adventuring rashly into the 
iNcrils of gay or ambitious life in 

In the last years of his life, Bos- 
well still continued to frequent the 
societies in which he had been 
wont to delight. But death carried 
away, one after another, many of 
his dearest companioi>s. The di- 
viding paths of life parted him from 
•thers. The fickle multitude of 

VOL, I.M.KO* 111. 

unattached acquaintnnde desetted 
him from time to time, for newer 
faces, and less fiiroillar names. His 
jokes, iiis song, his sprightly effu« 
sions of wit and wisdom, were 
ready, but did not appear to pos- 
sess upon all occasions, their wonted 
power of enlivening convivial joy. 
He found that fortune, professional 
connections, great expense, and 
the power of promoting or thwart- 
ing people's personal interests, are 
necessary to give, even to the nwst 
polished and lively conversational 
talents, the power of pleasing 
always. His fits of dejection be* 
came more frequent, and of longer 
duration . Convivial society became 
continually more necessary to him, 
while his power of enchantment 
over it, continued to decline. Even 
the excitement of deep drinking in 
an evening, became often desirable, 
to raise his spirits above melan* 
choly depression. Disease, the 
consequence of long habits of con^ 
vivlal indulgence, prematui^ely 
broke the strength of his constitu- 
tion. He died before he had yet 
advanced to the brink of old a^, 
and left assuredly few men of 
worthier hearts, or more obliginf; 
manners, behind him. 

In an attempt to exhibit a summa- 
ry of the qualities of Boswell's cha- 
r<iCtcr, I should mark him as a genius 
ofthe second class. Hehadvivacity, 
but wanted vigour of imagination 2 
his judgment was more quick thaa 
just ; an unlucky passion for cele- 
brity, made him run continually in 
quest of it, as the peasant-boy runs 
to find tlie treasure at the end of 
the rainbow, instead of earning it 
by that energetic diligence in busi- 
ness, or that toil of solitary study, 
which are necessarily to be paid as 
the prices of great and lasting re- 
putation. He courted the acquain- 
tance of eminence, as if genius, or 
the praise of it, were to be caught 
by a sort of contagion. He seems 
likewise to have thought genius to 
consist in some innate peculiarity 
of mind, and not rather to be 
formed by the happy natural and 
artificial cultivation of any iotdlcct 





.cfiginally found) btttnot cast in anf 

mysteriously peculiar mould. These 
two vulgar errors seem to have led 
^im astray from his earliest youth* 
The lasdnation of a society, in 
which sensuality was enlivened and 
Te£uied by wit, elegance, and lite- 
rature, <Ud the rest. He posses- 
sed, for a man of a liberal educa- 
tion and literary ardour, little 
knowledge, save what he picked 
up in conversation. His principles 
ivere derived from the authority 

of others, not from discemlii^ in-^ 
vestigation by himself. Hence te» 
was subject to whim, affectatioa, 
and caprice; but all of an amii^le 
character. He was too fond of ge- 
neral society, to be the very best 
of domestic men. He was, in ther 
sincerity of his belief, and the warm, 
but perluips inconstant piety of his 
sentiments, a true Christian. He 
might have been more useful in the 
world; more amusing he could 
scarcely liave been. 


This extraordinary event, 
which we briefly noticed in our 
paper of yesterclay, happened on 
Sunday the 7th of October, at eight 
In the evening. The day had been 
previously very cloudy, and a con- 
tinual rain had fallen, accompanied 
irith squalls, which were not vio- 
lent, until the sun had sunk beneath 
the horizon, when the sea appeared 
to be unusually agitated, and such 
darkness prevailed, that an object 
was not discernible at a yard 
jiistance. During this progress, 
every person remained witliin their 
houses, in seeming security, and 
wholly unconscious of that ap- 
proaching horror which was des- 
tined so Portly to sweep them from 
off the earth! 

The clock of the cathedral was 
striking eight, when an instanta- 
neous storm of terrible lightning 
and thunder began ; and the rain 
lell in such torrents, that all the 
cross streets of the eastern part 
of the city of Funchall, were sud- 
denly filled with mud and water 
above the first floors of the houses, 
which was occasioned by its being 
impeded, in some measure, from 
its furious descent from the ravines 
c£ the mountains into the sea. At 
this shocking period, the stoutest 
heart fek appalled ; notliing was 
to be heard but the din of ruin 
working in every direction : hun- 
dreds of hnge stones, that had been 
tsm from their quarries en the 

hilk tliree miles above the town^ 
were tumbling over eadi other in 
stupendous concussion, carrjing 
wiUi them, in conjunction with the 
deluge, churches, convents, streets, 
trees, bridges, battlements, and 
eight hundred human beings into 
the bottom of the deep. Whenever 
a flash of lightning penetrated the 
gloom, were seen mothers wading 
through the streets, up to their 
chins m water, holding their in&nts 
on their heads with one hand, and 
endeavouring to c^tch security with 
the Qther ; while those who at- 
tempted to assist ^em, were fre- 
quently maimed or killed, by beams 
of timber or wine pipes, which 
floated around them; and the sea 
presented a scene not less awful, 
tliough less ruinous: most of the 
vessels lost their cables, anchors, 
and boats; andmanyof the seamen 
were washed overboard. The ships 
rolled, in some part or another, 
several feet beneatli the water con- 
tinually, and all the sailors who 
were tliere on that dismal night, 
whether Americans, English, or 
Portuguese, gave themselves up aa 
lost meu. 

Thus, in so short a space of time 
as a few minutes, were many 
hundred individuals carried to their 
eternal home, in the very pleni- 
tude of an apparent security ;. and 
several thousands reduced from af- 
fluence to poverty : and many of 
thcmj it is probable^ in tlie iiidu^ 



fenc6 of tliose imperfections which 
constitute our 'criTAlnsdity or our 
fol^, afad sent to thfcir account, 
<* unblanched, unanointed, unnan- 
nealed." Ten thousand pipes of 
irine and brandy were destroyed, 
and the sea-shore' was skirted on 
the ensuing morning with milGons 
Of fragments, among which the 
mourning survivors of the calamity 
-were eagerly seeldn^ for the dead 
remains of their relations or friends. 
Several days after, the air of Fun- 
chall became so putrescent, from 
the rotting bodies that were buried 
l^eneath the congregated mud and 
filth, that a pe^ence was appre- 
hended: but in consequence of 
burning tar and pitch, and other 
neutralising combustibles, . that 
scourge was providentially avoided. 

It was remarki^ble that this de- 
lu^, in its course, swept away 
twenty-nine vine^yards that were 
situated on the south-west side of 
the City ; and so decisive was the 
ruin, that it tore up all the trees 
by the roots, and bore away not 
only them, but nil the cottages with 
their inhabitants, the ground, cattle 
and appurtenances, and left tlie 
. rocky basis as bare of vegetation as 
the diffii of Norway. All this as- 
semblage of objects were whirled 
into the Rtbeira Brava, or Mad 
river, and ingulphed nearly the 
whole of the small town which 
bears the name. 

In this wreck of matter there 
was but one human creature saved, 
and that was an infant in a wooden 
cradle, which was lodged among 
some reeds on the side of the decli- 
vity, and when discovered, on the 
ensuing day, was in a profound 
sleep : this unconscious infant was 
saved, ^m its ignorance of fear, 
as it is in the nature of feari to 
counteract its own desires. 

The small town of Machico, was 
likewise ruined by this singular 
tempest, and many lives were lost 
there also ; which leads to a sup- 
position, that the lamented event 
XV as occasioned by a water spout, 
, that had burst against the side of 
the mountain, and discharged itself 

down the gullies, produced t^iose 
aiHictive and sudden disasters, that 
all feeling persons must deplore i 
and which} whenever recollected, 
should operate to remind us of our 
frailty and our 'respbn^ility, and 
make us Uve well, tiiat we may die 

This is admitted to have been the 
greatest civic evil that has hap« 
pened since the earthquake of 
Lisbon, in ir54, and was the most 
tragical of its nature, that ever 
happened. Had the younger Pliny 
been on the spot, it would have been 
adequately detailed. 

TJ^e property destroyed, has been 
estimated at upwards of a miUion 
of pounds sterling. 


Wk can promise the public another 
evidence of the rapid improvement 
in elegant typography in this coun- 
try, from Mr. Bradford's edition of 
« the Letters of Junius, with Notes 
and Illustrations, Historical, Politi- 
cal, Biographical, and Critical, by 
Robert Heron J Esq." He purpo- 
ses making it equal in all respects 
to the London edition, and promis- 
es to publish it in January. 

Mr. Samuel Lewis has drafted a 
Map of Louisiana from Spanish 
and French Maps, and compared 
with the account of that country, 
laid before congress by the Presi- 
dent : it is now in the hands of the 
engraver, and will be piubliscd by 
Conrad, & Co. in February. 

Messrs. Birch and Small have 
published the fourth volume of the 
Domestic Encyclopedia, with addi- 
tions by Dr. Mease. The same 
gentlemen have issued proposals for 
an edition of Gibbon's History of 
the decline and fall of the Roman 
Empire, wliich, if they print witli 
the same neatness and accuracy as 
they have Ruseli's Ancient and 
Modern History, and VVilHch's 
Encyclopedia, will doubtless meet 
with the encouragement that the 



magnitude of the underdertakiog 

Mr. Woodward has published, 
-Burden's Village Sermons, or fifty- 
two plain and short discourses on 
the principal doctrines of the Gos- 
pel; and William's new translation 
and commentaries on the Songs of 

Conrad & Co* have printed and 
published, an elegant edition of 
Don Quixote, Smollett's translation, 
with plates, by Lawson, Tanner, 
and Seymour, from drawings by 

Pinkerton's Geography will be 
published in March next. 

Mr. Cary has announced the ac- 
complishment of his attempt to 
keep the Quarto Bible standing, 
and offers for sale eighteen difierent 
priced Quarto Bibles. He says, 
*' he trusts it will be borne in mind, 
and operate in his favour, that his 
is the first attempt that has ever 
been made to keep the Quarto Bible 
complete standing. The paper, 
type, printing, engravings, and 
binding, are aU American, and af- 
ford a comfortable support to a 
large number of artists, in the dif- 
ferent branches connected with 
this business. Without any vain 
boast of his own manu&cture, he 
invites a fair comparison with the 
productions of European competi- 
tors, and no longer hopes for patron- 
Age than he shall be found to merit 
a continuance of what has been so 
liberally afforded him." 

Dr. Barton is preparing for the 
press, a second part of his collec- 
tions for an essay towards a Mate- 
ria Medica of the United States. 

The first v-olume of the Lile of 
General Washington, is in the 

Conrad, Ic Co. will complete 
their edition of " Select British Clas- 
sics," in all the month of January; 
we are informed it is their intention 
to publish tlic I're&ces, Historical 
and, by Alexander 
Chair ers, A. M. in two or three 

Arranp;en]ents are makli^g for 
ihe publithiDg an elegant edition of 

Poems, by Peter Bayley, jus. Esq* 
These poems have been read by the 
editor, who ranks them at least as 
high, in poetical merit, as the Plea- 
sures of Memory, or Uie Pleasures 
of Hope, hy^ Rogenand Campbell* 

We are informed that a Narra- 
tive Poem, built upon the eariy suf- 
ferings of the Christians, and in* 
tend^ to illustrate the influence of 
Christianity on the manners of na- 
tions, may diortly be expected from 
a pen, with which the pabUc are 
already acquainted. 

llie Rev. Mr. Miller, <me of 
the Ministers of the Presbyterian 
Church, in the city of New York^ 
has been for some time past en- 
gaged in writing a Review of the 
Progress of 'Litei*ature, of Art and 
Science, &c. duringthe last century. 
We are happy to hear that he has 
nearly brought his labours to a 
close, and that in the course of two 
months we may expect to receive 
from his hand, two large octavo 
volumes, foil of the most usefol and 
interesting information. 

The London prints mention, that 
Hayley is adding to his Biography 
of Cowper, a third volume, con- 
taining Letters of that great and 
amiable Poet, which have not, hi- 
therto, been published. 

Hoicroft's Travels in France, are 
published in the most splendid stile. 


The Editor thanks his chemical 
friend for his communication. 

Valverdi's fovours will be accepts 

The Editor higihly estimates the 
memorandums of his friend the 
Traveller, tiiinks no tracts cd this 
work Avill be read with mere plea* 
sure tlian those written by him. 

Some of the lines in Cassaader'a 
verses on Solitude, are rather too 
luxui'lant to be published in tliis 
Magazine. — ^Mis lines on the New 
Year, are not sufficiently correct— 
Cassander may, however, fiiruikk 
something acceptable* 





Vol. I.] 

JANUARY, 1804. 

[No, 4.' 



What is a Gentleman 

Lindley Munrray 244 

Female Learning 245 

Antiquities « 346 

The Traveller....No, 4 347 

Qiiakensm.,..a Dialogue 348 

Memorandums made on a journey 

through part of Pennsylvania 350 
Memoirs of Carwin the Biloqoist 255 


Letters of the British Spy 361 

The Town and Country Friend 
and Physician *. 365 

TM Boar Hunt 






Memoirs on the Wax'Trec, &c. 271 
Extracts from the correspondence 

of an American in France • . . 377 
Memoirs of Count de Parades 380 
Account of Bnenos-Ayres, in S. 

America . . . 4. . . .'. 283 

Specimen of LiteratyResemblancA 288 

Account of the Mammoth 292 

Account of the Inhabitants of ' 

Algiers 297 

Count Koningmark 301 

De Saxe's Ghost «.... 303 

Observations on Dairies, Self- 
Biography, and Self-Characters 305 

History of Philip Delwynn 309 

Account of the venerable Labre SIS 

Remarkable Occurrences ...... 817 

Marriages and Deaths • 319 









Ko. 4.] 

JANUARY, 1804. 

[Vol. L 


An amusing controversy took 
place this evening, at my lire-side, 
on this important (question. One 
was busy in eiEamining the matter 
etymologically, and historically. 
Another attempted to settle the 
point of prevailing custom, and 
the general result was, that nothing 
was more vague and equivocal than 
tbis term. 

^ Gen//^m^" says an innkeeper 
to a mixed company of sailors and 
taylors, whites and blacks, whom 
a stage coaah hkd brought to dine 
at his house, ^ the stage is ready, 
andyouhave to pay me half a dollar 
a piece." 

The curtain fells p.t the theatre, 
and a performer steps forth, and 
addresses his motley audience thus : 
*< Ladies and Gentlemen^ to-mor- 
row night will be presented," Sec. 

'A man at an inn, who, in a mixed 
company, carves a pig or goose 
with dexterity and ease, who carries 
the glass to his mouth, without 
faurry or confusion ; who is careful 
to supply the wants of all present, 

from the dish before him; who 
speaks mildly and complaisantly to 
the waiter ; who finds no fault with 
any thing produced ; who is dressed 
in a sattin waistcoat ; a black doth 
coat, without rent or patch ; clean 
linen and shining boots, that man 
is applauded by ms companions as 
a true gentleman. 

