THE MATRIMONIAL CREED.

WHOSOEVER will be married, before all things it is necessary that he hold the conju­gal faith; and the conjugal faith is this: That there were two rational beings created, both equal, and yet one superior to the other—and the inferi­or shall bear rule over the superior; which faith, except every one keep whole, and undefiled, with­out doubt, he shall be scolded at everlastingly.

[Page 8]The man is superior to the woman and the wo­man is inferior to the man; yet both are equal, and the woman shall govern the man.

The woman is commanded to obey the man, and the man ought to obey the woman; and yet there are not two obedients, but one obedient.

For there is one dominion nominal of the husband, and another dominion real of the wife.

And yet there are not two dominions but one dominion.

For, like as we are compelled by the christian verity to acknowledge, that wives must submit themselves to their husbands, and be subject to them in all things;

So we are forbidden by the conjugal faith to say, that they should be at all influenced by their wills, or pay regard to their commands.

The man was not created for the woman, but the woman for the man;

Yet the man shall be the slave of the woman, and the woman the tyrant of the man:

So that in all things, as aforesaid, the subjection of the superior to the inferior is to be believed.

He, therefore, that will be married, must thus think of the woman and the man.

Furthermore, it is necessary to submissive matri­mony, that he also believe rightly the infallibility of the wife.

For the right faith is, that we believe and con­fess, that the wife is fallible and infallible;

Perfectly fallible and perfectly infallible; of an erring soul and unerring mind subsisting; fallible, as touching human nature; and infallible, as touch­ing her female sex.

Who, although she be fallible and infallible, yet she is not two, but one woman; who submitted to lawful marriage to acquire unlawful dominion, and [Page 9] promised religiously to obey, that she might rule with uncontroled sway.

This is the conjugal faith; which, except a man believe faithfully, he cannot be married.

HAPPINESS: NOW JUDGED OF.

IMPERFECTLY can we judge of real happiness or misery from external appearance.—We are sedu­ced and deceived by that false glare which prosperi­ty throws around bad men; we are tempted to imi­tate their crimes, in order to partake of their ima­gined felicity.

The pageant of grandeur displayed to public view, is not the ensign of certain happiness. We must follow the great man into the retired apart­ment, where he lays aside his disguise, in order to form any just conclusion. We must have a facul­ty by which we can look into the inside of hearts; then should we behold good men in pro­porti [...]n to their goodness, satisfied and easy; attr [...] ­cious sinners always restless and unhappy. We must not fix our affections on those allurements which vanish at the approach of death, but strive to obtain virtuous accomplishments that endure to all eternity.

GAMING.

GAMING is the curse that spreads the widest, and sticks the closest to the present times: All ranks and degrees of people are infected with it; it is the livelihood of many, and so countenanced by all, that it is almost scandalous to forbear it, and esteemed down-right ill-breeding to expose it. But where­ever you are, if cards are called for, let it be a signal for you to take your leave. Nor let the proposal of a trifling stake be a bait to induce you to sit [Page 10] down: Adventurers heat themselves by play, as cowards by wine; and he that began timorously, may, by degrees, surpass the whole party in rash­ness and extravagance. Besides, as avarice is one of our strongest passions, so nothing flatters it more than play. Good success has an almost irresistable charm, and ill prompts us to put all to the hazard, to recover our losses; either way, nothing is more infatuating, or destructive.

This is but a faint sketch of the mischiefs attend­ing gaming, even upon the square; but, where it is otherwise, which often happens, as numbers have found to their cost, what can save the wretched bubble from imminent and inevitable ruin; or who can enumerate the snares, the blinds, the lures em­ployed by sharpers, to entrap their prey, and ratify the premeditated mischief? To be safe, then, keep out of the possibility of danger. Strangers, how­ever dazzling their appearance, are always to be mistrusted. Even persons who prided themselves on their birth, rank and fortune, have been found confederates with these splendid pick-pockets. And to play with your friends, is an infallible receipt to lose them; for, if you plunder them, they'll aban­don you with resentment: and, if they plunder you, they'll decline an interview, that must be at­tended with secret ill-will, if not open reproaches. To avoid all these hazards, play not at all; but, when you find yourself giving way to the dange­rous temptation, by casting your eyes on those who gain a livelihood by these execrable means, let their detested reputations, and the contempt always con­nected with them, deter you from the detestable ambition of making your way to fortune by the same infernal road; or, if that reflection proves ineffectual for your preservation, look with horror on the num­bers of meagre faces that haunt gaming houses, as ghosts are said to do the places where their treasure [Page 11] is buried, who earn an infamous livelihood, by be­ing the tools and bawds of those very people to whom they owe their ruin, in order to reduce others to the like wretchedness.

THE POOR MAN's APOLOGY For marrying a POOR WOMAN.

MY lot was cast among those to whom fortune deals her favors sparingly: nature, as if to make amends for the niggardliness of the capricious god­dess, made me heir to a constitution, though not the most robust, equal to the station heaven had allotted to me; and I thought my condition enviable, endu­ed as I was with fortitude sufficient to encounter poverty in wedlock. All my acquaintance cried shame on the man who had been so blind to his in­terest, and in the most unreserved terms censured me for shaking hands with beggary. The custom of this thrifty age, indeed, and the oppressive tem­per of the times, gave a color of justice to a censure apparently dictated by friendship. Nevertheless their remonstrances made but a transient impression on a mind like mine, which had armed itself against the vicissitudes of the world by the following reflec­tions, previous to the solemn engagement into which I had entered.

Every man who marries without a fortune, pledg­es himself to the state for his industry; after having turned the matter in my mind, I am the more con­vinced that my country has a similar claim upon me. But shall I marry to gratify the inclinations of others, perhaps to humor their caprices? or indulge a wish of my own? Some friends I have, who are very importunate with me to be directed by them—one tells me, he has had in his eye for me, ever since my birth, a lady who is immensely rich, but mon­strously hunchbacked withall, and arrived at the so­ber age of sixty—from her having been unsolicited [Page 12] so long, I must needs suppose her to be the refuge of her whole sex. Now, should I, in a fit of insani­ty, for nothing short of a derangement of my intel­lects could urge me to the rash act, link myself to decrepidate, and her disposition be as crooked as her person, where should I hope for redress? Could this friend of mine dissolve the tie, or I recal my words? No, the words are irrevocable, the bond indissoluble, "till death doth us part." To wish that death would step in, to rid me of my incum­brance, by summoning away my joke fellow, or my­self, would be sinful; besides that such a wish would be fruitless for she might live long enough to break my heart. At her age, the turbulence of the pas­sions is supposed to be calmed, it is true; but were the forty years younger, would that better my situa­tion? Upon consideration I think it would not; by the time a woman sits down to serious housewifery, her marriage portion is spent in the indulgencies, which she expects forsooth in consideration of her dower. Hence I conclude, that my friend, in his recommendation of a wife to me, is actuated by no other motive than his pride, which would be wound­ed by his owning a poor relative. So help me God then, I will chuse for myself, and woo happiness in a person whose disposition I think congenial to my own.

THE GRUMBLER. Madeira is not bad, but RUM is good.

"FOR every creature of God is good." "Rum is one of these creatures." To a man in his right mind it would only be necessary to say ergo; but as this number may light upon some not in a situation to comprehend the whole meaning of ergo, I will put the inference in language suited to their capacities, ergo, Rum is good. If there is one of my readers who is not in perfect good humour on hearing this phrase, it must be some churlish old bachelor, too nigardly ever to buy rum enough to make himself happy. These reasonings are just, the first quotation is taken from the sacred book, the second is as undeniable as the first; and as to the inference, witness ye dram-drinkers who love a good suck in the morning—witness ye bucks and blades, who sit in the tavern and drink rum nekus till your vociferous brawls set the house in an uproar —witness ye tavern hunters, who spend your time and your estates in defence of this great, but simple truth that rum is good. Rum is good, and so is Arsenic, and a man who prefers a sudden death to a lingering one would sooner swallow the latter than the former. I speak of the immoderate use of rum. Rum is good—for a wound—a dislocated limb—and a thousand other things; but swallowed in large draughts, is as certain death as arsenic.— To depict the whole catalogue of evils which attend the free use of rum, is beyond my abilities, and would do no good. It has been done a thousand times to no purpose. There are men who drink too much rum: There are others who do not drink enough—at each of these I shall grumble. As I have taken a parson's text, I may as well take his mode too, and divide my work into firstlys and se­condlys: And

[Page 14]Firstly, In grumbling at those who drink too much, self-interest is at the bottom. No sooner do I seat myself in my neighbour's house, than he brings out his bottle of rum, orders a picher of wa­ter, and I must drink a little of his old spirits and water—If it is winter, it will warm my stomach and cure my head ache,—if it is summer, 'its a fine cool­ing thing, and as good for the head-ache as any thing in the world. The next thing is to visit me and taste my old spirits. Your common six shilling rum does not answer, it must be old spirit. Now as I cannot but just suport my family with the neces­saries of life, this needless expence is irksome, and complied with, only from a false delicacy. Besides, I shall soon love it. The appetite furnished by na­ture, is well and easily regulated; but when [...]nce viciated by unwarily getting into such habits as this, there is no knowing where it will end. I wish they would treat me with a cup of cold water.

Secondly, As [...]o those who do not drink enough— A neighbour called on me a few days since before breakfast on business; the effluvia from a half point of rum met me as soon as he opened his mouth. He is a clever fellow, and a man of some interest; but if he had drank a quart that morning, instead of a half point, his family might have been worth ten times more ten years hence, than they will if he lives ten years. The young "dasher," who has drank enough to make him mischievous, who gets a rail to break open windows, and finds the rail has got him down and will not get off, ought to have drank more; for then he would have fallen before he touch'd the rail, and it easier lying alone than un­der a rail. Young gentlemen of good fortunes and prospects, who are apt to get high, as they call it, are unpardonable in not drinking more rum.— They can afford it. A little rum or brandy makes [Page 15] them boisterous and mischie [...]ous, and as ungover­nable as Balaam's ass; whereas a good s [...]g would still all these tumultuous passions, and lay them qui­etly to rest. Besides, these boisterous, mischievous fr [...]eks waste their estates, and the example is perni­cious; because young men of lower rank are apt to think if they imitate a gentleman of fortune, even in his foibles, they shall be gentlemen themselves; whereas if these young gentlemen were to drink deep enough to kill themselves, it would save their estates, and nobody would think of imitating them.

THE FORCE OF SLANDER.