If you listen to the conversation 
of a well dressed woman, you will 
probably catch such sentences as 
these.../' The gentlemen are so 
apt to flatter us poor girls"...." We 
move, dress, and talk, for no other 
purpose than to please the' gentle^ 
mffw"...." You gentlemenh&ve such 
advantages over us ; gentlemen can 
get rich by their own exertions ; 
can pursue any trade, and aspire 
to any office hi society that pleases 

What kind of a man is that, 
whom you overhear in a coffee- 
house, claiming from another " the 
treatment (or satisfaction) due to 
a gentleman ?" 

A man justifies his avenging an 
imagined wrong, with a pistol rather 



than a cudgel, by acknowledging 
his adversary to be a gentleman* 

** Pray," says a black girl, usher- 
ing a couple of gallants of her own 
colour, into the kitchen, ^^ take 
seats, gentlemen. 

Now, in all these cases, there is 
doubtless the propriety that flows 
from custom and usage ; and yet, 
the persons that are thus denomi- 
nated gentlemen^ have no circum- 
stance of age, rank, education, or 
profession in common with each 
other. They are alike, in short, 
only in two circumstances: that of 
sex, and that of the respectM in- 
tention of those who use it. A 
gentleman, is a title which merely 
implies a desire to please and flatter 
those to whom it is applied. 
*In some parts of Europe, there 
are permanent distinctions, origi- 
nating in birtli, between gentlemetf 
and others* The son of a butcher, 
whatever be his actual situation, 
or personal accomplishments, will 
frequently have his claim to this 
title disputed by those who know 
kis pedigree : and yet, the two pro- 
fessions of clergyman and soldier, 
however incompatible in other re- 
spects, give, it seems, to those who 
^ embrace them^ the rank of gen- 


It is certainly remarkable that 
tlie natives of America, who have 
af'rived at eminence in arts and 
literature, have chiefly done so in 
a foreign country. The adage, 
^' that ^ prophet has no honour in 
his own country," is not strictly 
applicable to tliese cases, because 
America is justly proud of these 
her sons, and afibrds them every 
9ort of patronage and countenance 
consistent with her situation ; but, 
to obtain this credit with their coun- 
trymen, it seems previously neces- 
sary to have commenced their 
career, and to have established 
their fame in Europe. Tliis is a 
kind of test and recommendation 
which our ]}unctiHo demands* 

It would be worth while to form 
a list of those who have doue honour 

to their country in Ibreign dimes ; 
among those the names of Benja-* 
min Thompson and Lindley Murray 
deserve a conspicuous place. The 
latter has had the honour of coq<v 
tributing more essentially to the 
education of Englishmen, and to 
the settlement and elucidation of 
the English language, than any 
person uving. Hb grammatical 
treatises bid fair to gain an unri« 
valled and permanent pre-emi- 
nence ; and his collections for the 
use of scholars, have already ex- 
cluded most others from seminaries 
of instruction. 

I was shewed to-night a letter 
from him, dated May, 1799, in 
which he rives the following ac- 
count of the success which has 
crowned his eflforts as an author : 

<^ My literary labours," says he^ 
^ were the oflB^ring of a sense of 
duty, and have amused many an 
hour that might otherwise have 
been languid, and perhaps weari- 
some, it affords me great satis- 
faction to find that the public appro- 
bation of these works has £ur 
exoeeded my most sanguine expec- 
tations. In four years there have 
been printed of the Abridgment, 
the Grammar, the Exercises, and 
Key, forty-six' thousand copies; 
eight thousand of *' The English 
Reader," and eleven thousand of 
« The Power of Religion." The 
Grammar and exercises have been 
so well approved, and are in such 
extensive use, that an eminent 
house in London, in the book trade^ 
offered me 7001. for the copy-right^ 
and afterwards 3501. for that of the 
English Reader. These ofiers I 
have accepted. I had before sold 
the Abridgement for 1001. Thou 
wilt agree that the copy-rights are 
well sold, especially as thereby my 
wish for a still more extensive and 
permanent use, will probably be 
accomplished. ^ 

'< As this, prima facie, carries 
with it an interested appearance, 
it seems incumbent on me to inform 
thee, that, as I wrote irova disin- 
terested motives, I have appropri- 
ated the whole 1350U {ji»!f^ 600Q 

irfUBlsVts DiAliy* 


dollars) for ^e bcne6^^ others, 
^rithoat l^pftttte any of it to my 
private use* 

Fexale Learkihg. 

I li%ve been listening, to-night, 
to a yery ingenious defence of un- 
ieamedvrommf by Miss »»»*». I 
Ikad ventured to insinuate against 
lk«r, as a &ult, an ki(£fbrenceto 
books ; a want of curiosity ; and 
had chieflfy insisted on this defect, 
not as disparaging her character in 
the eyes of others, but as depriv- 
ing her of a source of occupation 
and amusement the most rational, 
commodious, and efficacious of aH 

To this censure she replied by 
appealing to every one's experience, 
whether a passion for rea<Mng does 
not necessarily encroach upon, and 
Impair that attention to domestic 
du&es, and regard for personal 
decorum, without which, no woman 
can be either usefol, happy, or 
respelitable. It is infiuitely better, 
she tiiinks, to have no taste but for 
domestic ai&irs, than to have no 
taste but for literature. It is im- 
possible for human creatures to hit 
the true meifium : to<x>mbine and 
compound various tastes and incli- 
nations in such due proportions, 
that each shall be indulged to the 
exact exteni^ and at the very time 
which propriety allows* Books 
must either please us too much, 
and, of consequence, absorb our 
attention unseasonably and exces- 
nvely, or they must mil to please 

To say truth, this conversation 
arose from my observingmy friend's 
indifference to a book which I liad 
lent her. I expected to find her 
deeply engaged in it tliis evening, 
whereas she was quietly employ^ 
with her needle* It seems she had 
taken up the book, and after reading 
a few pages with little interest, had 
laid it aside for the needle, which 
pleased her much better* She 
maintains very strenuously, that if 
she had a stronger inclination to 
reading than to sewing, the latter 
employment, however enjomed by 

VOL* Z....NO* IV* 

duty and necessity, would be ne- 
glected, and congratulates herself 
on findmg pleasure in that to which 
propriety enjoins her to attend* 

There is surely a great deal of 
truth in these remarks of my friend* 
It is not, strictly speaking, impos«* 
sible to combine business and study 
in just proportions ; and sOMe ex- 
amples, no doubt there are, in 
cither sex, of persons whom a pas- 
sion for study never seduces^ a 
moment from the rigid line of their 
domestic and social duty. Though 
the possibility of such characters 
cannot be denied, I must aver that 
I never met with any such. I' never 
saw man or woman, smitten with 
a passion for books, whose h^pi- 
ness and use&ilness were not some- 
what injured by it ; but the injury 
is much greater, and more palpable 
in women than in men* The do- 
mesftic sphere being appropriated 
to the female, her mattention and 
tmskilfulnass produces the most in- 
jury; whereas her prudence and 
economy nuiy obviaifee many incon- 
venient and disgusting effects of a 
studious ^sposition in the master 
of a fomily. 

A woman who hates reading, ig' 
not necessarily a wise and prudent 
economist ; and this estimable cha- 
racter is sometimes, though rarely 
found in a woman of sound judg- 
ment, and liberal curiosity*. This 
curiosity is not, however, in any 
case that I know of, just so ardent 
as to make books acceptable when- 
ever there is leisure to attend to 
them. There are many hours in 
the life of such women, which drag 
on heavily or mournfully, for want 
of literary cariosity* 

I beseech you my irxend, for it is 
probable you willsometime see this, 
not to consider this verdict as limi- 
ted to you, or to your sex* It ex- 
tends to all human beings, and I 
am half inclined to revoke the con- 
cession I just now made, that such 
a curiosity, as will fill up, and no 
more than filliq>every truly leisure 
moment, can possibly exist* 

One of the most accomplished 
women of the last age (intellectually . 



considered) wasLady M. Wb fisoit- 
tague, bat the gtories of ber per* 
■onal indelicaciet are weQ known. 
Women, like men, are known 
to the world at large, chiefly by 
their writingB. Such, thereibre, 
bemg oblige to handle the pea 
frequently, have some apology for 
inattention to other obiectt. Of 
that numerous class of females, 
who have cultivated their minds 
with science and literature, without 
publishing thmr labours, and who 
consequently are unknown to gene* 
ral inquirers ; how many nave 
preserved the balance inunoveaUe 
between the appout^ demands c^ 
the kitchen, the drawing room, the 
nursery, and the library ? We may 
safely answer from our own esLpe* 
rience, not one. 


I was shewn, to-ni|^t, a* frag* 
ment oi a coverlet, which once be- 
longed to William Penn. The old 
lady who produced it, gave roe a 
veiy circumstantial history of this 
relique. It seems, the coverlet, 
very old, and very ragged, was 
taken by a curious person from the 
very bed in which the patriarch of 
Pennsylvania lay, <and was distri- 
buted in small strips among her 
particular friends. 

American anHguitie»f if any 
such things there be, chiefly relate 
to monuments of those nations who 
occupied America before the Euro- 
pean discoveries* The most per- 
manent, con^icuous, and remark- 
able of these, are undoubtedly the 
mounds or ramparts scattered over 
the western country. These have 
two qualities to reooromend them, 
in the highest degree, to curiosity, 
and that is the retnoteness of tlieir 
ori^n, and the my^teriousness of 
their design. Other monunrtents 
consist of the weapons and domes- 
tic utensils, which are made of du- 
rable materials, and will probably 
ccmtinue to be found, or to be pre- 
served, some thousands of years 

The spirit of curiosity is exactly 
in proportion to tlie remoteness and 

inc wy-^rioumess (and the latter 
IS one of the consequeoces of tte 
former) of the cx^kxx & «u timt Use 
reliques of Indian manners win go 
on acquiring valae fitxnage to age z 
a greater number will be boay in 
collecting and describing thenas 
and a stone, tobacco-j^pe, or arrow* 
head, will, in time, became of 
much more value than its wef|^ 

will produce another ipe^ 
cies of antiques, in the reliques o£ 
those gjenerations which have passed 
away since die colonization of^Ame- 
rica. Two centuries have almost 
elapsed, since our ancestors b^an 
to migrate hither, and this penod 
will admit of a succession of ten 
generations at least. There are a 
great number of books, and of do- 
mestic utensils, which were manu- 
foctured in Europe, and were 
brought hither for their immediate 
acconunodation, by the eari^ colo- 
nists* These are greatly pnxc^ by 
their descendants. This city (Phi- 
ladelphia) which .was the earliest 
settlement of the English in this 
st^te, contains a great number of 
these reliques, and the antiqnarian 
spirit glows very strongly in some 

Besides the coverlet, Mrs. ••••• 
shewed me a sampler worked by 
her great erandmother, in the year 
1669, in Holbum ; a silver spoon, 
with which all the ciiildren of the 
fomily have been fed, since the one 
that was bom in the year 168r, on 
the passage from the Thames to 
the Delaware ; and a Beza's Tes- 
tament, which was one of the few 
of his moveables rescued by an an- 
cestor of hers from the great fire of 
London, in 1665. 

Some people may smile at the 
spirit which affixes value to objects 
ot' this nature ; and those in whom 
the sight of tliese monuments of 
times past, awaken no solemn or 
agreeable emotions, will naturally 
throw the sampler into tlie fire, the 
spoon into the crudble, and the 
Bible to the cook ; but to me, and 
such as me, who cannot handle or 
view such articles as I have )ast 


described, without a thousand pic 
iDg and elevating thoughts, they 
wiU always be precious and sacred. 
To become an antiquary, I only 
want the leisure and the opportu- 
nity required. 

/br the XMerary T^agazine* 


Attachment between /ier8on* <ifthe 
aame sejcm 


Ik reading your remarks in your 
last number, upon friendship, I 
could not forbear sending you a few 
thoughts of my own upon the same 

' The attachment between persons 
of the same sex, is called friend- 
ahip; and perhaps can, strictly 
speaking, be said only to exist in 
relation to persons of the same sex. 
Friendship between man and 
woman, according to the above de- 
finition, must be love. Esteem for 
one of the opposite sex may influ- 
ence to numberless friendly offices ; 
but this is not what is meant by 
Iriendship. The affection which 
sobsits between some brothers and 
sisters, is nearer to friendship; 
stin it is distinct, and must be de- 
signated by the appellation of fra- 
ternal love. 

^ In the course of his life, a man 
generally feels the attachment of 
fHendsh^, &t different periods, 
towards several individuals of va- 
rious characters, and dissimilar 
merit. If he is of a generous and 
ardent temper, he is,' at no 
period, without some one favoured 
and &vouring being, to whom he 
feds united, by the passion of 
friendship; yet it is often found 
that the objects of a man's early at- 
tachments, prove, after absence, 
or the lapse of time, to be such as 
the heart can no longer cleave to. 

I can remember no period of 
my life, at which, among many 
^hom I loved, theie was not one, 

of my own sex, to whom I was 
passionatelv attacheiL While yet 
an infent, I was attached to a good- 
natured servant lad, who toldm 
stories, taught me to find birds 
nests, and took me with him to 
hunt rabbits. At the age of eight, 
I was passionately attached to a 
boy of^ ten. We shouldered our 
wooden muskets toged^er, and 
would have died in ddlence of each 
other, if there had been any knight 
or giant who wished the death of 
either. These bonds were broken 
by absence : I felt a pang, but im* 
mediatelv found another friend. 
During tne time between the ages 
of nine and fifteen, I remember a 
succession of boys to whom I waa 
sincerely attached, and with whom 
I had quarrcJs and reconciliationa 
innumerable. With one I was en- 
gaged in reading the achievements 
of knights-errant; with another, 
in enacting plays ; and with a third, 
in making pictures* From fifteen 
to eighteen, I had another attach- 
ment; though during this period I 
had at the same time a succession 
oi love a^irs, unknown to the ob- 
jects, and only imparted to my 
friend, who I recollect was as cold 
to the charms of the other sex, as 
he was warm in his attachment to 
me. This union was broken by 
my departure for Europe. It was 
there die same ; I Immediately found 
a friend, from whom I was insepa- 
rable, and who sincerely loved me. 
On my return to America, af- 
ter an absence of some years, 
I found some of the persons 
whom I had formerly loved, but 
thq^ were no longer the same, and 
certainly /was no longer the same. 
I was pleased to see them, but my 
heart had again to seek a friend. Is 
this the picture of friendship, as 
others feel it, or am 1 singular in 
my temper or my fate ? Be that a$ 
it may, such is the view of friend* 
ship, which my experience of life 
presents, but there is yet another 

I married, and the passion of 
friendship was swallowed up in the 
passion of love. A husband and a 



iktfaftr, my heart aeeks not away 
fh>m my own fire-sldei a bosom to 
share its tmn^orts, or quiet its 
tumults. Is my mind less capable 
of f riendshm than at an earlier pe- 
riod ctf life f I think not. Though 
undoubtedly my eye is much quicker 
in discerning blemishes than at that 
time : yet my heart bounds towards 
every object which spears to wish 
its sympathy. I have now a num- 
ber of persons whose friend I am^ 
and whom I am proud to call my 
friends; but the sentiment which' 
binds me to them^ is not passion. 
J esteem A, B, C, D, £, F, and 
G, and I love H, I and K ; but 
still the pQMion of friendship is 
swallowed up in the passion of 
love. W. D. 