NOthing sooner discover [...] imbecility in a man than credulity (this is a sentiment of the celebrated Fiel­ding). Nothing can be more improper, and nothing has a more fatal tendency in leading us into errors. The credulous man believes every flying report, however injurious to his neigbour, without looking into the character of his informant, or tracing the calumny to its original source. It is from this want of circumspection in general, that Slander is permit­ted to exercise, without even the smallest molestati­on, whatever her dark malicious tongue may invent. This hyperbolical incendiary no sooner wispers her infernal purpose, than poor simple credulity sounds the ignoble to [...]sin of alarm, and inoffensive, deserted innocence looks in vain to an ungrateful wor [...]d for that protection, heaven and justice will only grant [Page 16] her. Weep not, unerring virtue, I greatly bear up against the attacks of scornful inhuman men—they may erect the sharp-poized blade of calumny; and wield the triumphant falchion of slander, but let them remember that their victory is mortal, that yours is the reward of Eternity. The rich man may pride in destroying the only comfort, the virtuous solace of the indigent—his reputation—but let him also remember that the day of retribution will come when all his boasted millions shall not purchase him one moment of the poor man's happiness. "For Death, stern Death doth vastly change the scene!" Where rests the ashes of Alexander, or the manes of Clitus? They are both lost in decay and scattered by the winds of heaven. The master's, perhaps on some cobler's dung-hill, the servant's on the fertile banks of the Granick! The sting of slander, though pungent and mutinous, can only wound the bosom of guilt; but like all other incorrigible vices it sel­dom attacks those of its own species, but is continu­ally in ambush for innocence. The beasts of the for­ests, the fowls of the air, the fishes of the sea, and the veriest reptiles on earth, live in perfect uni­son with those of their own species; nor do they wi [...]h to diminish the happiness or tranquility of each other: but ungrateful man, possessing as he does, the far more superior advantages of the brute cre­ation—intellectual and improved knowledge—with all the vast endowments erudition, experience, and even religion can bestow; the sacred commandments and the natural bond of fellowship that ought to ex­ist between man and man, delights more in the de­struction and downfall of a fellow being, in render­ing him contemptible in the eyes of the world, than offering him that assistance and protection, which he himself finds essentially necessary, to guide him through the rough ocean of life with propriety.— [Page 17] To view the rest of mankind as I do myself, it ap­pears impossible for such a monster to exist, as he who would assassinate, without cause, the tenderest part of a man, his honour and reputation. Yet experi­ence, that unerring monitor, hath proven it, and since credulity has propagated it, I look farther than the too confined limits of earth for redress. I stand the unshaken guardian of my reputation (though none shall know me by this intricate declaration) and look with sovereign contempt on the machinations of a credulous world, who claim more my pity than resentment. Still it surprises me to find the motto that heads this, so perfectly congenial to the disposi­tions of mankind.

YOU OUGHT TO BE CAREFUL,

"AND who does not know that," said a young pragmatical coxcomb, before he had hear'd the rest of the sentence, "True my friend," I answered if knowing was all that was necessary to induce people to do as they ought, preaching would be little wan­ted, and the world would go round without so ma­ny jolts and tosses, and many of the egregious errors as well as the smaller evils and cross accidents of life would be avoided. "But who ought to be care­ful? I don't understand you sir, do you mean me?" "Yes, you" I answered, "in company with all the rest of the world; for observe them, from the phi­losopher down to the fool—from a Washington to the most contemptable jacobin inclusive, and you will not find one of any age, sex, class, or denomination, but what at some time or other may feel obliged by having a friend at their elbow to whisper them to be careful. And the traveller is in duty bound [Page 18] to stand centry in turn, during his watch, as he has too much gratitude soon to forget the gentle admoni­tions and affectionate cautions he has r [...]ceived from his good friends, while he has been passing through the world.

Ah! and travellers too ought to be careful not to take a cup too much when they are to travel in the night l [...]st they should get a sore eye against a post or a fence, that should be so uncivil as not to move out of their way, as they are advancing on each side the ro [...]d with their graceful bows, their g [...]el s [...]llies, their wonderful evolutions and other pleasing atti­tudes, so highly entertaining to by-standers.

Some have gone so far as to suppose that even law­yers oug [...]t to be careful and not to persuade people into uncertain law-suits, by being positive they will recover; when they have doubts in their own minds whether by being positive they can lead them safe out again. It was said of them in old time, that they took great se [...]s—that was an evil under the sun, which the present generation seems freed from—but if that was a fault, what name shall we give to those who, if they can't do better, take less than the fee table, and for the sake of purchasing business offer writs at half price? If any such can be, the law has given them two names already, Pettifoggers and Barr [...]t [...]rs, and annexed punishments as disgraceful as such contemptible practises deserve.

And why ought not Doctors to be careful? The old ones, lest their pockets being full and their feel­ings less accute they grow remiss and inattentive to the calls of distress. And the young medical Pettifoggers, who rush into the practice without a previous education or regular study, who know little more of medicine than some of the names, yet call themselves of the Faculty because they have the fa­culty of charging equal to the first rate practitioners [Page 19] —Surely such men ought to be careful when the lives of citizens are thus put in jeopardy by cofiding in their sk [...]ll. But the evil will never be fully remi­died till the people themselves grow so caref [...]l as not to trust them.

These are not all—what remains must he reserv­ed till another opportunity.

R [...]ATION.

NEXT to life, [...] dearer to man than re­putation or a good name: Slander is there­fore the basest kind of r [...]bbery.

There are two kinds of slander, malicious and in­considerate. Malicious slander consists in circula­ting reports against a person with a design to in­jure him. This is the height of malevolence. Such slanderers regard not whether they utter truth or falsehood; for to create misery is the sole object they have in view, their guilt is therefore lessened but in a small degree by the consideration that what they report concerning another is truth. "Truth may be made instrumental to the success of malicious designs, as well as falsehood; and if the end be bad, the means cannot be innocent." Inconsiderate slan­der ar [...]ses from a propensity in human nature to hear and tell some strange thing. Those who are guilty of this mean no wrong. "Their error con­sist [Page 20] in the want of that regard to the consequences of their conduct, which a just affection for human hap­piness, and concern for their duty, would not fail to produce. "And it is no justification to say that they entertained no bad design." The truth is, we ought always to be actuated by a wish to promote the happiness of others. This will keep us from every kind of slander, and seal our lips against the utterance of any thing which can injure another, whether it be true or false. A tale bearer revealeth s [...]crets, but he that is of a faithful spirit concealeth the matter.

THE TALKER.

WHAT do folks say? is the question—a question that has more influence on the manners of mankind, than all the laws of society. Folks must talk—the more they talk the better. Who can re­sist the influence of what folks says? When I hear a man say he does not care a farthing what folks talk about him, I can't believe him.

Most people believe that the good order of society depends wholly on construction of the laws; I do not: the good opinion of our neighbours, and the people within the circle of our acquaintance has ten times more influence on our conduct and department in life, than all the laws that have been enacted from the day of Solomon to the present time.— How shall we obtain this opinion if folks don't talk? and talk a great deal too. I always feel uneasy when I hear people finding fault with their neigh­bours for talking about folks. It is, as necessary to good order in society, as winds and storms to pro­duce a salubrious atmosphere. We may curse folks for talking, and curse again, so much the better; [Page 21] this discovers the good effect it has. At first we re­sent the injury; but folks talk again; we then be­gin to consider whether we have given occasion for the observations; if so, we shall reform, at least be more circumspect in our behaviour. Few of us are such veterans, as to move on in defiance of the good opinion of the people among whom we live. But folks that talk a great deal, tell false stories, and of­ten injure the reputation of our neighbours; this is a temporary evil; winds and rain often do great mischief: no argument that they are unnecessary: it is not at all surprising▪ that in our great zeal in a good cause, we should sometimes trespass, and pass bounds of rigid truth. What great injury is done? our neighbour perceives that we are watching and talking about his conduct in life, and will set a guard over all his actions, lest he give occasion for folks to talk in future. Talk away may friends, and keep talking; enjoy secrecy if you please; no matter; your friend has always his bosom friend to whom he can entrust the secret; and you may be sure it will not fail coming to the ears of the person talked a­bout: it all tends directly to the formations of man­ners, and surely must be the only reason why there is so much talking about each other.

FRAGMENT.

THOSE qualities which are only brilliant, have ever more enemies than admirers; but those which are the offspring of the heart obtain the suf­frages of all. You cannot outshine other men with­out wounding their pride; whilst you astonish them, you often irritate; and whenever you are personal you are assuming.

CARDS, &c.

TO combat a dangerous but fashionable vice—to incline the wavering, to snatch from destruc­tion the unhappy gamester, is the object of the present relation.

In vain has reason often exerted its voice, or prudence loudly declaimed against this practice, fraught with so many woes—let us then try the force of example.

The only heir of an opulant family, possessed of a person in the highest degree amiable, to which were united all the virtues which can ameliorate the heart or dignify mankind—Honorious stood superior to the admiring multitude. Who that was acquainted with him did not admire the strength of his judge­ment, the goodness of his heart and the benevolence of his temper. He was not similar to the stoick, who can view with indifference the misfortunes of mankind, and render his heart unsusceptible of the ennobling touches of philanthropy. No! his soul was of a sweeter temperament; he sprang forth with transport to the exercise of charity. The [Page 23] voice of widows blessed him, and the hearts of or­phans leaped w [...]h rapture at his name. Such was Honorius when the amiable Amelia captivated his affections and resigned to him her heart and hand. Her soul was unison with his, and the temple of be­nevolence was erected in her bosom. This event therefore, instead of diminishing their sensibility of their sufferings of the unfortunate seemed only to augment it. Gratitude spoke their praises with her thousand tongues, and mercy, sweet mercy hovered with expanded wings around their habition. The murmurings of ingratitude, the ripenings of discon­tent and the bewailings of misery were unknown within their walls. Age crept imperceptibly on, and the cup of life was quaffed without the admix­ture of one bitter ingredient.

But, alas! how soon d [...]d the curtain drop on his happiness! how soon were his prospects of pleasure beclouded! Frequently importuned by his friends to spend the winter at the capital of—he at length complied. Unfortunately, whilst immers­ed in the routine of pleasure, he so far lost the pru­dence which distinguished him, as to suffer a love of play to gain an ascendency over his mind.