For the Literary Magazine. 


R. How does thee do, my dear. 
J have been Iboking out for Uiee 
several days, but thee has disap- 
pointed me as usuaL Thee is 
careless, I fear, of thy engage- 

L. Foreive me, madam. The 
weather has detained me; very 
much, I assure you, to my own 
disappointment ; but, (taking up a 
book) I see you know how to be- 
guile lassitude, and supply yourself 
with company. What have you 
got? " Men and Manners." What ! 
a novel ! I thought this kindjof read- 
ing was prohibited by the canons 
of your &ith. 

R. And so it is ; that is to say, 
these rules, interpreted most strict- 
ly, and as they are usually inter- 
preted by those who are deemed 
most conscientious and apostolical 
among us, absolutely foi-bid the 
reading of fictitious books. Time 
thus spent, is thought to be spent 
frivolously or perniciously, 

L. What then am I to infer? 

R. I understand thee. I am far 
from being so good a quakcr as I 
ought to be. In many tilings I fall 

behind my own prindplet, but aol 
on the present occaaiQ&« I am no- 
wise scrupulous about readingeitfacr 
plays or novels. My duty requires 
that I should not bMtow too mucb 
time upon them, and that I diould 
careiiiUy distinguish between the 
good and the bad. 

L. And does this novel justify 
your choice > 

R. I read it merely on the re- 
commendation of a friend, who 
told me the story was well contrived, 
and that the hero was a quaker* 

L. Will you, on the same ac- 
count, recommend it to me. 

R. Why, the story is not ill con- 
trived, and the characters, in ge- 
neral, appear to be well enoii^ 
supported, except the princ^ 
one, the quaker. In him I disco- 
ver not a single feature that resem- 
bles my neighbours and relations, 
unless indeed, it be his benevor 
lence. That, however, though 
characteristic of the true quaker, 
as it is of the true christian of any 
sect, is, I must reluctantly acknow- 
ledge, by no means characteristic 
of us as a sect ; in that reelect, 
we are neither better n^ worse 
than other societies. 

L. Has the author ful^m^dam, 
in ascribing this property to his 

R. Far from it, my dear. In 
this respect, he has given to Jona- 
than Parkinson no more than is due 
to many quakers. What I con^ 
demn, is, the dialect and manners 
which Jonathan adopts. 

L. My dear madam, I have read 
the work, and was so ignorant as 
to think Jonathan a very good por- 
trait of a quaker. 

R. Thy ignorance, my dear, is 
very excusable, nay, unavoidable, 
since thee has XoMl me, tiill thy in- 
troduction to me, thee never con- 
versed with B^JricTtd* This waa 
erobably the case with our author. 
[e must have somewhere heard, 
that the quakers use thou and thee, 
or, as we term it, the fiiain Ian" 

ft/a^^, to single persons. This he 
as believed, and has inferred that 
the formal style of Aaih and doth s 



^eolossr, approachingy in ail re- 
apeets, to the scriptiml, were ad* 
liered tO| with equal scrupulosity. 
Kow the truth is, that thee may 
ocmyerae all thy life with JHeruU^ 
and never hear the pronoun thou 
uttered* The various forms of 
tkouj thee and thy^ have kmg ago 
degenerated among us, into the 
single rii^r, and ejq>ericnce proves 
that no obscurity arises from this 
circumstance. The termination, 
€thy and the expletives do and did^ 
of which Jonathan Parkinson is so 
liberal^ is just as seldom heard from 
lis as from others* The use of 
thou in any funiliar instance^ 
would be deemed an intolerable af- 

L* My dear madam, is not this 
alildeodd? I have heard that you 
has been objected to by the friends, 
as being, among other accounts, 

R* I know, my dear, what thee 
would say, and certainly such ob* 
jections are inconsistent* I, for 
my part, condemn it, not on that 
account, and I vmdicate the disuse 
of Mott, merely because it is the cus- 
tom* It is plain enough how this 
custom arose* Iliou appears to 
require the harsh correqx>ndent 
endings of th and «/, and we drop 
the first to get rid of the last. In* 
atead of saymg, ^^ thou mistakest," 
or ^ thou dost mistake," we con- 
tent ourselves with ^* thee mis* 

L* Pray madam, inform me 
wherein lie the peculiarities of a 
quakcr's manners or speech. 

R. I will do it cheerfiillv, my 
dear. In the first place, a friend, 
either by principle or habit, and 
nine out of ten of those who are 
members of society, belong to the 
latter class, are to be known by 
having none of those airs and mo- 
tions &at are given by the dancing- 
master. In saluting, they incline 
the head, perhaps, bat never the 
back* They take not off their hat 
to their neighbours, and even, in 
entering an house, seldom think of 
this ceremony. Their dialect is 

utt^ly a stranger to Sir^ MUtcr^ 
and Madanu They use the chris- 
tian name much more frequently 
than others, but they shew their 
respect, especially to elders, by 
puttinff fiiendj in place of Mr« 
and Mrs. 

L. Pray, madam, what language 
would you use on an occadon where 
I should employ such words as 
these: ^^ Gentlemen and la^es, 
will you fiivour me with your com* 
pany on Tuesday evening, and 
you, Mr* Blank, may I see you in 

R. These would be my words s 
<^ Win you give me your company, 
/riendsj on third^-day evening, and 
thee, friend Kank, shaU I see thee 
m the sixth month?" Thee is 
probably aware that we always 
name the days of the week, and the 
months, numerically. I do not re- 
cdlect any other peculiarities than 
those I have mentioned. In all 
other respects, my dear, ^^ friends" 
are like others, and their langua^ 
and deportment square with their 
temper, and h proportioned to 
their knowledge. 

L« According to this represen* 
tation, madam, Parkinson talks in 
avery unnatural style indeed: hoi? 
is it with his conduct ? Has the an* 
thor as much mistaken that as his 
speech? ^ 

R. Why, my dear, the author ^ 
thee knows, tells us that Jonathan , 
though bom Kfriendy had early 
laid adde the profession. That 
the sect was visible in nothing but 
his dialect. This is an ample apo-i 
logy, of course, for every tlunfj^ 
un-quaker-like in his conduct, ^.s 
I said before, the conduct of qua* 
kers is like that of the rest of tiae 
world, neither worse nor better^ 
unless, indeed, he be a sinccsre 
and conscientious quaker, and then 
his system of action, has, indeed^ 
no psu*allell in any other sect, I da 
not mean in the degree,, but oaly 
in the modes of his benevolence. 

L. Have you ever met with thA 
quaker truly'described in books ? 

R. Never in any books but their 
ownj my dear, and especially never 



in fictitious writings. In no play 
or novel that I hare read, was the 
ouaker ever justly conceived or 
Aithfully portrayed. He that is 
made to pass by that name in such 
books, is usuall)r a very respecu- 
ble and meritorious character, but 
bas no resemblance to the tmequa- 
bers, tiie quaker either of habit or 
of principle. The reason is plain. 
Ko one but a man educated a quaker 
can truly describe the sect, and no 
one hitherto, with such an educa- 
tion, has turned fabulist, or, at 
least, aUempted to portray in his 
frble, one of this sect. 

L. I think, madam, it would be 
«n excellent scheme to eidiibit the 
tnie character of vour frientU. 
•The theme is certainly not wanting 
ni importance and dignitjr, and, to 
a large part of the readmg world, 
would be full of novelty and interest: 
as Tou do not object to reading, 
perhaps you would be persuaded to 
write a story of this sort* 

R. There is another thing, my 
dear, which I deem of far more 
fanportance, and that is a candid 
and accurate view of their *^ dis- 
cipline,*' that is, of their system of 
iBoral and ecclesiastical govem- 
vient. I have often been astonished 
at the ignoranco on this head, of 
aien otherwise enlightened and in- 
anisitive. There are, indeed, some 
jifBcelties in the way of acquiring 
: tfiis knowledge, but none which a 
Tational curiosity might not over- 
come. Tills system differs from 
most other religious systems, as it 
Is intended to supply a rule of uni- 
tersal action, and to supersede all 
ether law and government. Acom- 
-mmity entirely oi friends would 
need no other laws and institutions 
than the society has at present. 


CCmtinucdfromfiage 1 67. J 
Thz next stage wasLavenberg's, 
— - miies from Kepner's. Tliere 

is no cultivation of anv kind betweeii 
the two places. The large trees 
have at diflerent periods bera blown 
down, and the ground is thickly 
covered with low timber, chiefly 
oak bushes, producing vast quanti- 
ties of acorns, nuts and berries, and 
inhabited by panthers and deer, 
together with' immense multitudes 
of pheasants, and other wild fowl, 
among which the turkey u fre- 
quently seen. 

It is probable that many years 
will elapse before this tract win 
become the home of man, as there 
are yet so many millions of acres 
of better land unsettled in the United 
States. The temptation to cultivate 
any portion of this spot must there- 
fore be feeble and remote. Hie 
period may never arrive.M.but it ia 
evident, sterUe and bleak as it i% 
diat it might be forced to contri- 
bute to human support. One great 
art in cultivation consists in adapt- 
ing the product to the nature of 
the climate and soil, and where 
berries and nuts grow spontane- 
ously, the genins and industry of 
man, goaded by necessity, may 
surely contrive the means of sob- 
sistence. The surfisice is gravel, 
sand, and rock, with a smoU mix- 
ture ^f loam. 

We overtook two yotmg men on 
foot, who had killed a rattle-snake 
having twelve rattles. Thb is 
undoubtedly one of the most formi- 
dable reptiles of North-America ; 
and it is a fortunate circumstance 
tiiat he seldom if ever commences 
an attack without previous notice. 
He is naturally sluggish, but, con- 
scious of his power, is little dis- 
posed to yield his path to an intru- 
der. His maxim seems to be, 
^< Let me alone, and I'll let you 
alone." Wlien irritated he rarely 
misses his object, if within his reach, 
and it is a remarkable foot, that, 
after the head is severed from the 
body, if you touch the tail with a 
stick, the'part nearest the head will 
strike the offending stick with great 
force, and so instantly and cer- 
tainly, that it requires uncommoa 
dexterity to avoid the blow. 



Tfotwithstanding vulgar preju- 
dice, ^ere are few of our snakes 
ivhose bite is not as harmless as the 
bite of a mouse. This itf certainly 
the case with the black snake, gar- 
ter snake, water snake, and some 

Lavenberg finds it necessary to 
house his sheep at night. Not many 
years since the wolves were so bold 
that they frequently advanced into 
his bam yard in the day time and 
carried off his flock* 

To keep the wolf at a distance, 
it is sufficient occasionally to scour 
his haunts with a pack of the larger 
spedes of hounds : they are his natu- 
ral enemies, and he never fails to 
desert the country which echoes to 
their music. 

When at Lavenberg's, we ima- 
gined we had passed the worst of 
our day's ride, having crossed no 
less than five stupendous ridges of 
mountains: the Blue, the IHisca- 
roro, the Locust, the Broad, and 
the Mahanoy. The passage over 
them is better adapted to the taste 
of a poet, than to that of a former. 
Here are aUo a few handsome 
lover's leaps, where tlic heart-sick 
melting swain might find a ready 
xorefor all his earthly afflictions. 
The road skirts some of these 
ridges at the height of one thou- 
i»nd or more feet, nearly vertically 
•above the contracted vallies whidi 
border their rude bases. Instances 
jometimes occur of loaded waggons 
meeting in these dangerous passes, 
in which case there is no altera- 
tive but to ungear one of the teams, 
to conduct the horses one by one to 
the rear of the waggon, and then to 
draw it back until a spot can b^ 
found sufficiently level and spacious 
to turn aside, which in some parts 
requires the patient toil of hours, 
and the retrograde motion of miles. 
To prevent these disagreeable con- 
sequences, the waggoners crack 
tlieir whips, and whoop to give 
notice of their approach. They 
had need to be carctul, for a trifling 
mistake would be attended with 
inevit^le destruction. It is not a 
Tittle surprising that waggons^ car- 

rying from twelve to fourteen bar- 
rels of flour, are continually tra- 
velling tl)ese roads, which, we 
thought, were almost impassable 
on horseback, and frequently led 
our horses, and walked for hoon 
successively in preference to riding* 
It had been threatening rain all 
day, and while at Lavenberg's, a 
smart shower fell ; it ceased betweett 
four and five in the afternoon, when 
we again mounted and proceeded 
on our way. Presently we began 
to ascend what is called the Little 
Mountain, but which is in reality a 
very lofty and rugged ridge. As 
we approached its summit, a scene 
suddenly opened to our view, which, 
for a time, rivetted our whole at- 
tention, and engrossed all our 
thoughts. We were struck with 
admiration and surprise, mixed 
with pleasure and awe. Towards 
the south-west our view extended 
to a3\ immense distance over aa 
unimproved and woody countr)", 
where mountains ri3e back of moun- 
tains as far as tlie eye can reach^ 
seeming to vie with each other ia 
the wild SLspcct of their fronts, and 
in the bold elevation of their peaks. 
Around them clouds were seen to 
rush in every direction, and dark 
storms were ^t gathering on their 
craggy sides* Neither of us bad 
ever witnessed similar appearai:^ 
ces, and we involuntarily halted to 
indulge in the transports of the mo^ 
roent. We saw tlie rain descend^ 
iug in copious streams beneath tlio 
mountains' tops ; witne2»sed the vivid 
flash of the tremulous lightning ap- 
parently below us ) and listened to 
the awful peal of distant thunder 
re-echoed from cliff to cliff, and 
answering to the hollow blast of the 
driving wind. Wc were not long 
permitted to remain idle spectators 
of this conflict of life elements, nor 
to enjoy unmolested the novelty and 
sublimity of this &cene. Presently 
a tumultuous assemblage of clouds 
arriving from various ]ioints, pre- 
sented themselves against the side 
of the momitain nearest to us, and 
distant about three miles. We saw 
the storm hastilv advance, and dasK 