Alas! how altered did he soon become. Instead of the sprightly, the vivacious, the benevolent Ho­norious▪ he now was melancholick and gloomy, and the fickelness of fortune at the gaming table, and the consequent uncertainty of his estate arrested the outstretched arm of charity. No longer did the relation of misfortune excite the tear of compassion —no longer did his soul flutter to relieve the dis­tressed. All the soft emotions of humanity were forgotten—all the effusions of a generous heart ceased.—Neither were these the only attendants of this detestable vice. Intoxication which debases man to a brute—profanity which challenges the au­gust [Page 24] majesty of heaven, and a thousand other vices, which are the off [...]pring of this one crowded upon him.

The tender heart of his wife could not endure this—the beauteous flower drooped and died. Her soul was wafted by kindred spirits to the bosom of "her father and her God," and, as it entered the regions of b [...]autitude, it dropped a tear on her alter­ed Honorius.

As for himself, having in one unlucky night lost all his fortune, and seeing no friendly hand extended to assist him, despair with all its horrors seized upon his soul. Recollection preyed like a vulture▪ on his heart—reflection represented him the murderer of his wife—each hope of happiness was toppled down, and all his sanguine expectations blasted. Alas! shall I relate the sad catastrophe, and how in the frenzy of his soul, "he rushed irreverent, unpre­pared, uncalled into his maker's presence," and with his own guilty hand finished his sad existence.

Reader! if your soul is moved with pity for the fate of Honorius, fly the siren shores of gaming, avoid the rock on which his bark was shiprecked.

"There's time enough yet."

THE absurdity of procrastination is so conspicu­ous, that no one can deny the fatality of its consequences.

The inimitable Prompter▪ by making use of every text of homespun scripture, has endeavored to ex­pose the folly of those people, who neglected their present concerns, with this excuse, that there's time enough yet. There is a certain inherent proneness, [Page 25] in human nature, to indulgence and an exemption from mental and corporeal exercise. The stupidity of the mind is, perhaps, more unpardonable than that of the body; because those who are born to independent fortune, can easily be excused from manual labor, but not from mental; for no one, however opulent he may be, can be pardoned for a misuse, or a suspension of his natural faculties—ma­ny are bred to the knowledge of letters and the liberal arts, who are as necessary members of socie­ty, as the farmer or mechanic—yet if their abilities are not improved, with vigour they are insufferable —There's time enough yet, is the language of the venerable Minister, who neglects his study till Satur­day noon, and then picks up some old sermon, or concludes to supply the place of a studied discourse the next Sabbath, with an extemporary exhorta­tion—There's time enough yet, replied a factiou [...] [...] ­yer, being asked when he was to make preparation for a future state—"when I have acquired a large estate, when I have gloriously crept into Congress, when I have become a senator, or perhaps his excellency, and shall have resigned, I mean to attend to these things. O, fie, There's time enough yet." The repetition of this phrase sounds with solacing harmony, to the neglected Maid, who has lived five and twenty or thirty years, in hopes and an earnest looking for of those days when she shall be provided with an help meet for her languishing self—The honest tradesman neglects to pay his debts, as long as his creditors do not sue him, say­ing there's time enough yet—at length, he is saluted with the unwelcome voice of the sheriff, who re­gards not the person of any; then he is not on­ly obliged to pay the contract, but the necessary costs and court fees, and one shilling duty on this writ, says the lawyer, which he never forgets.

[Page 26]When I began to write, I meant to give every vice of this kind a proper scouring▪ but as I am in haste I must desist for this time, and when I have a convenient season I will proceed, for there's time enough yet.

"Yet no man remembereth that same poor man."

IN the book of Ecclesiastes, we find related in a very familiar and simple apologue, the siege of a certain city. It was little and thinly inhabited, but it was invaded by a powerful King, and menaced by great bulwarks. Instant capture must have en­sued, had not a certain poor man, whose mind was bet [...] stocked than his purse, delivered, by the wi [...] of his plans, the city, and freed the inhab­itants from their terrors. Here we naturally anti­cipate a lively picture of the gratitude of the besie­ged, towards this political saviour. Too many sta­tues could not be erected in honour of such gallan­try and enterprize, too many she [...]e [...] of silver could not be given to relieve the poverty of him, who had so well deserved. We might suppose that the wealthy citizens would pay liberal tithes to one, by whom their all had been saved. Chaste dames and coy virgins, exulting that their purity had not been violated, by a licentious soldiery, would naturally crowd around their protector, and the blushes of a thousand cheeks attest that modesty had not been injured by the brutal ravisher. But he, who would draw his conclusion, and imagine that even useful poverty must necessarily be recompensed, would prove himself a rash and unobserving man. We might allow the benevolence of his own heart, but what should we think of his knowledge of the hearts [Page 27] of others? That men are not always grateful for signal favours, that poverty is ever contemptible, even when accompanied by merit, may be learned in the course of every days experience, may be learned from the sequel of the story, which began this sermon. Though all men, natives of the besie­ged city, had such occasion to recollect their bene­factor, yet the mortifying conclusion of the narrative, is, that in the words of my text, no man remembered that same poor man!

However penury may be disdained by those sel­fish men, whom legacies and avarice have enriched, we find, that the best friend of man abounds in benedictions of the poor. In the sermon on the Mount, a much more accurate and eloquent dis­course, than any of MASILLON's, the poor in spirit are especially named, and a kingdom promised them surpassing all the thrones and principalities of Eu­rope. It was not the magnificent palace, it was not the Usurers bank, it was the poor man's hovel, it was the recess of the forlorn outcast which the son of the carpenter visited.

To the poor the Gospel was preached, it was a poor widow whose two mites shone more brilliantly in the eyes of one, not likely to be dazzled, than al [...] the gold of those opulent contributors, who cast [...] much to the Jewish trea [...]ury. The rich man query­ing concerning future life, is [...]old that a sale of his possessions, and liberal donations to the poor are essent [...]al to salvation. While Wealth and Powe [...] and Rank were neglected, poor Shepherds enjoy [...] the honor of a glorious annunciation. The compa [...] ions of the son of Mary were not the opulent Phar­isee, and the Roman patrician, but the poor fisher­man of Galilee. When dispatched to exercise the functions of apostleship, they were forbidden purse or scrip. The wealthiest of them was worth but [Page 28] thirty pieces of silver, and those Judas gained by speculating upon his Saviour. The close of the bargain might prove that poverty was better than riches. His title to the cash proved more rotten than a Georgia purchase. As he was hanged for his pains, his money raised him for a time, but then "it was fifty cubits higher than he dreamed of."

"And she made haste, and let down her pitcher from her shoulder and said, Drink, and I will give thy camels drink also."

FROM my attachment to simplicity in writing, I read Sterne more attentively than Stackhouse, and prefer a story in Genesis to a volume of Gibbon.— It appears to me that, notwithstanding the sarcasms of Voltaire, and other French infidels, that mode of writing, which finds a ready way to the heart, was never more successfully atchieved, than by the Ori­entals. The other evening, as I was turning over agreeably to my usual practice, the pages of scrip­ture, I dwelt with undescribable pleasure upon cer­ [...]ain passages in the life of the patriarch Abraham. I had passed the afternoon, in what is called modish company, and yet could not avoid remarking that the extreme selfishness of men and women of the world, led them, even at a moment, when they as­sembled for ostentatious civility, to behave discour­teously. If such rudeness, I murmured to myself, be in a refined age, let me view the behaviour of those of old time, before dancing masters were dis­covered, and when the message cards were not sent by one Patriarch's lady to another. I found as I expected, that even herdsmen and shepherds had as [Page 29] much genuine politeness as Lord Chesterfield, and that a country maiden, the daughter of Bethuel, the son of Milcah, could behave with as much pro­priety, as though she had been educated in a boar­ding school. The story of this pastoral girl's con­duct I wish to tell at large, and with that the deli­cacy of fashionable readers would allow me, on this occasion, so much pedantry as to quote the original. But, as a whole chapter in Genesis might appear too long, and disproportionate for a short sermon, I will attempt to narrate in my own words.

Abraham a most affectionate parent, perceiving that his life declined, and zealous with the anxiety of old age, for an establishment for Isaac, intreats a confidential steward of the household, that he would not suffer the inexperienced heart of his son to be captivated by the Canaanitish beauties. At the ear­nest request of the patriarch, the servant binds him­self to solicit for Isaac a wife of his own rank, reli­gion, and country. After sanctioning this promise by one of the most tremendeous oaths among the Jewish usages, he harnesses his camels, and departs for Mesopotamia. On his arrival at the suburbs of Nahor, a city of that country, fatigued with a te­dious journey, and tender of his drudging camels, he makes them kneel by a well of water, to take their necessary refreshment. In this weary moment, Re­bekah appears; and the first accents that fall from the parched tongue of the traveller, were to solicit a little water from the pitcher, which she carried, "And she made haste, and let down her pitcher from her shoulder and said, Drink, and I will give thy camels drink also."

Let us now gaze earnestly at these simple, yet beautiful features.

The female whose courtesy is thus recorded, was [...] women of some distinction in those pastoral times. [Page 30] Her father was of a sto [...]k abundantly respectable, for he was allied to Abraham, and her brother was the opulent Laban, whose cattle strayed on a thou­sand hills. Engaged in domestic duty, she meets a stranger, in the garb, probably of a hireling, as he is called, in the text "servant," be grimmed with dust, and having no claim to her favor. She is asked for water, which she cheerfully gives, and the careless reader will not be aware of the extent of the obli­gation, if he had not surveyed a map of Palestine, and adverted to the sandiness and thirst of the soil. In that arid region, a brook was a more joyous sight to a panting shepherd, than a bumper would be now to the votary of wine. The invaluable well spring eagerly sought, and abstinately contended for, by different tribes, was, from the nature of the earth, at such a distance below the surface, that to obtain water was a work both of toil and time. But, for­getting her home, forgetting herself, and "dis­daining little delicacies," she thinks only of the suf­ferings of the way-faring stranger, and with that "kind charity" which the Apostle emphasizes, with that genuine, disinterested civility, beyond the court of Versailles, the tedious descent of the well she re­peatedly tries, and the cooling pitcher imparts, not only to the man, but even to his unpetitioning beasts. "Drink," says the generous girl, and, trust me that I can feel likewise for your burdened companions, "for I will give thy camels drink also." This was benevolence such as is not generally found. It was eminently disinterested, prompt and diffusive. It was disinterested; for the tongue which she cool­ed was not that of a youthful gallant, trolling the oily phrases of flattery. He who drained the pitch­er, which the assiduity of Rebekah filled, was an old man, a servant and a stranger. It was prompt; for she "hasted," and she "ran to do do good; and [Page 31] drew water for "all the camels," though the troop consisted of ten. It was diffusive; for they were minutely regarded no less than their proprietor.

I warmly wish that the manners of many, who deem themselves polished, were at the present day, as excellent as those of this primitive well bred wo­man. Frequenting no assemblies but those of the next green, or meadow, receiving no lessons of good breeding but those which her own warm heart dic­tated, we find her deportment graceful, though she never paid a dancing master, we find her a maid of honor, though she never saw a court! True polite­ness, unlike that of men of the mode, consists in ac­tually rendering little services to our neighbor, ra­ther than in the ostentatious promise of great ones. Indifferent to its own ease, it thinks much of ano­ther's, discerns the latent wish, and supercedes the necessity of asking favors, by seasonably bestowing them.

"Remove sorrow far from thee: For sorrow hath killed many, and there is no profit therein."

DRY up your eyes, then, ye mourners, for grief will not restore the friends you have lost, nor abate the edge of misfortune, but as oil and the whet­stone to the razor, it will sharpen that which is al­ready too acute, and the bleeding heart will shew a still deeper wound. Why will you strive to add one drop to this "vale of tears," which, trust me, is alrea­dy too full, why court the acquaintance of grief, that sorry companion, who▪ sobbing and silent as he jour­neys with you through the wilderness of this world, multiplies every brake, and adds ten fold horror to the gloom. You have various and real ills to encoun­ter [Page 32] in your sore travail; the climate is vaporous, and you must be sick, men are treacherous, and you will be deceived▪ poverty will sometimes start up "like an armed man" before you, and your careful days be like those of an hireling. But be of good cheer, and repeat not in the day of adversity with erring Solomon, that laughter is mad, nor imperti­nently inquire of mirth what doeth she, but believe with my predecessor Stern, that comfortable asser­tion, worth a million of cold homilies, that every time we smile, and still more every time we laugh, it adds something to the fragment of life.

No profit therein: No verily; the man of sor­row, who with sullen Ahab refuses to eat bread, and changes his time for tears, is engaged in one of the most barren and least lucrative employments, you can conceive. Sighs I have always considered as the very canker of the heart, and sobs the grand epito­mizers of existence. Child of melancholy! If sor­row hath killed many and there is no profit therein, banish it from thy shades, for why, in the pathetic language of Ecclesiastes, shouldst thou die before thy time?

But who are those fair forms, the one with fold­ed arms, and the other with bounding steps minister­ing. O kindly handmaids at the bed side of a phi­losopher. I see his pallid cheek already flush, I hear his voice utter a bolder tone, wrinkles are no more seen on his brow, and not a solitary tear traces a lonely way down his cheek, for Patience and Mirth are before him. At their salutary approach, the troop of cares, the family of pain fly disconsolate, and free the vacant heart, from their torturing sway. Gentle and benignant spirits, meekest pa­tience, and chirping mirth, whether my cottage is unroofed by the storm, or my couch thorned by dis­ease, whether friends grow lukewarm, or lovers be [Page 33] put far away let your gay forms appear and the load of life will no more be irksome. For well I know your pleasing arts. I well remember your nume­rous topics of consolation, your music, your song, your carlessness, Mirth, and Patience, your philos­ophy and resignation. Sorrow, as the wise son of Sirach, tells us, may kill many, but ye can make alive: Come then to the unfortunate, and let the adverse hour be your favorite hour of visitation.

"Watchmen, what of the night?"

TO this query of Isaiah the watchmen makes I think but a simple reply; and tells the prophet what, if he had the least smattering of astronomy, he must have well known before, "That the morning com­eth, and also the night." Any old Almanac could have said as much. I think that night, however sooty and illfavoured it may be pronounced by those who were born under a day star, merits a more par­ticular description. I feel particularly disposed to arrange some ideas in favour of this sable season.— I know that the majority are litterally blind to its merits, they must be prominent indeed to be discer­ned by the closed eyes of the snores, who think that night was made for nothing but sleep. But the student and the sage are willing to believe that it was formed for higher purposes; and that it not only recruits exhausted spirits but sometimes in­ [...]orms inquisitive, and amend wicked ones.

It is a moral duty to succour the neglected and [...]esolate. It is not duty perhaps, so much as inclina­ [...]ion, which urges the Lay Preacher to sermonize, while others slumber. To read numerous volumes [Page 34] in the morning, and to observe various characters at noon will leave but little time, except the night to digest the one, or speculate upon the other.— The night therefore, is often dedicated to composi­tion, and while the light of the pale plannets discov­ers, at his desk the Preacher, more wan than they, he may be heard repeating emphatically with Dr. Young, ‘"Darkness has much Divinity for me."’ He is then alone, he is then at peace. No compan­ions near, but the silent volumnes on his shelf, no noise abroad, but the click of the village clock, or the bark of the village dog. The Deacon has the [...] smoked his sixth, and last pipe, and asks not a ques­tion more, concerning JOSEPHUS, or the Church-Stillness then aids study, and the Sermon proceeds. Such being the obligations to night, it would be un­grateful not to acknowledge them. As my watch­ful eyes can discern its dim beauties, my warm heart shall feel and my prompt pen shall describe the use [...] and the pleasures of the nocturnal hour.

Watchmen, what of the night? I can with pro­priety, imagine this question addressed to myself, I am a professed Lucubrator, and who so well quali­fied to deliniate the sable hours, as ‘"A meagre, muse rid mope, adust and thin."’ However injuriously night is treated by the [...] moderns, the vigilence of the ancients could n [...] overlook its benefits and joys. In as early a recor [...] as the book of Genesis, I find that Isaac, thoug [...] he devoted his assiduous days to action, reserve [...] speculation till night. "He went out to meditat [...] in the field at the eventide." He chose that sad that solemn hour, to reflect upon the virtues of [...] beloved and departed mother. The tumult an [...] glare of the day suited not with the sorrow of [...] soul. He had lost his most amiable, most genuin [...] [Page 35] friend, and his unostentatious grief was eager for privacy and shade. Sincere sorrow rarely suffers its tears to be seen. It was natural for Isaac to se­lect a season to weep in, which would resemble the color of his fate. The darkness, the solemnity, the stillness of eve were favorable to his melancholy purpose. He forsook therefore the busting tents of his father, the pleasant "south country" and "well of Lahairoi," he went out and pensively meditated on the eventide.

The Grecian and Roman Philosophers firmly be­lieved that "the dead of midnight is the noon of thought." One of them is beautifully described by the Poet, as soliciting knowledge from the skies, in private and nightly audience, and that neither his theme nor his importunity were forsaken till the sun appeared and dimmed his "nobler intellectual beam." We undoubtedly owe to the studious nights of the ancients most of their elaborate and immortal productions. Among them it was neces­sary that every man of letters should trim the mid­night lamp. The day might be given to the Forum or the Circus, but the night was the season for the statesmen to project his schemes, and for the Poet to pour his verse. Night has likewise with great reason been considered in every age as the ostrono­mer's day. Young observes with energy, that "an [...] [...]vout astronomer is mad." The privilege of contemplating these brilliant and numerous myriads [...] planets which benifit or bedeck our skies is pecul­lar to night, and it is ou [...] duty, both as lovers of moral and natural [...]auty, to bless that season, when we a [...] indulged with such a gorgeous display of glittering and useful light. It must be confessed that the seclusion, calmness, and tranquility of mid­night is most friendly, to serious and even airy [Page 36] contemplations. Milton, in one of his poems, says fervently,

But the night is not only propitious to specula­tive, but likewise to gay and social men. Even the rigid Dr. Johnson was so convinced that late hours were auxiliary to the feast of reason and the flow of soul, that he used to declare "no man, but a scoun­drel went to bed before midnight." This expres­sion was perhaps too strong, and he would not have used it, had he lived in a farm house. But his love of the conversation of men of letters and his experi­ence that fancy is generally most wakeful, when dulness sleeps, tempted him to employ a phrase which must startle every labourer, who, by mere lassitude of limb is compelled early to retire.

But night is friendly to playful no less than to met­aphysical, and abstract thought, not only the author and statesman watch, but likewise the sons of socia­bility and glee. Those, who eat "the bread of carefulness," go soon to bed, to digest their meal, and leave the darkened hours to be enjoyed by men of genius, or wasted by men of pleasure. St. Paul avers that they that be drunken are drunken in the night, and I know that its broad mantle is frequent­ly employed to cover excess from the world. Still, the arrival of night is greeted by many, who wish neither to sleep nor drink it away. Conversation often holds a levee at midnight, and wit and senti­ment and song like the Fairies, assemble and sport before the cock crow. I think it treason to this sable power, who holds divided empire with day [Page 37] constantly to shut our eyes at her approach.— To long sleep, I am decidedly a foe. As it is ex­pressed by a quaint writer, we shall all have enough of that in the grave. Those who cannot break the silence of night by vocal throat or eloquent tongue may be permitted to disturb it by a snore. But he, among my readers, who possesses the power of fan­cy and strong thought, should be vigilant as a watch­man. Let him sleep abundantly for health, but sparingly for sloth. It is better sometimes to consult a page of phylosophy than the pillow.

"Doest thou well to be angry for the gourd?"

OR to fret, at any of the petty accidents of life? Thou discontented mortal, undoubted des­cendant from Jonah, and his peevish tribe, why dost thou suffer a cloud to gather on they brow, be­cause there is a little one, no bigger than a man's hand, rising in the sky? Be serene thyself, and it will import little whether it remains or blows.