mixoravbitk xadr or 

It grew darker and darker, as if 
enraged at the intermption, and 
determined to tnrmount it. We 
were in iiiU view of the contest* It 
was of short duration. The storm 
moved slowly to the summit in an 
oblique direction from us, and hav- 
ing surmounted it, came with head- 
kmg speed down the opposite side. 
The mountain on which we were 
was the next highest point of at- 
tractibn, and the gloomjr mass ad- 
vanced with ^resLt vekxuty towards 
OS. The wind began to whistle 
keenly aroand us, and the wild 
drivii^ of the coming tempest soon 
awakened us to a sen^^e of our ex- 
posed situation. To avoid it was 
impossible, and our inhospitable 
region affisrded us not the slightest 
shelter. We prepared to defend 
ours^ves in the best manner we 
eould, by covering our huto with oil 
doths, andbttttoningourgreatcoats 
tig^t about us. It was in vain; for^ 
in a few minutes we were wet to 
the skin and completdy drenched ; 
the water appeared to fell, not in 
drops, but in sheets, and the eflfects 
of its violence onour faces was very 
disagreeable and even painfel. Our 
htorses were not better pleaa^ than 
oursdves* lliey could snort and 
prance, but, like their masters, 
were compelled to bear the wind 
and rain without a hope of protec- 
tion or escape. On our right there 
was an insurmountable Imrrier of 
rockst and on our left a most dan« 
gerons precipice. The road was 
too rough and steep to admit of 
their being urged out of a slow 
walk, in addition to which th^ rain 
that fell so covered the passage, 
that, in a short time, they were 
constantly wading through torrents, 
which must have' efieciually pre- 
dttded our march, had not the 
floods found frequent openings, 
down which diey rushed to Uie 
lower grounds : in this situation we 
dn^;ged on, the storm beating on 
OS with great violence....our horses 
moved forward with reluctance, 
and we became apprehensive, that, 
when we should descend to the op- 

porite foot of the nMuntain, we 
should have to encounter some aar^ 
rent rendered impassable by tbc 
rain, and thus be compelled to re- 
turn to Lavenberg's after ni^t. 
In tliis apprehension we were psrtljr 
mistaken, for we afterwards diaco<» 
vered that our course lay over high 
grounds, the western descent of the 
mountain being inconsiderable. We 
continued in a wildemesa, nor sair 
improvement of any kind, until we 
were seven miles from our las;t 
stage, when wewere gratified with 
the appearance of a house. The 
storm had greatly abated, but it 
continued to rain very &st, and we 
pleased ourselves with the hope of 
procuring a comfertable retreat for 
the night. A nearer inspection of 
the miserable hovel decided the 
matter, and we determined to pro- 
ceed rather than enter it. It was a 
one story building, but whether of 
wood or ston^ we did not suficiently 
examine to remember. It was evi- 
dently too much open to the wea- 
ther to protect its inhabitants, whoy 
young and old, (kicked together to 
gape at us as we passed* Their 
complexions were ruddy, and the 
children were in rags about the 
door sporting in the rain and mod* 
Two miles further on our way we 
passed another sorry dwelUnr, after 
which we saw several newly im- 
proved ferms and cottages, in a to- 
lerable soil. Night came on at we 
crossed the Catawesay Mouatais, 
which was nigh occaaoning oa n 
disagreeable if not a fatal accideBt. 
We were utter str an ger s to the 
road, and it became so dxrk that 
we could scarce see a yard before 
us. When arrived at the Cata- 
wessy creek, my horse refused to 
move forward ; I urged him but he 
became unruly. J. who had been 
behind me, came up, and thought 
he could perceive that we were 
about to eoter on the ruins of a 
bridge totallj)' impassable on hoi-sc- 
back. This we found to be the 
case when we had an opportunity 
of viewing the same place in open 
day, and had we proceeded many 
st4>» further, it is quite probable 



that both honte and riders would 
han; been kwt* The skeleton of an 
old wooden bridge, with a single 
piank' extenderl len^-wise over 
the stream, and barely sufficient to 
admit a footman, was all that re> 
vnained/ From the roaring <^ the 
water it was evidently not inoqnsi- 
derable either in quandty or force ; 
tput whether the noise was the ef- 
fect of natural fells, or pi*oceeded 
irom a mill-dam, we were nnable 
to determine. We couM not, in 
oar wet disagreeable trim, think of 
turning back, especially as there 
was no house near us, nor any that 
We knew of, in whidi we could 
count on being comfortably lodged 
on this side of Lavenberg's* llie 
|>ro8pect on either hand was not 
Very consoling ; we could not have 
reached Lavenberg's before morn- 
ing, and we knew not the width, 
depth, or rapidity of the creek. 
There was no person at hand to 
consult, and who by a single friendly 
word, might have relieved us from 
<Mr perplexity. At length we de- 
termined to proceed, encouraged 
bf the appearance of a light on the 
opposite shore, which convinced us 
tiiat a human habitation was at 
hand. Directed by the roaring of 
the falls, we moved cautiously be- 
tow them, and boldly took the 
stream : we were exceedingly elat- 
ed on finding it less formidable than 
we feared, and soon landed safely 
on the western banks. We now 
inquired our way, and being di- 
rected into ihe right road, reached 
the town of Catawessy in a short 
time, it being but about half a mile 
from the creek. 

Our first care was to change our 
clothing, but on opening our saddle- 
bags, we perceived that the rain 
had penetrated them and wet every 
^rment. However, by an inter- 
change of civilities, we contrived 
to muster as many pieces l)etween 
Us as enabled each to have a tolera- 
bly dry suit. A silk coatee in which 
I rode, was changed into a dozen 
colours and shades, and might have 
suited Joseph uf cM, though it was 

rendered useless to me. Even our 
hats, notwithstanding their cover- 
ings of oil cloth, were thoroughly 
wet. After a litUe furbishing and 
recruiting, we could not but give 
vent to some merriment, on look- 
ing Tt^und our chamber, which had 
more of the appearance of a washer- 
woman's kitchen than of a lodging 
room, so handsomely had we deco- 
rated it with our dripping apparel. 

23d. A good dish of cofifee in tlie 
evening, and a comfortable night's 
lodging, make us feel Httle the 
worse for the exposure and drench- 
ing of yesterday. It rained most of 
tlw night. This morning tlie sky 
is fair and serene. 

It seems an odd hnmoor in onr 
landlady to make choice of a case 
of walnut drawers placed in our 
chamber, for the storage of her 
Dutch cheese. The odour is gene- 
rally not much more agreeable to 
the nose of an Englishman than the 
smell of rotten eggs. This cheese, 
or, as the Germans call it, kar^Cy is 
made of the curd of miHt suffered 
to grow sour ; it is salted, pressed 
in cloths, and afterwards dried and 
hardened in the sun, and not unu- 
sually ripened in hay. In this state, 
when made of rich milk, it is very 
palatable, and little inferior to the 
cheese of the English dairy, but the 
Germans prefer it when rancid or 
putrid, in which state it emits a 
stench to which nothing but habit 
and prejudice can reconcile us. 

An agreeable sauce caHed^cA^nrrr- 
kaese^ is also made by the Germans, 
from the curd of sow* milk, llie 
whey being entirely pi-esscd out, 
tiie curd is moistened with fresh 
cream, bi-ought to a suitable con- 
sistence for spreading, and then 
eaten on bread, but more frequently 
on bread and butter. This is a de- 
licate preparation, and is rarely 
rejected by tlie most dainty palate. 
The Germans of Pennsylvania are 
greatly attached to tliese simple 
relishes for bread, and it is not un- 
common, among the better class of 
the farmers, to see the master of 
the house regale himself with butter, 



honey^ apple*butter*, and schineer- 
kaese, spread in successive layers 
on the same slice of bread, and in 
tliis manner eaten with milk, and 
sometimes with wasser-suppe. The 
latter is an universal disli among 
the German- Americans, and is com- 
posed of fried flour and butter, on 
which boiling water is poured, after 
the addition of thin slices of bread, 
and the comm- n culinary s>pices. 

My boots being too wet to wear, 
I have been obliged to borrow a pair 
of shoes from the landlord, which 
being much too large, 1 make ra- 
ther an aukward appearance, and 
J. is very merry at my hobbling 
gait. We nevertheless attended 
divine service at friends' meeting- 
house ; about one hundred persons 
of both sexesr and mostly fi-om the 
adjacent settlement, wei*e present. 
It is the only house of worship in 
the town. 

There are about forty-five dwel- 
lings in Catawessy; only one of 
them is built of stone, the rest are 
either log or frame. It is a place 
of little or no trade, and most pro- 
bably ever will be. It was planned 
and settled about fifteen years ago, 
when every specul-tor, who owned 
a level tract of land on the Susque- 
hanna, seemed infected with the 
town-making mania. Poor people 
were induced, by specious and illu- 
sory representations, to pui*chase 
lots, and having spent all their mo- 
ney, and perhaps run in debt, in 
the erection of small tenements, 
thev could not, after finding them- 
selves deceived and disappointed, 
sell '.ut, and have therefore been 
compelled to remain for want of 
the mcc.ns to remove. 

Catav^e.-sy is x>n the eastern 
branch of the Susquehanna. The 
mount:. ins ^ n the east, south, and 
Borth of the town, form nn irregu- 
lar scmi-ciicle, with the points ter- 
minating in the ri^ er, and are dis- 

• The subs.ance is made b> boiling 
apples in sweet culcr, to which some 
simple spice, most generally pimento, 
is added. The Qermans call k lud- 

tant about three-fourths of a mile. 
The highest ridge lies to the east^ 
ward, and is said from actual mea^ 
surement, to be twelve hundred 
feet above the adjacent plain. 

Here are still some vestiges of an 
Indian burying ground, and some 
peach trees of their planting in to- 
lerable preservation. Having in 
the afternoon visited J. S. who lives 
on the western bank of the Cata- 
wessy creek, he pointed out to us 
what he takes to be the traces of an 
Indian fortification : it consists of a 
num!ier of square holes, dug at 
equal distiinces on the eastern shore, 
describing a line of several hundred 
feet : whether these apertures serv- 
ed as intrenchments from which an 
assaulting enemy might be annoyed, 
or were subservient to some more 
complex scheme of warlike opera- 
tions, or whether they were at all 
used for hostile purposes, may be 
left for the sage determination of 
some fiiture dealer in antiquities. 

Some years back a few of the in- 
habitants, from motives of curio- 
sity, dug up a corpse from the 
grave-yard. It proved to be a fe- 
male ; she had been interred with- 
out a coffin, and was, according to 
the custom of the Indians, placed 
in a sitting posture. Care had been 
taken to provide her with a small 
iron kettle, some trinkets, and a 
tobacco-]>ipe, ready charged in each 
hand. These equipments were 
doubtless intended to contribute to 
the comfort and convenience of the 
deceased on her journey to the land 
of spirits, and would probably be as 
efficacious as the tolling of bells, 
and the firing of guns, over the 
body of a white man. If this cus- 
tom of our tawney brethren be re- 
pugnant to our notions of good sense, 
we should not forget that our own 
must appear to them equally irre- 
concil'Able to reason and phil«6opliy» 
We were shewn one ot the pipes* 
It is the comn;on clay of European 
manufucture. The skeleton was 
preserved for sometime by the phy- 
sician of the town, but the super- 
stitious Germans in the neighbour- 
hood, fearful perhaps that Uds out- 



rage on the bones of the unqflend- 
ing squaw might be fbllowetl by some 
tremendous act of vengeance on her 
part, compelled the doctor to re- 
inter them. 

The inhabitants still preserve a 
large elm on the bank of the river, 
under which the sachems formerly 
held their councils. I could not 
contemplate this object with indif- 
ference. Who that has the feelings 
of a man, and whose bosom glows 
with the smallest sense of honour 
and justice, can view this elm with 
apathy ? Where are now those ve- 
nerable and veteran* chieftains and 
•warriors, who were accustomed 
to assemble beneath its friendly 
shade....and who received here with 
open arms the first white man who 
came helpless and forlorn among 
them ? Surely they were unconsci- 
9US that, m a few very few revolv- 
ing moons, the stranger whom they 
here cherished and warmed by the 
council fire; to whom they here 
presented the wampum of conse- 
crated fnendship, and with whom 
they here smoked the sacred ca* 
luniet of peace, had come to sup- 
plant them in their native posses- 
sions, to root out their posterity ' 
from the country, and to trample 
down the graves of their fathei's. 

These ancient inheritoi*s of the 
9oil reluctantly submit to the disci- 
pline and shackles of civilized life, 
and in general have shewn con- 
tempt for our customs and man- 
ners ; but as their hunting grounds 
become destroyed, necessity may 
force them to resort to other means 
of subsistence. 

An Indian being asked by two 
white men, how he, who gave him- 
self no concera about religion, ex- 
X)ected to reach heaven, answered, 
** Suppose we three in Philadel- 
phia, and we hear of some good 
rwn at Fort-Pitt.... we set off to get 
some, but one of you has business 
at Baltimore, and he go that way.... 
the other wants to make some mo- 
ney too on the road, and he go by 
Reading.. ..Indian got no business, 
Bo money to get....lic set off and go 

strait up to Fort-Pitt, and get there 
before either of you." 

The Indians of North-America 
are well skilled in this species of 
sarcastic humour. I remember to 
have been present at an interview 
between some of their chie& and a 
select number of citizens who had 
benevolently devoted both time and 
property to the introduction of use- 
ful and civilized arts among the sa- 
vages. The Little Turtle, among 
other improvements which he enu- 
merated to have taken place among 
his people, mentioned that they ma- 
nufactured considerable quantities 
of sugar from the juice of the ma- 
ple. He was asked how they con- 
trived to procure suitable vessels 
to contain the syrup when boiling. 
He affected a very grave counte- 
nance, as he answered " that the 
unfortunate affair of St. Clair had 
furnished them with a considera- 
ble number of camp kettles which 
answeix^d the purpose very well." 
It was known that this chief had 
headed the united Indian forces in 
their intrepid attack on the Ame- 
rican army, commanded by Gene- 
ral St, CI lir, and in which the lat- 
ter were defeated with immense 
slaughter, and suffered the loss of 
their camp equipage. 

C'i^o be cominued.J 

For the Literary Magazine. 



C Continued, J 

I HAD taken much pains to im- 
prove the sagacity of a favourite 
Spaniel. It was my purpose, indeed, 
to ascertain to what degree of im- 
provement the principles of reason- 
mgan^ imitation could be carried in 
a dog. niere is no doubt that the 
animal affixes distinct ideas to 
sounds. What are the possible 
limits of his vocabulary no one can 
tell. In conversing with my dog 


NEMoima Of eAiwiH 

I did not use EngUhh words, bul 
selected simple monosyllables. Ha- 
bit likewise enabled him to compre- 
hend roy gestures. If I crossed my 
hands on roy breast he understood 
the signal aiid laid down behind me. 
If I jomed my hands and lifted them 
to my breast^ he returned home. If 
I grasped one arm above the elbow 
he ran before me. If I lifted my 
hand to roy forehead he trotted 
composedly behind. By one motion 
I could make him bark ; by another 
I could reduce him to silence. He 
would howl in twenty different 
strains of moumfiilncsH, at my bid- 
ding. He would fetch and carry 
with undeviating faithfulness. 
His actions beingthus chief))- regu- 
lated by gestures, that to a stranger 
would appear indifferent or casual, 
it was easy to produce a belief that 
the animal's knowledge was much 
greater than in truth, it was. 

One day, in a mixed company, 
the discourse turned upon the unri- 
valed abilities of Damon, Damon 
had, indeed, acquired in all the cir- 
cles which I frequented, an extra- 
ordinary reputation Numerous in- 
stances of his sagacity were quoted 
and some of them exhibited on the 
4)ot. Much surprise was excited 
by the readiness with which he ap- 
peared to comprehend sentences of 
considerable abstraction and com- 
plexity, though, he in reality, at- 
tended to nothing but* the move- 
ments of hand or fingers with which 
I accompanied my words. I en- 
hanced the astonishment of some 
and excited the ridicule of others, 
by observing that my dog not only 
understood English when spoken 
by others, but actually spoke the 
language himself, with no small de- 
gree of precision. 

This assertion could not be ad- 
mitted without proof ; proof, there- 
fore, was readily produced. At a 
known signal, Damon began a low 
interrupted noise ^in which the ast<m- 
ished henrers clearly distinguished 
English words. A. diakgue began 
between the animiil and bis master, 
which was maiutained, on tlie part- 

of the former, witli great ^Tadtjv 

and spirit. In tliis dialogue the dog 
asserted the dignity of hk ^)ecies 
and capacity of intellectual im* 
provement. The company ftepa"* 
rated^lost in wonder, but perfectly 
convinced by the evidenoe that had 
been produced. 

On a subsequent occasion a te. 
lect company was assembled at a 
garden, at a small distance from thfi 
city. Discourse gUded through a 
variety of topics, till it Hghted at 
length on the subject of invisible be« 
ings. From the speculations of phi« 
loaophers we proceeded to the ere* 
ations of the poet. Some maintain- 
ed the justness of Shakspear's de<« 
lineatious of aerial beings, whilo 
others denied it. By no violent tran* 
sitipn, Ariel and his aongs were in- 
troduced, and a lady, celebrated for 
her musical skill, was solicited tar 
accompany her {ledal harp with the 
song of ^ tive &thom deep thy fe* 
ther lies". ..She was known to haye 
set, for her favourite instnunent^ 
all the songs of Shakspeare. 

My youth made nie little more 
than an auditor on this occasion* I 
sat apart from the rest of the com- 
pany, and carefully noted every 
thing. The track which the con- 
versation had taken, suggested a 
scheme which was not thoroogkly 
digested when the lady began her 
enchnnting strain. 

She ended and the audience were 
mute with rapture^ The pause 
continued, when a strain was waft- 
ed to our ears from another quartor. 
The spot where we sat wasembow- 
ered by a vine. The verdant arch 
was lofty and the area beneath waa 

The sound proceeded from above* 
At Rrst it was fiEiint and scarcely 
audible ; presently it reached a 
louder ke> , and every eye was cast 
up in expectation of beholding a 
face among the pendant clusters* 
The strain was e .sily recognized, 
for it was noo'JRT than tint which 
Ariel is made to sing when finally- 
absolved from the service of the 



U tto Cow»ii9t bell I lie, 
On the Bat*9 back I do fly... 
After summer merrily, &c. 

Their hearts jMilpitated as they 
listened : they gazed at each other 
for a solution of the mystery. At 
leagth the strain died away at dis- 
tance, and an interval of silence was 
siicceded by an earnest discussion 
of the caUIsc of this prodigy* One 
9U]^M>sition only could be adopted, 
which was, that the strain was ut- 
tered by human organs. That the 
songster was stationed on the roof 
of the arbour, and having finished 
his melody had risen into the view- 
less fields of air. 

I had been invited to spend a 
week at this house : this period 
was nearly e^red when I received 
information that my aunt was sud- 
denly taken sick, and that her life 
was in imminent danger. I imme- 
diately set out on my return to the 
city, but before my arrival she was 

This lady was entitled to my 
gratitude and esteem ; I had receiv- 
ed the most essential benefits at her 
hand. I was not destitute of sensi- 
bility, and was deeply aflfected by 
this event : I will own, however, 
that my grief was lessened by re- 
flecting on the consequences of her 
death, with regard to my own con- 
dition. I had been ever taught to 
consider myself as her heir, and 
her death, therefore, would free nie 
from certain restraints. 

My aunt had a female servant, 
who had lived with her for twenty 
years : she was married, hut her 
husband, who as an artizan, lived 
apart from her : I had no reason to 
suspect the woman's sincerity and 
disinterestedness ; but my aunt was 
no sooner consigned to the grave 
than a will was produced, in which 
Dorothy was named her sole and 
universal heir. 

It was in vain to urge my expec- 
tations and my claims—.tlie instru- 
ment was legibly and legally drawn 
up..-. Dorothy was exasperated by 
my c^po'^ition and surmises, and 
vi^rously enforced her title. In a 

week after the decease of my kins- 
woman, I was obliged to seek a new 
dwelling. As all my prc^erty con- 
sisted in my cloths and my papers, 
this was easily done. 

My condition was now calami- 
tous and forlorn. Confiding in the 
acquisition of my aunts' patrimony, 
I had made no other provision for 
the future ; I hated manual labour, 
or any task of which the object was 
gain. To be guided in my choice 
of occupations by any motive but 
the pleasure which the occupation 
was qualified to produce, was into- 
lerable to my proud, indolent, and 
restive temper. 

Tliis resource was now cut off; 
the means of immediate subsistence 
were denied me : If I had deter- 
mined to acquire the knowledge of 
some lucrative art, the acquisition 
would demand time, and, mean- 
while, I was absolutely destitute of 
support. My father's house was, 
indeed, open to me, but I preferred 
to stifle myself with the filth of the 
kennel, rather than to return to it. 

Some plan it was immediately ne- 
cessary to adopt. The exige^ice of 
my affairs, and this reverse of.for- 
tune, continually occupied my 
tlioughts ; I estranged myself from 
society and from books, and devoted 
myself to lonely walks and mourn- 
fiii meditation. 

One morning as I rang;ed along 
the bank of Schuylkill, I encounter- 
ed a i)erscn, by nunie Ludloe, of 
whom I h'ld some previous know- 
ledge. He was from Ireland ; was 
a man of some rank and apparently 
rich: I had met with him before, 
but in mixed companies, where lit- 
tle direct interccuse had taken place 
between us. Our last meeting was 
in the arbour where Ariel was so 
unexpectedly introduced. 

Our acquaint: nee niei eh justified a 
transient salutation ; but he did not 
content himself with noticing me as 
I passed, but joined mc in my walk 
and entered into conversation. It 
was easy to advert to the occasion 
on which we had last met, and to 
the mysterious incident which then 
occurred. I was solicitous to dive 



into his thoughts upon this h^&d 
and put some questions which tend- 
ed to the point that I wished. 

I was somewhat startled when he 
expressed his belief, that the per- 
former of this mystic strain was 
one of the company then present, 
who^xerted, for this end, a faculty 
not commonly possessed. Who 
this person was he did not venture 
to g;uessf and could not discover, by 
the tokens which he suffered to ap- 
pear, that his suspicions glanced 
at me. He expatiated with great 
profoundness and fertility of ideas, 
on the uses to which a faculty like 
this might be employed. No more 
powerful engine, he said, could be 
conceived, by which the ignorant 
andtredulous might be moulded to 
our purposes ; managed by a man 
of r. dinary talents^ it would open 
for him tlie straightest and surest 
avenues to wealth and power. 

His remarks excited in my mind 
a new strain of thoughts. I had not 
hitherto considered the subject in 
this light, though vague ideas of the 
importance of this art could not fail 
to be occasionally suggested : I 
ventured to inquire into his ideas 
of the mode, in which an art Uke 
this could be employed, so as to ef- 
fect the purposes he mentioned. 

He dealt chiefly in general repre- 
sentations. Men, he said, believed 
in the existence and energy of invi- 
sible powers, and in the duty of dis- 
covering and conforming to their 
will. This will was supposed to be 
sometimes made known to them 
through the medium of their senses. 
A voice coming from a quarter 
where no attendant form could be 
seen would, in most cases, be ascrib- 
ed to supernal agency, and a com- 
mand imposed on them, in this man- 
ner, would be obeyed with religi- 
ous scrupulousness, l^hus men 
might be imperiously directed in 
the disposal of their industry, their 

groporty, and even of their lives, 
len, actuated by a mistaken sense 
of duty, might, under this influence, 
l>e led to the commission of the most 
flagitious, as well as the most heroic 
acts : If it were his desire to accu- 

mulate wealth, or faistitute anew 
sect, he should need no other in- ^ 

I listened to this kind of discourse 
with great avidity, and regretted 
when he thought proper r to intro- 
duce new topics. He ended by re- 
questing me to visit him, which I 
eagerly consented to do. When 
left alone, my imagination was fil- 
led with the images suggested bj 
this conversation. The hopeless- 
ness of better tbrtune, which I had 
lately harboured, now gave place 
to cheering confidence, lliose mo- 
tives of rectitude which should de- 
deter me from this speciesof impos- 
ture, had never been vivid or stable, 
and were still more weakened by. 
the artifices of which I had already 
been guilty. The utility or harm- 
lessness of the end, justified, in my 
eyes, the means. 

No event had beeii more unex- 
pected, by me, than the bequest of 
my aunt to her servant. Jlic will, 
under which the latter claimed, 
was dated prior to my coming to 
the city. I was not surprised, 
therefore, that it had once been 
made, but merely that it had never 
been cancelled or superseded by a 
later instrument* My wishes in-i 
cliued me to suspect the existence 
of a later will, but I had conceived 
that, to ascertain its existence, was 
beyond my power. 

Now, however, a different opinion 
began to be entertained. This wo- 
man like those of her sex and class 
was unlettered and superstitious. 
Her faith in spells and apparitions, 
was of the most li vcly land . Could 
not her conscience be awakened 
by a voice from the gi^ave I Lonely 
and at midnight,' my aunt might be 
introduced, upbraiding her for her 
injustice, and commanding her to 
attone for it by acknowledging the 
claim of the rightful proprietor. 

True it was, that no subsequent 
will might exist, but tliis was the 
fruit of mistake, or of nep;Ugence. 
She probably intciuled to cuicel the 
old one, but tliis act might, by her 
own weakness, or by the artifices 
of her bcrvant, be delayed till death 



had pat it out of her power. In 
either case a mandate from the 
dead could scarcely fail of being 

I considered this woman as the 
usurper of my property. Her hus- 
band as well as herself, were labo- 
rious and. covetous ; their good for- 
tune had made no change in their 
mode of living, but they were as 
frugal and as eager to accumulate 
as ever. In their hands, money was 
inert and sterile, or it served to 
foster their vices. To take it from 
them would, therefore, be a benefit 
both to them and to myself; not 
even an imaginary injury would be 
inflicted. Restitution, if legally 
compelled to it, would be reluctant 
and painful, bai if enjoined by Hea- 
ven would be voluntary, and the 
performance of a seeming duty 
would carry with it, its own re- 

These reasonings, aided by incli- 
nation, were sufficient to determine 
me. I have no doubt but their fal- 
lacy would have been detected in 
the sequel, and my scheme have 
t>een productive of nothing but con- 
fusion and remorse. From these 
consequences, however, my fate in- 

terposed, as in the former instance, 
to save me. 

Having formed my resolution, 
many preliminaries to its execution 
were necessary to be settled. These 
demanded deli!;eration and delay ; 
meanwhile I recollected my promise 
to Ludlow, and paid him a visic. I 
met a frank and affectionate recep- 
tion. It would not be easy to paint 
the delight which I experienced in 
this man's society. I was at first 
oppressed with the sense of my own 
in^riority in age, knowledge and 
rank. Hence arose numberless re- 
serves and incapacitating diffiden- 
ces ; but these were speedily dissi- 
pated by the fascinations of this 
man's address. His superiority was 
only rendered, by time, more con- 
spicuous, but this superiority, by 
appearing never to be present to 
his own mind, ceased to be uneasy 
to me. My questions required to 
be frequently answered, and my 
mistakes to be rectified ; but my 
keenest scrutiny, could detect in 
his manner, neither arrogance nos* 
contempt. He seemed to talk 
merely from the overflow of his 
ideas, or a benevolent desire of im- 
parting information. 

CTo be conUnued.J 



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7^ Letters 9/ the BritUh Sfiy. 
Originally /iublUhcd in the Virgin 
ma '/irgU9'i in August and Se/i' 
iember^ 1803. 

Richmond: Pieasant^.^^ftfi. ^3* 

The fiction on which the title 
of these letters would lead us to 
suppose them built, is very favour- 
•ble to curiosity and invention; 
If we. mistake not, it took its ori- ' 
gin, as roost schemes of the kind 
have done, in the prolific imagina- 
tion of the French. The first exam- 
ple was set in the voluminous, and 
once popular work of *' The Turk- 
ish Spy j" and has been followed by 
a numerous train of Chinese, Jewish, 
&C. This, before us, is the second 
histance of the kind in America; 
for a well known writer published, 
formerly, what he called " The 
Algerine Spy." 

The mystery and danger en- 
drclini; the character of a Spy, 
give his adventures a peculiar and 
micommon interest ; and the busi- 
ness of his life being to inquire and 
observe, and his foreign prejudices 
leading him to view every object in 
a new light, there cannot be a part 
more favourable to original and 
striking speculations. Most of the 
Spiesy however, with whom we are 
acquainted, seem to have forgotten 
their true character ; and turn out, 
upon examination, to be nothing 
more than men travelling for their 
own amusement. ^ 

The letters before us, are written, 
in the character of an English tra- 
veller, to Mr. S*»**»»*, alias Mr. 
Sheridan. They are few and brief, 
and exhibit but very few points' in 
that immense picture which the 
United States constitute in the eye 
of a stranger. The traveller arrives 
at Richmond, and there he chiefly 
continues. He begins his* corres- 
pondence witli some remarks upon 
American, that is Virginian rever- 
ence for rank and wealth, and some 

yQU X....MO. IV, 

account of the local situation of 
Richmond. He then digresses into 
some geoligical speculations on the 
origin and age of our continent, 
which, after some time, provokes a 
reply, that is also publisned in this 
collection. He next discusses the 
. eloquence of America ; states its 
defects and their causes, and draws 
the portraits of several eminent 
pleaders at the bar. We likewise 
meet with various thoughts on the 
subject of style and eloquence in 

There is some liveliness of fancy, 
and a sparkling'style in the efilisions 
of tliis writer : there are many 
marksof a juvenile and undisciplmed 
pen, and in most of his recitals we 
have found that degree of interest 
and amusement which it was proba- 
bly the whole intention of the writer 
to afford. The following portrait 
of a pulpit orator will serve as a 
specimen of this performance. 