Of all vile habits, that of fretfulness is the least tolerable. Many offensive things, which vulgar people do, are sometimes laid aside, and their neigh­bours are occasionally freed from annoy. But fret­ [...]ness is a kind of perpetual motion, excited no less by a creaking door, than a fit of the gout. It is a voracious monster, and feeds upon minute as well [...] vast vexation. Let us strive, therefore to pluck off this blister from the heart, and, even in the hot­test, and the most oppressive days of life, care not whether the shelter of a "gourd" be extended over us, or taken away. I have always grieved over since the schoolmistress bid me read, with a loud voice, Jonah's journey to Ninevah, that the pro­phet [Page 38] should chafe, like the rouzed brute of the forest, because a gourd, a short lived plant of the night had wilted. It appears to me, even if the su [...] beat fiercely upon his head, and the east wind blew sharply upon his breast, that the prophet migh [...] have found so much alleviation of his misfortunes in beholding "sixteen thousand" people, and "a [...] so much cattle" spared from destruction that a dea [...] "gourd" would not give him the spleen. I canno [...] help feeling a degree of indifference, and perhaps aversion towards this fretting messenger to th [...] Ninevites. I have a profound respect for all, an [...] a warm affection for most of the other prophets▪ Many were courtly, as well as ingenious writers▪ I admire the sublimity of Isaiah, the sensibility o [...] Jeremiah, and the generous zeal of Ezekiel. Eve [...] the lowly Amos, the herdman of Tekoah, thoug [...] the narrowness of his education has induced a de­gree of rudeness in his writings, still I believe to be as honest a prophet, as ever uttered a prediction. But as for Jonah, setting aside his disobedience▪ selfishness, and vanity, he was so sulky, and so morose a mortal that I could never like his charac­ter, or his principles. I am not so uncharitable, as to wish that he had actually been digested by the whal [...] which swallowed him, but he ought to have kept n [...] better company; for not the "great Leviathan" [...] the deep ever floundered more impatiently in [...] element, than discontented Jonah, in the voyage [...] life.

On a review of what I have thus far written, [...] believe that there is no occasion to look so far ba [...] as the history of an ancient prophet for an instance [...] anger employed upon trifles. If I should lift th [...] window sash of my study, I should discern, who [...] companies fretting and fuming for the "gourd."

Walking in a studious mood, by the side of [...] [Page 39] neighbour's garden fence, I observed him stamp­ing upon the ground with such disorder, that I con­cluded he was in convulsions, or practicing a dance of St. Vitus. Humanity urged me towards him and I meditated medical rather than moral aid. But to my eager question of "what aileth thee," he replied to my astonishmant, that the bugs had blighted all his Cucumbers, and was not that enough to make a wise man mad? I endeavoured to com­pose his perturbated spirits, and quoted to him Se­neca upon tranquility of mind, and part of one of Raffi's homillies, but all in vain. He appeared to be possessed; and it required an abler exorcist than myself to drive his Devil away. I retired and, thinking of Jonah and his "gourd" could not help allegorizing a little in Bunyan's manner. My neighbour Irritable's forefathers, quoth I, probab­ly cultivated cucumbers without the wall of Nine­vah; they fretted when the fruit was cut off, and my worthy friend here, I find has not yet been cured of the family taint!

"And he said unto me—what seest thou?—And I said A BASKET OF SUMMER FRUIT."

IN every annual revolution there are certain pe­riods, at which men indulge ideas of association, whence they may derive, either the pleasant or the profitable. Thus, the gradual approach of cheer­ful spring, the youth of the year, naturally induces us to speculate upon the youth of human life: The naked boughs and dropping leaf of the autumnal tree remind us of mortal decay. On the first of January we ponder on the past, and project for the [Page 40] future: By the command of custom, we note the an­niversary of our birth, and, by the command of the law, times to weep and to laugh we observe with re­ligious solemnities.

These periodical habits are of peculiar utility, and deserve to be studiously cherished. They be­get serious reflection and communion with one's self. They suggest at least, plans of reformation. "In castle building," as a sagacious philosopher has re­marked, "no man is a villian." Though our inten­ded good deeds terminate, as they began, in reverse▪ still it is better for our thoughts merely to hover round the temple of virtue than to be utterly stag­nant. Among the forcible arguments ingeniously urged, by the pious advocate for the observance of the sacred day, that is not the least impressive, which proves that by going melancholly to church we shall at length, go religiously there.

For these and other reasons, a s [...]mon on the sea­son may be useful. Whatever recalls man from low cares to extended views, whatever rouzes in­sensibility and exites to gratitude, and a love of na­ture is surely meritorious. The Lay Preacher, since the commencement of his weekly labors, has seen, and has attempted to moralize the natural op­erations of January, of May, and of June. The beginnings and middle of a favored year have passed in review before him; but the rich maturity re­mains to be considered and extolled. Though the curious and dissipated of our cities boast of their ex­pensive exhibitions; though, with rapture, they gather round the tortured quadrupedes of Lailson and of Rickets, still there are "sights," easily and cheaply to be seen; which are incomparably mor [...] amusing and gorgeous. To the buteous SHOW of the season, men and brethren, you are invited, not by the advertisements of an adventurer, not by a [Page 41] jugglers devices, but by the voice of Nature. Her tickets are inscribed on the green leaf, and the corn blade, and her spacious amphitheatre is open to you without a see. All may now, discern in reality, what the prophet saw, in the obscurity of a vision "A basket of s [...]mmer fruit," ripe and plenteous, testifying the goodness of the year, and crowning it with gladness.

Spring and Summer are periods of expectation. The [...]armer beholds the corn fall into the bosom of the ground, and the young shoots rise, but all is uncertainty, till the produce is gathered into the garner. Many an anxious look is cast up to the va­rying sky, lest the former and latter rain should too scantily, or too copiously descend, lest the sun should too fiercely glow, or mildewing vapour float, on vegetation. But, when the grass is dryed and secu­red, when the mellow fruit of the orchards is melting into his casks, and the harvest moon lights his reap­er to the last wheat sheaf, then is solicitude appeas­ed, and he, exultingly, exclaims "I have finish­ed."

The present, is the very period, in which harvest that "consummation" so "devoutly to be wished" by every husbandman, takes place. Of those di­vines, who use themselves to preach occasional ser­mons, I percieve it is the practice, to paint, and to praise the benefits of that particular year, in which eulogium is composed. But although of the nume­rous good days which happy Americans have reck­oned, those, which compose the current year, have shone among the fairest, yet, it is not the design of this discourse to speak only of the fruit basket of the present season. Our baskets are always full, ours are those regular alterations of heat and moisture, which beget plenty to the husbandman, for we have [Page 42] "a south land," and "springs of water," we have the "upper and the nether springs."

At all times, America seems a privileged quarter of the globe. "Fruit" ever abounding, subject to no tithe, and eaten in tranquility marks our happy dis­tinction. These topicks being slightly considered, the patience of the reader shall be relieved by the close of the sermon.

Whatever historical volumes, or system of ge­ography we peruse, we find that most countries are exposed either to baleful vicissitudes of climate, or the capricious violence of tempest, drought, or inun­dation. In the hallowed volume, almost every verse allusive to the natural history of Palestine, in old time, contains some memorial of the irregularity of its seasons. Agreeably to modern travellers, the inhabitants of many parts of the East, still smart un­der the scourge of the elements. In Syria, rain is not witnessed, for months, and who has not heard of the scorching sands of Arabia? The Nile, the grand fertilizer of Egypt, like an over fond parent, sometimes smothers the object which it cherishes.— Cairo the mart of nations, sometimes bemoans in dust, her scanty harvests. ‘"And Mecca, saddens at their long delay."’ If we survey regions of happier temperature, still the journals of their weather mark extreme varia­ableness, and, in many years, their "baskets of sum­mer fruit" are not high piled. We can scarcely look at a paragraph of foreign news in our Gazetts, without remarking a melancholly narrative of the scarcity of corn, and of a famished populace, clamo­ring for bread. But why▪ my countrymen do you suf­fer these calamities? What year is of such Egyptian sterility, that ye can be asked the question, proposed to the prophet, in my text, and not answer, like him? The rains do not descend, nor the floods come [Page 43] in such torrents, as to drown our plains. The green corn is not burned by vertical sun beams, nor overthrown by a mighty wind. The fields regular­ly yield meat; and, in our Samaria, there is no gate, where the portress is Famine.

When the harvests of America are ripe for the sickle, the product is completely ours without de­duction. According to Brydone, a lazy lording eats what the slavish Secillian peasant has sown. But here, no Melchizidek claims a tithe. The moderate taxes of a Federal government wring not a penny from the farmer. Lolling luxury is excised for its Coach, but the Plough and the Cart go [...]ree.

To close the enumeration of our blessings, we pluck our full ears, and we eat them, in safety. In France, the "dogs of war," have trampled the vines of Champagne, and weeping Flanders has ex­changed the tilled for the "tented field." But thanks to our supreme Guardian—thanks to Wash­ington, and the "peace makers," we behold the "baskets," the orchards, the vales of "summer fruit" and not a single pike, not a distant gleam of horrid steel mars the view. Fortunate America, like Israel of old, you "dwell in safety, alone," your "heavens drop down dew," and your "fountain is upon a land of corn."

"I hear that there be divisions among you, and I part­ly believe it."

IN the social state, obviously framed for the pro­motion of the common good, a credulous man might suppose that there would be no divisions— But this mistake, observation if she had only half an [Page 44] eye, and peeped with that through a gl [...]ss darkly, would correct. Where only two or three are ga­thered together, some unsocial, malevolent passion will start up, and forbid their unanimity. But in great and political bodies, among old and rival na­tions, opinions being as numerous as the individuals who harbour them, there the clash of faction an [...] the clash of swords will be so often heard that there will be no room left to doubt "divisions."

I believe that I have, somewhere, hinted to my readers that a newspaper lies occasionally on my ta [...]ble.. But I survey that weekly map of human life more with the feelings of a moralist than of a poli­tican, and shed tears, rather than wine at the intel­ligence of a victory. If the public papers recorded the happy marriage, and not the sudden death, if they painted the tranquility of a Federal, and no [...] the turbulence of a French, government, every son o [...] sensibility would peruse them with rapture. But, especially, at this jarring period, when our ears ring with "the worlds debate," it is most painful to turn over pages, which, crowded with recitals of battles▪ sieges, assassination and slaughter are nothing more than the records of animosity. The old world i [...] rent in pieces by "division." Nothing but "wars" and "fightings" can satisfy the restlessness of France, the pride of England and the stately ambi­tion of Germany. In France there is jangling in the cabinet, as well as the shock of hostile lances in the field. How many wise, how many virtuou [...] men have felt the edge of a revolutionary axe, b [...]cause they differed in sentiment from a revolution [...]ary tribunal. How many Brittons have found un­timely deaths in the dykes of Flanders, who migh [...] have been gathered like a shock of corn in his season had not "divisions" among the nations urged the [...] far from peace and the plough. However men ma [...] [Page 45] talk of universal benevolence and the amiableness of the charities of life, yet we hear every day, of division among them, and we are forced fully to believe it. In our own country, though the weap­ons of war are sheathed, yet "divisions," frequent and pernicious like the tares and thorns in the par­ables, arise, and mar the peace of the community.— Among the borders of Pennsylvania, "division" touched with the brand the head of the wisky still and the fiery spirits of insurgency blazed against a government, the first and fairest on the earth. Di­vision has been the President of many a "club" and "self-created society:" a scowling monster, more ugly than the "green dragon," whose den we was wont to haunt. Division has looked askance at the treaty, and has even with audacious front adventur­ed to assail Washington, but he stedfastly smiled and she vanished away.