« I have been my dear S* ••»•»♦, 
on an excursion through the coun- 
ties which lie along the eastern side 
of the Blue Ridge. A general de- 
scription of that country and its 
inhabitants may form the subject of 
a future letter. For the present, I 
must entertain you with an account 
of a most sin|;ular and interesting 
adventure which I met with, in the 
course of the tour. 

" It was one Sunday, as I travelled 
through the county of Orange, that 
my eye was caught by a cluster of 
horses tied near a ruinous, old, 
wooden-house, in the forest, not far 
from the road side. Having fre- 
quently seen such objects before, in 
travelling through these states, I 
had no difficulty in understanding 
that this was d place of religious 
worship. Devotion alone should 
have stopped me to join in the du- 
ties of the congregation; but I must 
confess that curiosity to hear the 
preacher of such a wilderness, was 
n<K the least of my moti\cs. On 


ftfltTtSII $t»Y...4LETtfeR iril. 

enteringy I was struck with his pre- 
ternatural appearance* He was a tall 
and very spare old nian*««.his head^ 
which was covered with a white 
- linen cap, his slirivelled hands, and 
his voice were all shaking under the 
influence of a palsy, and a few mo- 
ments ascertained to me that he 
was perfectly blind* The first emo- 
tions which touched my breast were 
those of mingled pity and venera- 
tion* But ah ! Sacred God I How 
soon were all my feelings changed ! 
ITie lips of Plato %vere never more 
worthy of a prognostic swarm of 
bees, than were the lips of this holy 
man ! It was a day of the adminis- 
tration of the sacrament, and his 
subject, of course, was the passion 
of our saviour* I had heard the 
subject handled a thousand times : 
I had thought it exhausted long 
ago. Little did I suppose that in 
the wild woods of America I was to 
meet with a man whose eloquence 
would give to this topic a new and 
more sublime pathos tiian I had ever 
before witnessed. As he descended 
from tlie pulpit to distribute the mys- 
tic symbols, there was a peculiar, 
a more than human solemnity in his 
air and manner which made my 
blood run cold, and my whole frame 
to shiver* He then drew a picture 
of the sufferings of our saviour**., 
his trial before Pilate*. **his ascent 

up Calvary.***.his crucifixion 

and his death* I new the whole 
history ; but never until then had I 
heard the circumstance so selected, 
so arranged, so coloured I It was all 
new ; and I seemed to have heard 
it for the first time in my life* His 
enimciation was so deliberate, that 
Ids voice trembled on every sylla- 
ble ; and every heart in the assem- 
bly trembled in unison* His pecu- 
liar phrases had that force of de- 
scription that the original scene 
appeared to be at that moment 
acting before our eyes* We saw the 
very faces of the Jew8**.*the star- 
uig,friglit;fol distortions of midice and 
rage* We saw the buffet*.. .my soul 
kindled with a fiame of hidignation, 
and my hands were involuntarily 
and convulsively clenched* But 

when he came to touch thepatienoey 
the forgiving meekness of our Sa« 
viour*.**when he crew, to the life, 
his blessed eyes, streaming in tears 
to heaven. «**his voice breathing to 
God a soft and gentle prayer of par- 
don on his enemies, ^^Fathei* forgive 
them, for they know not what Siey 
do"....the voice of the preachery 
which had, all along, feltered, grew 
funter and fainter, until his utter- 
ance being entirely obstructed by 
the force of his feelings, he raised 
his handkerchief to his eyes and 
burstHnto a loud and irrepressible 
flood of grief* The effect is incon- 
ceivable* The whole house re- 
sounded with the mingled groans 
and sobs and shrieks of the congre- 
gation* It was some time before th» 
tumult had subsided so&r as to per- 
mit him to proceeds Indeed, judg- 
ing by the usual but fallacious stand- 
ard of my own weakness, I be^an to 
be very uneasy for the situation of 
the preacher* For I could not con- 
ceive how he would be able to let 
his audience down from the height 
to which he had wound them, with- 
out impairing the solemnity and 
dignity of his subject, or perhapa 
sliockmg them by the abruptness of 
the fiiU* But*.*.no : the descent was 
as beautifiil ai^d sublime, as the 
elevation had been rapid and en* 
thusiastic* The first sentence with 
which he broke the awful silence 
was a quotation from Rousseau^ 
^' Socrates died like a philosopher, 
but Jesus Chrbt like a God ! ! !" 
I despair of giving you any idea of the 
effect produced by this short sen- 
tence, unless you could perfectljr 
conceive the whole maimer of the 
man, as well as the {peculiar crises 
in the discourse. K t- \ c r bcfoi*e did 
I completely understand what De- 
mc sthenes meant by laying such 
stress on dclizery* You are to 
bring before you the venerable figure 
of tht:preachcr.,..Iiii> blindness, con- 
stantly reculiiiig, to your recullt:ction 
old Homer, O^sinn and Miltc^n, and 
associating with his i^trformiince, 
the melancholy grandeur of their are to imagine you 
hear his slow, solemn, well accented 



•nanciation and his voice of affect- 
ing, tremblins melody ••••you are to 
remeroher the pitch of passion and 
enthusiasm to which the congrega- 
tion were raised—.and then the few 
minutes of portentous, deoth-Iike 
^lence which reigned throughout 
the house, •••the preacher removing 
his white handkerchief from his 
aged fece (even vet wet from the 
recent torrent of his tears^ and 
slowly stretching forth the palsied 
hand which holds it, begins the sen- 
tence—." Socrates died like' a phi- 
JoBopher"*..«^th«n pausing, raising 
his other hand, pressing them both, 
clasped together, with warmth and 
•nergy to his breast, lifting his 
^ sightless balls" to heaven, and 
pouring his whole soul into his tre- 
mulous voice.**^*' but Jesus Chnst.*.. 
like a God ^•••If he had been indeed 
and in truth an angel of light, the 
«ffect could scarcely have been 
more divine. Whatever I had been 
able to conceive of the sublimity of 
MassiUon or the force of Bourda- 
louc had fallen fiir short of the power 
which I felt from the delivery of this 
simple sentence. The blood which, 
just before, had rushed in a hurri- 
cane upon my brain, and, in the 
violence and agony of my feelings, 
had held my whole system in sus^ 
pense ; now ran back into niy heart 
with a sensation which I cannot de« 
scribe ; a kind of shuddering, deli- 
cious horror I The paroxysm of 
blended pity and indignation to 
which I had been transported, sub- 
sided into the deepest self abase- 
ment, humility and adoration ! I had 
just been lacerated and dissolved by 
sympathy for. our saviour as a fel- 
low-creature ; but now, with fear 
and trembling, I adored him. as^«M 

" If this description giyes you the 
impression that this incomparable 
miAister had any thing of shallow, 
theatrical trick in his manner, it 
does him gi-eat injustice. I have 
never seen, in any other orator, suck 
an union of simplicity and m yesty. 
He has not a gesture, an attitude, 
•r au accent to )vhicb he does not 

seem forced by the sentiinent which 
he is expressing. His mind is too 
serious, too earnest, too solicitous, 
and, at the same time, too dignified 
to stoop to artifice* AUl^ough as 
fsLT removed from ost^atatioQ as a 
man can be, yet it is clear from the 
train, the style and substance of hi« 
thoughts, that he is, not only & very 
pohte scholar, but a man of exten- 
sive and profound erudition. I was 
forcibly struck with a short, yet 
beautiftil character which he drew 
of ouf learned and amiable countiy-i 
man. Sir Robert Boyle : he spoke of 
him, as if "his noble mind had, 
even before death, divested herself 
of all influence from bis frail t«ibcr. 
nacle of flesh ;" and called him in his 
peculiarly emphatic and impressive 
manner, "a pure intelligence. ••. 
the link between men and angels I'* 
"This man has been before my 
imagination almost ever since. A « 
thousand times, as I rode along, I 
dropped the reins of my bridle, 
stretched forth my hand and tried 
to imitate his quotation from Rous- 
seau ; a thousand times I abandoned 
the attempt in despair, and felt jjcr* 
suaded that his peculiar manner 
arid power arose from an energy of 
soul which Nature could give, but 
which no human being cojild justly 
copy. In short, he seems to lie aU, 
together a being of a former age, or 
of a totally different nature from the 
rest of men. As I recal, at this 
moment, several of his awfully strik- 
ing attitudes, the chilling tide with 
which my blood begins to pour along 
my arteries reminds me of the enioi 
tions produced by the first sight of 
Gray's introductory picture of his 

On a rocjc, vyhosc \iaiighty brow. 
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming 

Roh'd tn the saSle garb of woe, 

With haggard eyes the poet stood j 
(Loose his beard and hoar/ hair. 
Streamed, like a meteor, to the troti- 

bled air) 
And with a poet's hand and prophet'r 

StrucI: the deep sorrows of his lyrc.^ 



<< Guess my sui^irise when, on my 
arrival at Ridimond and mentioning 
the name of this man, I found not 
one person who had ever before 
beard of James Walbell ! Is it not 
strange that such a genius as this, 
so accomplished a scholar, so divine 
an orator, should be permitted to 
languish and die in obscurity within 
eighty miles of the metropolis of 
Virginia 1 To me it is a conclusive 
argument, either that the Virginians 
have no taste for the highest strains 
of the most sublime orotary, or that 
they are destitute of a much more 
important quality, the love of ge- 
nuine and exalted religion. Indeed 
it is too clear, my friend, that this 
soil abounds more in weeds of foreign 
birth, than in good and salubrious 
finiits. Among others the noxious 
weed of infidelity has struck a deep, 
a fatal root, and spread its pestilen- 
tial branches far around. I fear that 
our excentric and fanciful country- 
man, Godwin, has contributed not 
a little to water and cherish this 
pernicious exotic. There is a no- 
velty, a splendor, a boldness in his 
scheme of morals peculiarly fitted 
to captivate a youthful and an ar- 
dent mind. A young man feels his 
delicacy flattered, in the idea of 
being emancipated from the old, 
obsolete and vulgar motives of moral 
conduct ; and acting correctly from 
motives <juite new, refined and sub* 
limated m the crusible of pure, 
abstracted reason. Unfortunately, 
however, in this attempt to change 
the mt.tivts of his conduct, he loses 
the o!ii ones, while the jiew, either 
from being ttx> ethcrial and sublime, 
or from some other want of conge- 
niality, refuse to mix and lay hold of 
the gi'oss materials of his nature. 
Thus he becomes emancipated, in- 
deed ; discharged not only from 
ancient and vulgar shackles, but 
also, from modern fine-spim, tinseled 
restraints of his divine Godwin. 
Having imbibed the high spirit of 
literary adventure, he disdains the 
limits of the monil world ; and ad- 
vancing boldly to the throne of God, 
he questions him on his dispensa- 
tions, and demands tlie reasons of 

bis laws* But the counsds of bea* 
ven are above the ken, not contrary 
to the voice of human reason ; and 
the unfortunate youth, unable to 
reach and measure them, recoils 
from the attempt, with melancholy 
rashness, into infidelity and deism* 
Godwin's glittering theories are on 
his lips. Utopia or Mezoraniaboast 
not of a purer moralist in mords^, 
than the young Godwiniao. But 
the unbridled licentiousness of ins 
conduct makes it manifest, that if 
Godwin's principles are true in the 
abstract, they ard not fit for this 
system of things, whatever they 
might be in the republic of Plato. 

" From a life of inglorious indo- 
lence, by far too prevalent among 
the young men of this country, the 
transition is easy and natural to im- 
nckorality and dissipation. It is at 
this giddy period of life, when a 
series of dissolute courses have de- 
bauched the parity and innocence of 
the heart, shaken the pillars of the 
understanding, and converted her 
sound and wholesome operations, 
into little more than a set of feverish 
starts, and incoherent and delirious 
dreams, it is in such a situation that 
a new-fangled theory is welcomed 
as an amusing' guest, and deism is 
embraced as a bafany comforter 
against the pangs of an ofiended con- 
science. This coalition once formed 
and habitually consolidated, ^* for- 
wel,/a long farwel" to honour, ge- 
nius and glory ! From such a ^ilf 
of complicated niin, few have the 
energy ever to attempt an escape. 
The moment of cool reflection, 
which should save them, is too big 
with horror to be endured. Every 
plunge is deeper and deeper, until 
the tragedy is finally wouni up by a 
pistol or a haltar. Do not believe 
that I am drawing feom fancy ; the 
picture is unfortunately true. Few 
dramas, indeed, have yet reached 
their catastrophe ; but, too many are 
in a rapid progress towards it. 
These thoughts are affecting and 
oppressive. I am glad to retreat 
from them by bidding yoa adieu; 
and offering my prayers to heaven 
that you may never lose the pure^ 



die genial consolatioQs of unshaken 
^th and an approving conscience. 
Once more, my dear S* ••**•*, 
adieu i" 

ne tOTrni and country friend and 
fihy9ician:m.,.0r an affectionate 
addren on the. preservation of 
healthy ahd the removal of die* 
ease on its first appearance :•••• 
Supposed to be delivered by a 
country physician to Hie circle 
of his friends and patients on 
his retiring from business :•••• 
With cursory observations on 
the treatment of children^ klfC;,, 
Intended for the promotion of 
domestic happiness.,. .In two 

Philadelphia : Humphreys^ pp. 
This little book, written in the 
true spirit of moderation and bene- 
volence, has afforded us no incon- 
siderable pleasure. This is, ex- 
actly, the subject on which the 
humble and laborious classes of so- 
ciety, stand in most need of infor- 
mation, and in which, credulity, 
ignorance, and negligence, lead 
their victims into the most perni- 
cious errors. We cannot do better 
than to extract the preface entire. 
** To those who peruse the fol- 
lowing pages, it is scarcely neces- 
sary for the editor to say what were 
his motives in handing tliem in this 
plain and compact form to the 
public The promotion of domes- 
tic comfort and happiness, he flat- 
ters himself, wiU be found so evi- 
dently written in every line of them, 
as will be sufficient to evince his 
object. ...a general circulation and 
pPTusal of them, which would not 
80 likely be the case, if they were 
swelled out, as. they might be, and 
the price proportionably advanced. 
^ '" The first pan, independent of 
a few observations, and some alte- 
rations, arising from locality cjf ex- 
pression, is nearly a copy of a late 
celebrated publication, intit>ed, 
« The Villager's Friend and Phy« 

sician," and is from the pen of that 
worthy philanthropist, Mr. James 
Parkinson, of London. 

The second part will be found, 
chiefly, to consist of a selection of 
short extracts from some other late 
celebrated publications, on the 
means of preserving health and 
prolonging life ; also of some ob- 
servations and remarks calculated 
to enforce the precepts and advice 
contained in the first part; and to 
which, it is presumed, it will prove 
an acceptable and useful addition. 