Men disagree and divide in minute no less than in momentuous questions. My parishoners inform me of various divisions and I partly believe them.— Thus I hear that two young girls of equal preten­sions to wit and beauty, cannot possibly live in friend­ship together, for, like the Caesar and Pompey of Lucian, one cannot bear a rival, and the other is im­patient of a superior. I hear that two neighbour­ing shopkeepers will not even look at each other, nor go to the same tavern, nor walk the same side of a street; all in consequence of an unlucky division. The counties will contend for years, which shall en­joy the privilege of a shire, and where the Court-house shall stand, and thus cut out work for lawyers even before a place is provided for them to wran­gle in. Neighbours will squabble about an old tree and an old horse, and expend 100 dollars in court fees, to determine which shall have the mighty pri­vilege of putting out the fire by piling on the wood [Page 46] of the one, and of having a neck broke by riding the other. But what is a more preposterous division than any yet enumerated, is what is called an ecle­siastical dispute. To such an absurd height has this species of contention been carried, that in despite o [...] the opinion of the saint, that a believing wise may convert an infidel husband, church doors have been shut against a converted female for pairing with [...] unconverted mate. Last of all, to end this disgust [...]ing catalogue of "divisions," christians professing to worship in concert have pulled each other by th [...] [...]eard, in asserting who should be their minister, an [...] have warred furiously to know, where the templ [...] of peace should be erected.

OBIDAH and the HERMIT: An Eastern Tale.

EARLY in the morning, Obidah, the son of A­bensina, left the caravansera, and pursued hi [...] journey through the plains of Indostan; being vig [...]orous with rest, animated with hope, and incited by desire, he walked swiftly forward over the vallies and saw the hills gradually rising before him. A [...] he passed along, his ears were delighted with th [...] song of the bird of Paradise; he was fanned by th [...] last flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled wit [...] dew by groves of spices; he sometimes contempla­ted the towering height of the cedar which ador [...]ed the hills, and som [...]times caught the gentle fr [...]grance of the flowers which enamelled the plains thu [...] all his senses were gratified, and care entire [...] banished from his heart.

[Page 47]In this manner he continued his journey till the sun approached his meridian, and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength; he then looked care­fully round him, to discover some more agreeable and shady path. On his right hand he saw a grove, that seemed to wave its shades, as a sign of invita­tion; he entered it, and found the coolness and ver­dure irrestibly pleasant. He did not, however, for­get whither he was travelling, but found a narrow way bordered with flowers, which appearing to have the same direction with the main road, he was pleas­ed that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite pleasure with his business, and to gain the rewards of diligence, without suffering its fatigues. He, therefore, for a time still continued to walk, without the least remission of his ardor, ex­cept that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the music of the birds, whom the heat had assembled in the shade; and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers which grew on either side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches. At last the green path began to decline from its first direction, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and murmuring with the falls of water. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consi­der whether it were safe for him to forsake any longer the known and open road; but remember­ing that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new path, which he supposed only to make a few meanders, in compliance with the vari­eties of the ground, and to end at last in the com­mon road.

Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pa [...]e, though he suspected he was not gaining ground. The uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and gave way to [Page 48] every sensation that might sooth, or divert him.— He listened to every echo, he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every cas­cade, and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and wa­tered a large region with innumerable circumvolu­tions. In these amusements the hours passed away uncounted, his deviations had perplexed his memory and he knew not towards what point to travel.— He stood pensive and confused, afraid to go forward lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of loitering was now passed. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds, the day vanished from before him, and a sudden tempest gathered round his head. He was now roused from his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of his folly; he now saw how happi­ness is lost when ease is consulted, and lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to seek shel­ter in the grove, and despised the petty cur [...]osity that led him on from trifle to trifle; while he was thus reflecting▪ the air grew blacker, and a clap of thunder broke his meditation.

He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power, to tread b [...]k the ground which he passed, and try to find some issue, where the wood might open into the plain. [...]e prostrated himself on the ground, and commended his life to the Lord of na­ture. He rose with confidence and tranquility, and pressed on with his [...]bre in in his hand, for the beasts of the desart were in motion, and on every hand were heared the mingled howls of [...]age and fear, and ravage, [...]d expiration; all the horrors of dark­ness surrounded him; the winds [...]oared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled fro [...] the hills.

Thus▪ forlorn and distressed, he wa [...]ered through the wild, without knowing whither he was going, [Page 49] or whether he was every moment drawing nearer to safety or distruction. At length not fear but labour began to overcome him; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and he was on the point of ly­ing down in resignation to his fate, when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a taper. He advanced towards the light, and finding it proceed­ed from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude.

When the repast was over, 'Tell me, said the her­mit, by what chance you have been brought hither; I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before.— Obidah then related all the occurrences of his jour­ney, without any palliation.

'Son said the hermit, let the errors and follies, the dangers and escape of this day, sink deep into thine heart; remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour, and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gaiety and diligence, and travel on a while in the straight road of piety, towards the mansions of rest. In a short time we remit our fervour, and endeavour to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the same end. we then relax our vigour, and resolve no longer to be terrified at crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constan­cy, and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigilence subsides; we are then willing to enquire whether another advance cannot be made and whether we may not at last turn our eyes upon [Page 50] the gardens of pleasure; we approach them with scruple and hesitation, we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which we, for a while, keep in our sight, and to which we propose to return. But temptation suc­ceeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness of inno­cence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifica­tions. By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy, till the dark­ness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon ourselves with horror, with sorrow, with repen­tance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they, my son, who shall learn, from thy example, not to despair, but shall remember, that though the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavours ever unassis­ted but the wanderer may at last return after all his errors; and he who implores strength and cou­rage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose; commit thyself to the care of omnipotence, and when the morning calls again to toil, begin a new thy journey and thy life.'

PITY.

When I hear one say to his neighbour in adver­sity, "I am sorry for your misfortunes," it sounds very much, in my ear like, "bring me my slip­pers."

ONE moment's considering of poor feeble man, will remind him that

but I am apt to think that the greatest part of man­kind▪ are very thoughtless, with respect to one of their most material rules of life:—and thereby con­duct their customs and manners, entirely contrary to what the Psalmist will allow of. For my suppo­sing as I do, a number of reasons follow; which to my mind are fully sufficient to prove how thought­less man is that

I frequently see men who have attained to the com­mon age of man, and who to appearance, must soon bid an eternal adieu to this vain world, exert them­selves, and devote all their time, in reaching to grasp the "Root of all evil;" unmindful of the short time they have to remain, where "thiev [...] [...]an break through and steal." Their life like a s [...]adaw flies away; and all their worldly earnings are left be­hind; perhaps to be hoarded up by some other "self-tormentor." When I observe those kind of mortals, I always think that they have forgot "that man must die."

Those classes of people who waste most of their lives in gaining popularity▪ in hopes to be some day or other "great m [...]n," I certainly think, let slip from their mind the idea "that man must die."

[Page 52]Great numbers of parents who now inhabit this changeable world; wrongly preclude their children, from their birth to the age of 21 years, from all kinds of the comforts of this life because they think they are too young, and that when they attain to the age of manhood, a large space of time is before them, for to be occupied with the pleasures which before, were justly due them. These thoughtless people I am prone to think do not recollect "that man must die."

When any person launches into the world and first begins in business, supplies the numberless outlets of Wealth, and thinks that "there is time enough yet" for to add to the capital stock; reason dictates me to say, that such unthinking persons have for­got "that man must die."

When I read of six or seven years bloody war between two nations either to establish or abolish Aristocracy, or to obtain some other worldly end;— I quickly guess that such nations do not think "that man must die."

Frequently we hear mankind planning out some­thing or other for to take place, several years hence, or that they will do so and so, next week, next year, and some times twenty years, without even allowing room for this great proviso "that man must die."

Lastly;—When a young, wealthy couple need­lessly delay entwining themseles with Hymen's bands, who will deny but what they have forgot "that man must die."

MASKS.

Artificial ones are worn by the Venetian ladies: Most of the American wear masks; they are not, however, made of silk, or velvet, or pasteboard.

"Let us get up early."

SOLOMON could hardly have written three thou­sand proverbs and a madrigal to his love, with such wisdom and wit, if he had not by the air and scenery of the morning, corroborated his health and kindled his fancy.—Whether active as a king or indolent as a lover, he perceived that early hours were auxiliary both to business and pleasure, and therefore judiciously advises to rise with the lark.

In our climate, a midsummer morning's dream not SHAKESPEARE himself should be permitted to tell. Blankets and pillows look so dull and warm, and green grass and trees so cheerful and refresh­ing, it is wonderful the sluggard cannot even with half shut eyes, discern such wide extremes, and pre­fer strolling in the fields to tumbling in bed.

But in the course of my parochial visitations, my early tap at many a door is often answered by a voice, exclaiming from behind a curtain; it is the voice of the sluggard. The cock has crowed thrice and certain robbins have sung two hymns and a bal­lad, before half my acquaintance have "girded their loins," buckled their shoes and combed their hair. Yet these creatures, not content with the naps of the night, swathe themselves, like so many Egyptian mummies, in a sheet, four hours after sun rise, and then have the impudence to rise and talk about business, and the beauty of the day.

The princely poet, author of our excellent text, when exhorting to summer enjoyments, points out to the night season, nor to the "inner pavilion" of the palace, but informs us that his "bed is green," and his love displayed in the open air.

The gallant Solomon could invite the blushing belle of Egypt to a morning's stroll into the vine­yards [Page 54] and give her his love, amidst the dews of dawn. Well wert thou called wise, thou gallant prince, if it were only for thy knowledge of the fe­male heart. Well didst thou know that the buds, of beauty, like the blossoms of Shinah, stealing fresh vigor from slumber, expand all their sweetness to the morning ray. In our time the torpid admirer snores, amidst the evening fog, the praises of his mistress, while the sprightly strains of his serenade are obtruded by the thick mists of midnight.