" It will be acknowledged by all 
who peruse the work, tliat a gene- 
ral circulation of it must be accom- 
panied with beneficial effects ; such 
as must tend to the promotion of, 
not only domestic, but of general 
happiness. Perhaps no little book 
extant, is better calculated for it ; 
or to answer the purposes of those 
who are desirous of sowing the 
germ of healtli, comfort, and pros- 
perity, among the miserable, by 
tlie distribution of cheap and useful 
I)ooks. Perhaps also, there is not 
a means in the hands of the afBu- 
ent, by which solid comfort dan be 
more permanently, or more .easily 
administered to the infirm and 
wretched,* than in the proper dis- 
posal of such books among them ; 
nor is, in general, the gratitude of 
such for comfort administered, m«i'e 
expressive and permanent, than 
that which arises out of this source." 

The precepts contained in the 
first part, relating to the symptoms 
and cure of various diseases, are 
perhaps of less practical utility, 
than mere directions for preserving 
health. They are infinitely more 
liable to be mistaken and misap- 
plied. Every uneasy sensation, 
transient obsti'uction, or momenta- 
ry excrescence, is converted, l)y a 
feaHul fancy, into the symptom of 
some dangerous disease. There 
are innumerable instances, some- 
times deplorable, and sometimes' 
ludici'ous, of mistakes, arising from 
partial information. How m :iiy 
months and \ ears have been eni- 
biuered by a chimera of tliis sort, 
in the lives of man}' persons. There 



arc very few who have dipped into 
nedical works, or iDto books in- 
tended to supply the place of sci* 
CBtific treatises, whose little know- 
ledge has not cost them a thousand 
terrors, and anxieties* lliese evils, 
though great, are fiar inferior to 
SQch as arise from total ignorance 
aiul negligence. While the former 
inevitably terminates in ease and 
security, the latter are real, per* 
manent, and perhaps incurable* 

The second part is not liable to 
any objection, and it is impossible, 
we think, for any to peruse it at- 
tentively, ' without benefit* We 
ftball close with tlie following re- 
marks on cleanliness, which, though 
trite, can never be too frequently 
repeated, or widely diffused : 

^^ Cleanliness is a principal duty 
of man, and an unclean or filthy 
person, Is never completely healthy* 
it is better to wasli ourselves ten 
times a day, than to allow one dirty 
spot to remain on the skin. On a 
place where impurities are suffei^ed 
to clog tlie pores, not only insensi- 
ble perspiration* but likewise the 
absorption by the skin is entirely 
suppressed ; and, if the whole body 
be, as it were, covered witli a var- 
nish, formed of perspirable matter, 
it is impossible that a person in 
such a state can possess sound blood, 
fir enjoy good health* 

^' Believe me, the lady, the man 
of fortune, and the ill-fated man 
of letters, all require more active 
exercise than they actually take, 
which alone can promote a free 
perspiration, and enliven the sur- 
face of the body ; but, by their in- 
dolent habits, tlie whole machine 
is in a languid state, and the •kin 
becomes contracted and debili- 

"The husbandman,. it is true, 
labours dilii^cntly : and tliough, by 
perspiration, his skin prcsei-ves 
more life and activity, it is neither 
kept .sufficiently clean, nor pre- 
vented from being obstructed by 
perspiriolc matter. Tlie artist 
and nriimfncturcr carry on their 
pursuits in a sedentary mamicr, 
and in a confmed impure air : the 

▼oluptuary and the ghitton do no( 
nilTer less than the former, at they 
impair the energy of the 9kin by 
excesses of every kind, and take 
no precautions to preserve its elas- 
tic texture. Oar usual articles of 
dress, fiannel excepted, are not 
calculated to promote a free perspi- 
ration ; and the free use of liquort 
contribute greatly to rriax the 
skin. If we add to this list of pre- 
disposing causes, our inconstant 
climate, which at one hour of thc- 
day braces, and at another relaxes 
the surface of tlie body, alternate- 
ly heats and cools it, and, conse- 
quently, disturbs its uniform action ; 
it will be easily understood, that 
the •kin must, for these reasons, 
be almost generally vitiated ; and 
that it really is a leading source of 
many of our indispositions* 

When the sensibility of the ««r- 
face is impaired ; when the myriads 
of orijtcegy that are designed for 
the continual purification and reno- 
vation of our fluids, are obstructed, 
if not closed : when the subtle ner^- 
vous texture is nearly deprived of 
its energy, so that it becomes an 
imfienetrable coat of mail^ is there 
any reason to wonder, that we are 
80 often harassed by a sense of con- 
straint and anxiety : and, tliat this 
uneasiness, in many cases, termi- 
nates in a desponding gloom, and, 
at length, in complete melancholy ? 
Ask the hypocondriac, whether a 
certain degree of cold, paleness, 
and a spasmodic sensation in the 
•kin^ do not always pi'ecede his 
most violent fits of imbecility I and, 
whetlier his feelings are not most 
comfonable when the surface of 
his body is vigorous, warm, and 
perspires freely I In short, the de- 
grees of insensil^e perspiration are 
to him tlie surest barometer of his 
state of mind* If our 9kin be dis- 
organized, the free inlets and out- 
lets of the electric, magnetic, and 
other matters, which afiect us at 
the change of the weather, are ia« 
active. Thus, tlie origin of extreme 
sensibility towards the various at- 
mospheric revolutions, is no longer 
a mystery \ for, in a healthy wr- 



fice of the body, no inconvenience 
will follow from such changes* If 
we £uther advert to those acrimo* 
nious fluids, which, in consequence 
of an impicrfect state of fiert/iira" 
tion, are retained in tlie body, and 
which affect the most sensible . 
nerves and membranes, we shall 
the better comprehend how cramps 
and spasms, the torturing pains of 
the gout and rheumatism, and the 
great variety of cataneous diseases, 
have of late become so obstinate 
and general* 

^^ The just proportion of the 
ihiids, and tlie circulation of the 
blood, are also determined, in no 
small degree, by the akin; so that 
if these fluids become thick and 
languid, the whole momentum of 
the blood is repelled towards the 
interior parts. Thus a continual 
plethora, or fulness of the blood, 
IS occasioned ; the head and breast 
are greatly oppressed ; and the ex- 
ternal parts, especially the lower 
extremities, feel chilly and languid. 

*^ May we not iiiier, from what 
I have thuii advanced, tliat the use 
of batlis is too much neglected, and 
<Might to be universally introduced ? 
It is no^ sufficient, for the great 
purposes here alluded to, that a 
lew of the more wealthy families 
repair every season to watering- 
places, or that they even make use 
of other modes of bathiug, cither 
for their health or amusement. A 
very different method must be pur- 
sued, if we seriously wisli to 
restore the vigour of a degenera- 
ting race* I mean here to uicul- 
oate the indispensable necessity of 

domestic bathsy so well known »- 
mong the ancients. 

^^ Bathing may be considered as 
an excellent specific for alleviadng 
both mental and bodily affections. 
It is not merely a cleanser of ike 
skifiy enlivening and rendering it 
more fit for performing its offices ; 
but it also refreshes the mind, and 
spreads over the whole system ^ 
sensation qf ease^ activity and 
pleasantness^ It likewise removes 
stagnation in the larger, as weU as 
in the capillary vessels ; gives an 
uniform, free circulation to the 
blood; and preserves that wonder- 
ful harmony in our interior organs, 
on the disposition of which our 
health and comfort so much depend. 
A person fatigued, or distressed ia 
body and mind, will derive vaare 
refreshment from the luxury of a 
lukewann bath, and may drowa 
his disquietude in it more effectu- 
ally, than by indulging in copious 
libations to Bacchus. 

The wissh to enjoy perpetsal 
youth, is one of the mo^ predom- 
inant and pardonable. Though it 
cannot be rationally asserted, that 
bathing will confer continual youth ; 
yet I will hazard an opinion, that 
It has a very uncommon and supe- 
rior tendency to prolong that happy 
state ; it preserves jdl the solid 
parts soft and pliablej and rcndem 
the joints flexible. 

^^ It is BO less certain, that bathing 
is one of the best preservatives of 
beauty ; and tliat tliose nations, 
among whom it is a prevailing prac- 
tice, arc usually the most distin- 
guished for elegance of form,- and 
fieshncss of complexion*" 




From a Mamucri/it Poenim 

Gondalbc's trumpet, at the dawn of 

Had summofi'd to the chace his sport- 
ful friends ; 
With these came forth a .troop of 

martial dames. 
Led by Kolinda, first of all in charms. 
Valerian, curious to ex]>lore t)ie wood, 
Where the Magician kept his Mystic 

School ; 
Accoutred in the armour of the land. 
Mounted a steed and followed in the 

His stately form, the grace with 

which he mov'd 
And check*d the fury of his headlong 

Struck his beholders with sur|>rise : 

but most 
RoUnda's eye, him follow 'd o'er the 

And most her tongue was lavish in 

hib praise. 
His ccurstr bounded to the winding 

And to the clamours of the noisy 

That echoed firom the hills ; he proudly 

pranc'd ; «» 

He snuif'd the gale and wav'd his 

When they had reach'd the bcAders 

of the wood. 
Valerian saw with wonder its thick 

shades ; 
The towering height of its deep-rooted 

oaks ; 
And felt the chillof their overshadow- 
ing gloom. 
Far in the woods the hunters had not 

Before the hounds, from his rude 

covert, rous*d 
A huge and furious boar ; his glaring 

Shone like two stars amidst the depths 

of night : 
Like to the murmur of seditious 

His breath was heard from far ; he 

champ'd the foam 

Which drop*d down roping irom his 

crooked tusks. 
He heard the tumult of the coming 

And high upridgtng his hard bristly 

Prepared to meet th« onset of his foes. 
The dogs that first advanc'd were 

gash'd and torn, 
Their fellows fled, the stovtest hunter 

Swift as the winds Rolinda onwatd 

Nor heeds the counsel of her female 

At the fierce Beast she boldly hurls 

her spear. 
True to her aim, it strikes him in the 

The blood pours down in torrcnt» 

from the wound ; 
The monster rages with excess of 

And turns his wrath on her who gave 

\\it blow, 
Loud roaring like the stornL...RoUa- 

da's steed 
Starts back and trembles, while the 

ponderous boar 
Against him rushes, throws him to 

the earth. 
And with him, the fair burden whicli 

he held. 
Helpless, Rolinda lies, expecting 

Valerian sees ; he hastens to her aid : 
rHe throws himself, like lightning, 

from his horse : 
With his long spear he rushes on the 

And buries it in his extended jaws : 
He falls and shakes, beneath his 

weight, the ground. 
Valerian raises the afirigthed maid 
And gives her back in safety to her 

The danger pasU...again the trumpet 

The signal for the chase ; and on they 

While horn and clamourous hound 

and joyous shouts 
With peal on pea.1 through the deep 

thickets break. 
And rouse up silence from her lonely 


fOXTRT. ^e9 

As thus they wound tke tangles of And meet the brunt of thy united 

, the wood, force ; 

And beat each thicket and ezplor'd But that I have within the sound of 

each hill, horn 

Thty heard the loud biast of a bqgle- A gallant band of soldiert, who have 

horn, hither come 

And far within the foveat's shade, With me to share the pleasuies of the 

beheld chace. 

A youthful warrior leaning on his Then tremble, ruffian, measure back 

spear. thy steps 

As they approach'd they mark*d his While now I bid my absent ^friends 

noble form; approach." 

His dark plume waving to the breath He said, and loudly blew his bugle^ 

of air; horn. 

His glittering armour and his gallant Which far extended its indignant 

mien : blast. 

And soon Rolinda in the youth be- The warning sound his friends obed^ 

held ent heard. 

Brave Torismond, the Arimaspian And swifdy at his call through thickets 

chief, dash'd 

And trembled for the fate o£ him she And gather'd round their brave and 

lov'd. warlike chief. 

The Hunter, when he saw the train Then had the storm of bloody battle 

approach, rag*d 

Started supris'd and sternly grasp'd But that young Torismond his sol- 

his spear, diers check'd, 

And soon as he and the Montalvian And thus accosted the Montalvian 

Prince Prince ; 

Each other knew, rage sparkled in " Ha ! man of words, now execute 

their tyts, thy threat ! 

And indignation crimson 'd o'er their Now bind me fast and bear me to thy 

cheeks. king ! 

Aloud Godaibo call'd upon his foe Sooner 6y far you might arrest the 

Upbraiding him with uunts, and bade winds ; 

his troop And yoke the lightnings to your battk 

Seize on the wretch and bind him car.... 

hand and foot, But why for t^ should these bold wai> 

And bear him to the presence of the riors bleed ? 

king. Why in a private quarrel should we 


The prince undaunted at this insult The lives of friends so faithful to our 

laugh *d i cause. 

Firm in his place he stood, and shook Come on then, chief, alone, and leave 

his spear thy horse 

And towering in his pride of strength And meet the prowess of this single 

thus spoke, arm, 

*■ Ha ! thinkst thou Prince, thou And let our bands look on and mark 

mighty man of war, our feats, 

Thou bold upbraider of a single And say who most excels in deeds. 

man, of arms. 

That thou hast caught the lion in thy He said : Gondalbo bounded from his 

toils I horse; 

The lion who has thin'd thy crowded He bade his soldiers pause, nor raise a 

ranks ? hand 
And that thoul't seize him, and him Or weapon in the fight....Silence en- 
bound, expose sued, 
To the rude gaze of thy detested The combatants drew near ; aside 

slaves. they threw 

I scorn thy would I Thtirspears; theyseiz'dtlxeirswo.-ds, 

stand, alone, together rush'd 

VOL* t....KO. IV. 5 



And shook the earth beneath their Thejr to their aid with ea^cnien 

mighty strides. nish'd on, 

Swift fen the blows of sheir loud Each man belicv*d his fallen chief 

thundering steel, was dead. 

And far and wide their din of battle And breath'd revenge upon his hated. 

spread. foes. 

At times Gondalbo seem'd to press 'Darlc was the battle which with fnrf 

his foe rag'd 

With conquering force, at times he Between these adverse bands; they 

seem'd to yield were two clouds 

Beneath his rival's force, and both at Charged with dread thunder that 

times together meet. 

Seem'd weary of the €g^t and dread- They were two torrents meeting on a 

f ul toil. hill 

Long they contended, and the turf And upward dashing in the air their 

beneath spray. 

With foot they harden 'd and with Valerian's noble soul was sick of 

blood they dyed. wars.... 

Tet still in doubtful scales the vict'ry He moum'd for men contending like 

hung. the beasts 

At length, Gondalbo, with a weary With cruel joy, and rioting in blood: 

But now in self defence he drew his 

And with an arm unrivafled in its 

Beat from him the assaidts and lage 
of war. 
The fight was won by bold Montal- 
via's sons. 
Through the wild shades the Aiimas- 

pians fled 
And left their leader bleeding on the 

Valerian cheak'd his friends on the 

And bade them both the fallen prin- 
ces raise 
And to the city gently bear them 

Rolinda followed in the moumfol 

With eye dejected and with alter'd 

Her long dishevel'd hair waves in the 

And frequent sighs break frop the 
aching heart. 