In close parlours and the long winter's eve, we may pore over rent rolls and engross marriage set­tlements. Let the city lover, in cork soalec laces, goloshoes and flannel, court the delicate maiden, in the close cap and comfortable bed gown. But he, that would woo the buxom Health, must ‘"Brush with hasty step the dews away,"’ must not seek thee behind fire screens, or lolling on a sofa, but must erect a lodge in the village; and before the day break, and the shadows flee away, when the rose and the mandrake give a sweet smell, listen for thy jocund song, mingling with the matin of the lark. In lieu of the ticket for the foetid thea­tre, or the card for the crowded ball room, the American lover should bid good morning to his fair one's night cap, and salute her with the early call of arise, my beloved, and come away, for the flow­ers appear on the earth and the time of the singing of the birds is come. Yet modern enamoratos in compliment to the indolent delicacy to the day, shoe their bootees "with felt" and whisper "I charge you, O ye daughters, by the roes and the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up nor awake my love, till she please.

But the morning air breathes not for lovers alone. If the philosopher will arise and meditate [Page 55] at the morning [...]ide, though he may not rival the fame, he may attain the hale old age of FRANKLIN.

The divine by the light of the rising sun, may catch hints from creation, which may serve to raise the affections of his flock to him who divided the light from the darkness.

The merchant who opens his compting house windows to the earliest breath of morn, may per­haps find a reward in the custom of the early pur­chaser.

The lawyer who has groped the preceding day in the intricacies of special pleading, when he views the peaceful face of morning, and is enlightened by the beamy sun, may perchance, from the serenity of the hour be led to con the grateful eulogium of "blessed are the peace makers."

While the blythe husbandman, whom Providence has ordained to mingle pleasure with profit, finds amidst his lowing herds, bleating sheep and flushing fields an excitement to the task of the coming day.

COMMON SENSE, in Dishabille. Win Gold, and wear it.

MANY suppose the plain meaning of this text is, lay your earnings out in clothes; others have thought it referred to gamblers. They would do well to understand it literally. If you have been so unfortunate as to win money at the card table, I should choose to see it sparkling in a pair of paste knee buckles, or dingling in a gold watch chain, or [Page 56] pearl key, rather than trusted again to the disposal of these fickle arbitrators, hearts, diamonds, clubs, and spades. Whatever may be your opinion of law decisions, I verily believe thy money would stand a better chance with lawyer, judge and jury. If gamblers win gold let them wear it. I am inclined to think the sage authors of good old English pro­verbs intended something more here than has been observed. Their adages are brim full of meaning; so full of good wholesome every-day fare, that the sickly stomachs of your Lord Chesterfields, and your humble servant Smokeface, cannot digest them.— But the Prompter, whose writings have a much more conspicuous place in the library of Common Sense than my Lord Chesterfield's, is not so squeam­ish; according to him, "they contain the experi­ence, the wisdom of nations and ages, compressed into the compass of a nut-shell." This, I hope, will be a sufficient apology for my frequent use of those old sayings, homespun expressions, and coarse ideas, so offensive to those, who are "more refined than refinement, more sensible than sense:" or, as I understand it, just as foolish as folly. Now I be­lieve if we crack the shell of this nut I have sent you wrapt up in this sheet of paper, you will find no jest, that will burst your sides with laughter, but this wholesome viand, "Earn industriously, and spend prudently," which will not only afford you nourishment from the first of January to the last of December, but prevent thee from taking a single pill from the doctor, and keep you warm in the coldest winter day. As this is a large mouthful, and so full of nutriment, I advise thee, if thou hast a good store of last year's corn, meat and cider, to lay it by until next week; in the mean time, if I have an hour's leisure, I will set down and pick it [Page 57] to pieces, with my pen, as my manner is, and have it better prepared for thy use.

Earn industriously, and spend prudently.

THIS is the construction Common Sense is pleas­ed to put upon my last week's text. If the interpretation seems too rigid, and bears too hard upon your pride and vanity, it is only to qualify you to enter the "little end of the horn," with a good grace, that you may find the cornucopia at the other. Clerical method would divide my lecture into two heads; the division is natural; I will follow it.— First, Earn industriously. When the sun has begun his daily task, expanded the flowers and set all the busy agents of vegitation to work, if these do not afford you a sufficient stimulus to industry, walk out to your bee hive: these little laborers shall preach you a better sermon against indolence than you will often hear from the pulpit. If, after observing their activity and oeconomy fifteen minutes, you do not profit by the lecture, let them sting you for a drone. "Spend prudently." Never lay out more at the tavern, after sun set, than you have earned, before sun rise; nor even that, if your last year's taxes are not crossed out from the collector's book. Dress in homespun three years, and if vanity or de­cency require, you may wear superfine the fourth. What folly lays out in sheepskin gloves in ten years, if managed by prudence, might fill a small purse — Are not white dollars worth more to a farmer than white hands? If your finances are small, be not am­bitious of walking up three pair of stairs. A second story has often proved an introduction to the gaol. A humble cottage is a good beginning. Enter at the "little end of the horn," and you may see, a [...] the other, an elegant house, large enough for the [Page 58] thrifty farmer. Check fancy; exercise your judg­ment, learn her character, find out her disposition, prove her oeconomy—Whose?—The woman's you intend for a wife. Remember she is to be the stew­ard of your house, the governess of your children, and the very key to your strong box.

"Then went Sampson to Gaza, and saw there an harlot."

STRONG as he was, such a journey debilitated him. It was not the length of the way from Timnah; it was not the rugged road, nor the irk­someness of a hard trotting mule; it was not a stroke of the sun, nor a bleak air that shook the nerves, and prostrated the life of Sampson; for not one of these circumstances is ever glanced at by the historian; no, he saw, in one of the stews of Gaza, a venal beauty and was undone. His wit evapora­ted, his wisdom turned babbler, he lost his vigilance, his eyes and his life.

One licentious indulgence excites to another. The blandishments of his courtezan allured to the cells of the whole sisterhood. He lays his head in the lap of voluptuousness, and gives full scope to criminal desire. For it came to pass afterwards, that he loved a woman in the valley of Sorek, whose name was Delilah.

Let us ponder a little the history of these unlucky amours. A sketch of the wars and vicissitudes of passion is of more interest than the narrative of a battle or siege, or the annals of an empire.

To display a striking, as well as useful contrast, [Page 59] it may be correct to view Sampson, before he enter­ed the gates of Gaza, and after his acquaintance with two bad women.

His first was by no means a love adventure. It was in the style of chyvalry without a damsel. Lurking in the vines of rude territory, a lion roared against our juvenile hero, who as it is in a lively man­ner expressed, rent his verocious adversary, as he would have rent a kid. A bold encounter, but not half so dangerous as the smiles of the lady in the valley of Sorek. Mere brute force, however was not the sole attribute of Sampson. For seven days he tortures the ingenuity of thirty friends to re­solve an enigma. He had the palm of wit and the chaplets of victory; by his art he destroys the pro­perty, and by his arm the life of his enemies. Not only the family of his father, Manoah, but the whole circumjacent region must have rung with the praises of this youth of promise; and even indiffer­ent men, and abstract reasons would alertly from such imposing premises draw the happiest conclusion.

But behold how, in one hour, so great riches come to nought. Thus far, what a tissue of brilliant atchievments do we admire! The next scene is madly mortifying. In the very summer of the en­suing page of his story what are the humiliating particulars of his downfall? Sampson, the valiant, the witty and the wise, is the dupe of female jug­glers; is enticed; is overcome. In the arms of a "twining Lais" of the Philistines, his superna­tural strength melts away. He awakes out of his lethargy of pleasure, and hopes to go out, as at other times, rejoicing in his might. But the ener­gy of the soul is no more. He, whom once nothing could restrain, is bound. He grinds in the prison house, and dwindled into a buffoon, is invested with his motley to amuse the rabble.

[Page 60]In the life of this extraordinary personage it is a matter of regretful speculation that the field of ho­nor should be changed for the valley of Sorek. Hence an abundant crop of evil. It was not the Philistines, it was impure passion that extinguished the discernment of Sampson. He never saw any object clearly, after he went to Gaza, and saw an harlot. It is true, he saw Delilah, but probably, through the obscurity of nocturnal hours. Of her arts, of her perils, he surely ha [...] but an imperfect vision. Hood winked by pleasure, [...]e could not see the seven locks of his head, scattered on the toilet of a woman. The scissars of a gypsey proved shar­per than the sword of enemies; and the flowing hair of the hero, once covered with laurel, is now tortured into meretricious ringlets, or periwigs some pimp in Delilah's antichamber.

Genius, said the amiable clergyman, with whom I studied divinity, is invariably connected with strong passions. When men, exquisitely organized, indulge pleasure, it is with that species of fervour, noted in the oriental page—it is with all their hearts, and with all their soul, and with all their strength, and with all their mind. The insensible lounger, the self engrossed coxcomb, may sleep upon the knees of Delilah, and wake again to puny life. But of that opiate of joy, of that golden cup of abomina­tion, which the harlot presents, if you sip, man, of feeling, you will "drain the chalice to the lowest and foulest dregs." Keep the high and safe ground;—beware of sliding down the slope of plea­sure. It conducts you to some vale of Sorek, be­neath whose roses are the serpent and the dagger. Go up to Parnassus and see the muse—An excur­sion to Gaza to see a mortal beauty, is not half so exhilerating.

"G [...]ve no man any thing."

BUT, says the man of trade, "credit is the life of business." The man of much splendor also exclaims, "it is the support of elegance, taste and fashion; and if we owe no man any thing, what will become of our elegant buildings; and to whom would belong our wares and merchandize?" To him, who earned them by early rising and the sweat of his brow.

"I don't like the text, sir, and it is nothing less than sedition to preach it"—whistles through his pipes one, who carries a barber's shop on his head, and a pedlar's wares at his heels. Poor simpling, Beri Hesden pities thee, and the spirit of charity bids him turn from thee and pass on to his labors. Eve­ry man must get a living—and he will get a living, says the preacher—(Yorick is dead, and Beri Hesden will use as many ifs as he pleases)—if he works by the rule of honesty, squares his labors by conscience, and settles his accounts with heaven.

Parson Sly, who is something of a wit, in looking over this part of my ratiocination, observed, "if they find it as hard to settle accounts with hea­ven as we do with them on earth; it will be like the disenchantment of Dulcinea." You must know, gentle reader, that a bunch of parish tax-bills lay uncredited before him.