Believ'd be saw his rival's power de- 
And thought one mighty effort would 

To him the triumph of the bloody 

strife : 
Rousing his strength and raising high 

his sword, 
He struck the head of his relentless 

While at the moment he himself re- 
Deep in the side, the pUmge of his 

deep sword : 
Both fell, and roU'd in anguish on the 

Loud shriek'd Rolinda and within the 

Of his attendants sunk : her lover's 

Burst from her tips, and told the 

tender flame 
She nurs'd with secret sorrow in her 

When the troops saw their princely 

leaden fall. 


Thk time of the invention of 
brandy, or ardent spirit, which 
has had so wonderful an influence 
on many arts, on commerce, on 
the habtte, health, and happiness 
of the race, is not exactly 
known* That the first was made 

by the Arabians from wine, and 
thence called vinum uatum; that 
Arabian physicians first employed 
it in the composition of medicines ; 
and that so late as the ^ear 1SS3, 
the manner of prepanng it was 
very difficult and tedious, and still 
considered by surgeons as a secret 



ut; it appears from the writings 
of Arnold de ViUe Ncuvc [Amol- 
du» de Villa J^ova] Raymond 
Lully, .and Theophrastus Paracel- 
sus ; and it is without sufficient 
reason, that some ascribe the in- 
vention to Arnold. Alexander 
Tassoni relates, that the Moden- 
ese were the first, who, in EUiroj^e, 
on occasion of too abundant a vin- 
tage, made and sold brandy in con- 
aiderable quantities. The German 
miners had first acquired the habit 
of drinking it ; and the great con- 
ttimption of, and demand for, this 
liquor, soon induced the Venetians 
to participate with the Modenese in 
the new lucrative art and branch 
of oommerxc* However, it ap- 
pears, that brandy did not come into 
general use till towards the end of 
the fifteenth century ; and then it 
was stiD called burnt whte. The 
first printed books which made 
mention of brandy, recommended 
it as a preservative against most 
diseases, and as a means to pro- 
long youth and beauty. Similar 
encomiums have been bestowed on 
tea and coffee ; and people become 
so much habituated to these liquors, 
that they at last daily drank them, 
merely on account of their being 
pleasant to their palate. In tlie 
Reformation of the archbishopric 
of Cologne, in the first quarter of 
the sixteenth century, no mention 
is made of brandy; although it 
must certainly have been named 
there, if it had then already been 
used in Westphalia. William II, 
landgrave of Hesse, about the com- 
mencement of the siicteenth century, 
ordered that no seller of brandy 
should suffer it to be drunken in his 
' hou3e....and that no one should be 
allowed to offer it for sale before 
tlie church doors on holidays. In 
1524, Philip, landgrave of Hesse, 
totally prohibited the vending of 
burnt vfinem But in the middle of 
the sixteenth century, when Baccius 
wrote his History qf Wine^ brandy 
was every whei*e in Italy sold under 
the name of at/ua xHtia or i/irnr. 
Under king Erick, It was iutro- 
dii«ed' into Sweden. For a long 

time this Mqutfr was distiUed only 
from spoilt wine ; afterwards from 
the dregs, &c. of beer and wine ; 
and when instead of these, the dis« 
tillers employed rye, wheat and 
barley, it was considered as a 
wicked and unpardonable. misuse 
of corn ; it was feared that brandy 
made from wine, would be adulte* 
rated with malt^spirits ; and an 
idea prevailed, that the grains were 
noxious to cattle, but especially to 
swine; whence originated among 
men, that loathsome and contagious 
disease, the leprosy. Expx^easljr 
for these reasons, burnt vine was, 
in January, 1595, forbidden to be 
nrnd* in the electorate of Saxony, 
except only from wine lees, and the 
dregs of beer. In iJdS, 't)randy 
was prohibited at Frankfort, on 
the Mayne, because the barber-> 
surgeons had represented, that it 
was noxious in the then prevalent 
fatal disorders. From the same 
cause, the prohibition was renewed 
in 1605. With astonishing rapidi* 
ty has the love of brandy, and 
ardent spirit in general, spread 
over aU parts of the world; and 
nations the most uncultivated and 
tlie most ignorant, who can neither 
reckon nor write, have not only 
comprehended the method of dis- 
tilling it ; but even had ingenuity 
enough to apply to the preparation 
of it, the products furnished by 
their own country. Malt spirits 
and French brandy, which, when 
both are jiure, are however alike 
in their component parts, may, 
wjth the greatest ccrtamty, be dis- 
tinguished by the taste which is 
left after burning them. Of the 
latter, this watery remainder is 
sharp, nauseous, and almost sour ; 
but what is left after burning the 
malt spirits, excites a taste of 
burnt, or at least roasted, meal. 

Memoir on the Wax-^Dree qfLcu^ 
iniana and Pcfinaylvania* By 
CuARLLEs Louis Cadet, of 
the college of Pharmacy^m 
A number of plants, such as 

the Croton cebiferum^ the Tcmcx 


«tfd{/if»« of LonveilOy tlie poj^r, 
the alder, tiie pine, and lome /oM- 
atiy give bjr decoction a concrete 
inwtnimaMe matter, similar, in a 
greater or Icm degr^ to tallow or 
wax ; that it to say, a fixed oil as- 
Inrated wkh exfgtn. llie light 
down, called the bloom of fruits, 
and which gives a silvery appear- 
ance to the suriace of phims and 
other stone fruits, is wax, as has 
been proved by M. Proost. But 
fte tree which tarnishes this matter 
in the greatest aboodance, and 
which in many respects deserves 
the attention of agricoltnrists, che- 
mists, physicians, and commercial 
men, is tne Afyriea cefi/brut or 

Wenmd-hi Uic History of the 
Academy of Sciences for the years 
1733 and 1735, that M. Alexandre, 
a surgeon and correspondent of M. 
Mairan, observed in Louisiana, a 
tree of the siee of the cherry-tree, 
having the appearance of the myrtle, 
and nearly the same odour, and 
bearing a seed of the size of cori- 
ander* These seeds, of an ash- 
grey colour, contain a small osseous 
atone, pretty round, coveredwith 
shining wax, which is obtained by 
boiling the seeds in water. This 
wax is drier and more friable than 
ours. The inhabitants of the coun- 
try make tapers of it. M. Alex- 
andre adds : ^' Thu seed has com- 
monly a beautiful lake colour, and 
on being bruised with the Augers, 
they acquire the same tint; but 
this takes place only at a certain 

The liquor in which the seeds 
have been boiled, and from which 
the wax has been taken, when eva- 
porated to the consistence of an 
extract, was found by M . Alexan- 
dre to be an effectual remedy for 
checking the most obstinate dysen- 

Tlie advantageous properties ex- 
hibited by tills tree, could not but 
induce scientific men to make re- 
searches ^r the pui'pose of ascer- 

• From the Annales de Cfiimc^ 
Ab. 131. 

taining the varieties of iStAs v^(»« 
table production, and what care 
was required in its culture. It 
was lone considered as a mtfre 
object of curiosity. 

Linnsus, in his Vegetable System, 
speaks only of the wax-tree of Vir- 
ginia (MyrUa eeriferajy with 
leaves lanoeolated as if indented, 
stem arborescent. 

Having requested C. Ventenat Xf> 
inform roe how many qiecies there 
are of it, he replied that Ayton has 
distinguished two, vis. 

1st. Myrica terifera wngutHfrh- 
lia^ whidi grows in Louisiana. 
This tree is delicate, flowers with 
dUBculty in our green-houses : ita 
seeds are snuJler than those of the 

3d. Myrica cerifiru iatiJbStty 
which grows in Pennsylvania, Ca- 
rolina, and Vir^nia. It does n<ft 
rise to such a height as the Ibrmer, 
and is perfectly naturalized in 
France. These two Bfyrka are 
of the fiunily of the diteci* 

They are both cultivated at the 
Museum de* PlantM^ and in the 
gardens of C. Cels and Lemomer. 

C. Michault admits a third spe- 
cies of Myrica cerifera^ which he 
callsthe dwarf wax-tree. C. Ven- 
tenht thinks that wax may be ex« 
tracted from all the Myric^tm 

The authors who have spoken of 
these trees with some details, are 
C. Marchal, translated by Leferme, 
I^page-Duprat, and Toscan, libra- 
rian of the Museum of Natiiral 
History. A- memoir inserted t>y 
the latter in his workentitled L'Ahd 
de la Xaturc^ makes known tlm 
manner in which vegetable wax is 
collected in tlie colonics. 

<^ Towards the end of autumn,*' 
says he, ^< when the berries are 
ripe, a man quits his home, with 
his family, to proceed to some 
island, or some bank near the sea, 
where the wax-trees grow in abun- 
dance. He carries wiUi him vessci s 
for boiling tlie berries, and an axe 
to build a hut to shelter him during 
his i-esidcnce in that place, which 
is generally thix;e or four weeks. 
White he is cutting down the trees, 


Wid eonstrnctiiig the hut, his chil- 
dren collect the berries : a fruitful 
shrob can furnish about seven 
peunds. When the berries are 
coflectedy the whole hrnHy employ 
thenaaelves in extracting the wax. 
A certain quantity of the seeds are 
thrown into .the kettles, and water 
ii poured over them in sufiBcient 
quantity to rise to the height of half 
a foot above them. The whole is 
dicn boiled, stirring the seeds from 
time to time, and pressing them 
against the sides of the vessels, that 
the wax may more easily be de- 
tached. A little after, the wax is 
seen floating in the form of fat, 
whi<^ is collected with a spoon, 
and strained through a piece of 
coarse cloth, to separate the impu- 
rities mixed with it. When no 
more wax detaches itself, theberries 
are taken oat by means of a skim- 
mer^ and new ones are put into the 
water ; taking care to renew it the 
second or third time, and even to 
add more boiiing water in propor- 
tion as it is consmned, in order that 
the operation may not be retarded. 
When a certain quantity of wax 
has been collected in this manner, 
it is placed on a piece of linen clotli 
to drain, and to separate the water 
with which it b still mixed. It is 
then dried, and melted a second 
lime for the purpose of purifying 
it, and is moulded into the form of 
cakes. Four pounds of the seeds 
give about a pound of wax. That 
which detaches itself first, is gene- 
rally yellow, but m the last boilings 
it assumes a green colour, in con- 
sequence of the tint communicated 
to it by the pellicle with which the 
nucleus of the seed is covered." 

Kalna, the traveller, speaking of 
the vegetable wax, says that in 
countries where the wax-tree 
grows, it is employed for making 
excellent soap, with wliich linen 
can be perfectly washed. 

S3uch was the knowledge natu- 
ralists had of tlie niyricu, or at 
least no-other observations, as far 
as I know, had been published re- 
specting it, when a natura4ist gave 
me half a ktk)gi*ainme of the vege- 
table wax of Louii^iana. I was de- 

sirous to anylyse it, and compavc 
it with the wax made by our bees, 
but before I undertook ^s labour, 
I wished to be acquainted with the 
nature of the shrub, and of the 
seeds of the myrica. I saw this 
valuable production in the Jardki 
dea Flantesy and wrote to C. De- 
shayes, a zealous botanist, who su* 
perintends at Rambouillet the cul- 
tivation of the Myrica fiennsytva^ 
fUcay to beg he would give me a 
few details on that subject. He 
was so kind as to return an answer, 
accompanied with some of the 
seeds, which I took the earliest 
opportunity of examiniug. 

This seed is a kind of berry, of 
the size of a pepper-corn ; its sur* 
fece, when it is ripe and fresh, is 
white, intenpersed with small black 
asperities, which give> it the ap- 
pearance of shagreen. When 
rubbed between the hands it renders 
them unctuous and greasy. 

If one of these small berries be 
strongly pressed, it divesu itself of 
a matter in appearance amylace- 
ous, mixed with small round grains, 
Uke gun-powder. The nucleus, 
which remains bare, has a very 
thick ligneous covering, and con- 
tains a dis cotyledon kernel. By 
rubbing a nandful of the berries on 
a hair sieve, I obtained a grey dust, 
in which i could distinguish, by 
the help of a magnifying glass, the 
small brown grains already men- 
tioned, in the middle of a white 

I put tills powder into alcohol, 
which by the help of a gentle heat 
dissolved all the white part, and 
left the black powder which I col- 
lected apart. Water poured over 
this alcoholic solution, disengaged 
a substance which floated on the 
surface of tlie liquid. I melted 
this substance, and obtained ^ 
yellow wax similar to that brought 
me from Louisiana, lliis experi- 
ment was sufficient to prove that 
tlie wax of tlie myrica is the white 
rough matter wluch envelopes the 

The black powder which I sepa- 
rated, appeared to me to contain a 
colouring principle, and I did not 


tteipAir that I ehould find in it tlie 
beftutifiil lake, mentioned by M. 
Alexandre. With this view I 
bruiied strongly the powder, and 
boiled it in a solution of acid sul- 
phate of alumine. I was much 
astonished to obtain nothing but a 
liquor scarcely coloured, and the 
alumine precipitated by an alkali, 
was only slightly stained. 

I took anoUicr part of this black 
bruised powder, and put it to infuse 
Id alcohol* I soon obtained a tincture 
of the colour of wine lees : on 
heating this tincture, it became as 
red as a St rong tincture of cinchona, 
or caehon. This result induced 
me to believe that the colouring 
principle was resinous, but by addi ng 
. water, I saw no precipitate formed. 
I poured into this tincture, water 
charged with sulphate of alumine ; 
a slight precipit4\tc was produced ; 
a soltttionof sulphate of iron formed 
it immediately into an ink. 

What is the astringent colouring 
principle which is not soluble in al- 
cohol, which forms no precipitate 
with water, and which has so little 
attraction for alumine ? To find it 
a series of experiments, which the 
few substances I had iu my posses- 
sion did not permit me to make, 
would have be(Hi necessary. The 
astringent matter mentioned by M. 
iVlexandre, nmst be found in tlie 
decoction of the unbi*uised seeds. 
To ascertain this fact, I boiled the 
seeds in a silver vessel, 'i^e de- 
ception on which a little wax floated, 
Y/as of a greenish colour, with a 
taste somewhat stj-ptic : it precipi- 
tated ferruginous solutions black. 
Having heated it in a very clean 
iron vessel, it spectUly became 
black. To know wliether thi:; pro- 
perty arose from the gallic acid 
ulonc, or from tannin, I mixed a 
little of tlie concentrated decocticn, 
with a solution of gelatin, but no 
precipitate was formed* 

It is therefore to the pretty con- 
siderable quantity of gallic acid 
t(jntaincdin the seeds of the myrica, 
tiiat the virtue of its extract in 
checking dvsentaries ought to be 
ufccribed. In this lespect, I am cf 
o;;li]icu that the lc«Lves and bark of 

the tree would fomiflSi nn esctract