Owe no man any thing. In this short sentence is found more of the rule of happiness, than in all the ranting of philosophic numskulls, methodist spouters, and theatric madness. The deacon will have it that the congregation, in following this maxim, would not appear half so respectable. The preach­er believes that they would look twice as heavenly; and that the upper galleries would have occupants. Mr. Hodgkinson and Williamson would, without doubt, lose by it, and the venerable bench of law­yers [Page 62] fare less sumptuously. Instead of benefit n [...]ghts and pleas gratis, all would be for the benefit of self good fellowship. There would be no skulk­ing in blind allies to escape Monsieur Catchpole, and avoid the payment of honest debts. Our great men would be dressed in plain suits, eat food more agree­ble to nature, and enjoy much sweeter sleep. Beau­ty would walk forth arrayed in modest garb, and the lovely blush of health would beam rapture to the gazing eye. Your Fanny Williams's would shut up shop, and the simpering beau skulk behind the counter, or retire to the breaking up of clods and [...]apping old soles. The handicraft's-men and daily labourer would carry on business with regularity, return to their houses without the dread of finding their fire places prepared with due bills, or their fine wrought furniture carried off by some sturdy bailiff. Imports would greatly diminish, national debts be cancelled, and the olive-tree shade the empire of man. The splendour of unfeeling pride would be transformed, by the wand of equity, to simplicity of manners▪ and humble demeanour. The plough would glitter in the field, the wilderness blossom like a garden and the craggy shores echo peace and happiness to the roaring ocean.

This—owe no man any thing, put into practice (by way of anti [...]lima [...]) would save many a fat landlady the trouble of being eternally at the tap; and her smoaking helpmate the disagreable task of chalking down and rubbing out. Laughing John the plough­man, and funny D [...]k the tinker, would cease trav­elling from town to town but sing more merrily and clasp with heart [...]er glee their jolly brothers. Even the toping sexton would not deny that the fashion­able practice of living upon tick had deprived many a poor sinner of sound sleep and old friends. It has [Page 63] done more mischief to agriculture, commerce and the fine arts, than all the yellow fevers and French quarrels can to America.

ON JUSTICE.

WE shall mention the most likely means of paying what we owe. The first means is diligence in business. Most men depend on business for an honest livelihood; and it is Paul's be not slothful in business. Make no unnecessary delay, nor set about it with a slack or an unskilful hand. A due distribu­tion of time and labor, and a punctual adherence to it, are means of diligence. Yield not to langor nor the importunity of companions, nor to a taste for any pleasure, however innocent, so far as to break an engagement, or neglect the duties of your professi­on. Seest thou a man diligent in his business, he shall stand before kings.

It is agreeable to kings and great men to have their commands obeyed, and their business done without delay. They may prefer the c [...]pany of one that is slothful and social, but they empl [...]y a man diligent in business. The hand of the diligent maketh rich. There are few professions, where the reward is not an exact proportion to diligence. Servants of the state and of the church have usually a fixed sal­ary.

If a sense of duty cannot influence them▪ they might consider that diligence is a mean of adv [...] ­ment, and extreme negligen [...] of degrad [...]tion: If negligence be indulged, it w [...] soon grow ex [...].

They might consider further▪ that a habit of [...] attention to the duties of th [...]r [...] will grad [...]lly extend to their domestic as [...], and all w [...]ll go [...] disorder.

[Page 64]The second mean of paying what we owe i [...] frugality, or the avoiding of expence whenever it can possible be avoided. Many trades depend on small profits, and the ordering a household is a detail of min­ute particulars He that despiseth small things shall fall by little and little. They who have families, and a growing expence, must study to regulate it so as to render to all, their due. It is one of the duties of marriage to unite in this study. Of a vir­tuous woman it is said, the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her. While providing for his family abroad, he trusts to her frugal management at home. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life. Her frugality is not suspended by fits of sloth, nor frustrated by fits of extravagance. She looketh well to the ways of her household, takes the charge and oversight of every thing with a skilful and watchful eye. She worketh with her hands, neither eating the bread of idleness herself nor allowing her children and domestics to eat it. She maketh fine linen and she sel­leth it; whatever is not needed for her family she turns to account by merchandize.

She considereth a field and buyeth it, she makes a purchase with du [...] consideration and suffers not the loss nor discredit of a foolish bargain. She planteth a vineyard with the fruit of her hand, with what she has gained by industry.

The MORALIST.

HEALTH is so necessary to all the duties, as well as pleasures of life, that the crime of squandering it is equal to the folly; and he that for a short gratification brings weakness and disease up­on himself, and for the pleasure of a few years pass­ed in the tumults of diversion and clamors of meri­ment, condemns the maturer and more experienced part of his life to the chamber and the couch, may be justly reproached, not only as a spendthrift of his own happiness, but as a robber of the public; as a wretch that has voluntarily disqualified himself for the business of his station and refused that part which Providence assigns him, in the general task of hu­man nature. There are very few conditions more to be pitied than that of an active and elevated mind, laboring under the weight of a distempered body; the time of such a man is always spent in forming schemes, which a change of wind hinders from exe­cuting, his powers fume away in projects and in hope, and the day of action never arrives. He lies down, delighted with the thoughts of to-morrow, pleases his ambition with the fame he shall acquire, on his benevolence with the good he shall bestow.— But, in the night, the skies are overcast, the temper of the air is changed, he wakes in langour, impa­tience and distraction, and has no longer any wish, but for ease, nor any attention but for misery. It may be said that disease generally begins that equal­ity, which death completes; the distinctions, which set one man so much above another are very little perceived in the gloom of a sick chamber, where it will be vain to expect entertainment from the gay, or instruction from the wise, where all human glory is obliterated, the wit is clouded, the reasoner per­plexed and the hero subdued; when the highest and brightest of mortal beings finds nothing left him, but the consciousness of innocence.

OCTOBER.

THE great business of nature, with respect to the vegetable creation, at this season is dissem­ination. Plants having gone through the progres­sive stages of springing, flowering and seeding, have at length brought to maturity the rudiments of a future progeny, which are now to be committed to the fostering bosom of the earth. This being done, the parent vegetable, if of the herbaceous kind, either totally dies, or perishes as far as it rose above ground: if a tree or shrub, it loses all its tender parts which the Spring and Summer had put forth. Seeds are scattered by the hand of nature in various manners. The winds which at this time arise, dis­perse far and wide many seeds which are curiously furnished with feathers or wings for this purpose. Hence plants with such seeds are, of all, the most universally to be met with; as dandelion, ground­sel, ragwort, thistles, &c. Other seeds by the means of hooks, lay hold of passing animals, and are thus carried to distant places. The common burs are examples of this contrivance. Many are con­tained in berries, which being eaten by birds, the seeds are discharged again uninjured, and grow where they happen to light. Thus carefully has nature provided for the distribution and propagation of plants.

The gloom of the falling year is in some measure enlivened, during this month especially, by the va­riety of colours, some lively and beautiful, put on by the fading leaves of trees and shrubs.

To these temporary colours are added the more durable ones of ripen'd berries, a variety of which now enrich our hedges.

The common martin, whose nests, hung under the eaves of our houses, afford so agreeable a spec­tacle of parental fondness and assiduity, usually dis­appears in October.

ON EDUCATION.

THE improvement of the mind, has ever been observed by the judicious, to be one of the no­blest employments of an intelligent being: Not on­ly because this part constitutes the true dignity of man; but because by such pursuits, the rational soul receives the most sublime and permanent ideas. The mind of man may be compared to a garden overspread with noxious weeds; which, however luxuriant the soil, will strike the eye with a piteous show of wretchedness, unless we apply the sk [...]lful hand. To see the fatal effects arising for the want of rightly improving the mental powers, cast your eye upon the human race, and take a view of certain [Page 69] societies and individuals among men.—Behold the tawny savage! To what cause shall we impute his inhuman cruelties and want of sensibility? Is it not to this? His not cultivating and calling into exer­cise the softer feelings of the soul.

View the intemperate infamous sot, sunk below the common herd of the plain. And why? Be­cause his reason is sacrificed to his passion and his passion controled by his appetite.

Why does the griping miser live an hermit, and pine away over his delicious hoard? Because, blind­ed by ignorance and sordid passion, he views the means of happiness as the object itself.

O education! by thy auspicious aid, the mind is freed from baneful weeds; it is the influence of thy beams, which nourishes the young and tender plants, and brings them to maturity.—To thy shrine permit us to fly for redress of the many ill construct­ed and effeminate ideas instamped upon our minds from our early infancy.—Permit us under thy protec­tion, to improve the talents put into our hands, in a manner which shall be most conducive to our own interest, and beneficial to community. May the ge­nerous efforts of the patrons and promoters of sci­ence in our land, still continue to be successful, still encouraged to

THE ARGANUM OF THE COLLEGE.

"MY father desired me, Sir, to ax you, said a physical disciple to a certain eminent phar­macopolist, "that I might attend you to all your patients, as you know, Sir, it is the last year of my time"—"You shall, Bob, you shall," replied the master; "Come, get your hat." They entered the sick man's chamber, and the usual circumstan­ces [Page 70] occurred, such as feeling the pulse, &c. After assuming an appearance of profound thought, the vender of galenicals told the wife of the sick man, with much gravity that her husband was in extreme danger, and that she had contributed to his malady by giving him oysters. The woman imagined the apothecary dealt with the devil, at last owned the fact—When they had quitted the house, Bob en­quired with much earnestness of his master, how he could possibly know that the patient had eaten oy­sters— "You foolish boy," replied the other, "I saw some shells under the bed." The next time Bob went alone, and returned to his master with a ghastly visage, and told him the patient was dead by eating a horse—"A horse, Bob," rejoined the Esculapian chief, "how do you know that?" "Oh, easy enough, Sir—I looked under the bed, and saw a bridle and saddle!"

Why a GARDENER is the most extraordinary Man in the World.
ADDRESSED TO A LADY.

BECAUSE no man has more business upon EARTH, and he always chuses good GROUNDS for what he does. He commands his THYME, he is master of the MINT, and fingers PENNY-ROYAL. He raises his CELERY every year, and it is a bad year indeed that does not bring him a PLUMB. He meets with more BOUGHS than a minister of state. He makes more BEDS than the French king, and has in them more PAINTED LADIES. He makes RAKING his business more than his diversion, as many other gentlemen do; but makes it an advan­tage to his health and fortune, which few others do. His wife has enough of LAD'S LOVE, and HEART'S EASE, and she never wishes for WEEDS. Distem­pers fatal to others never hurt him: he walks the better for the GRAVEL, and thrives most in a CON­SUMPTION. His greatest pride, and the world's greatest envy is, that he can have YEW when he pleases.

DESCRIPTION OF A WOMAN.

THE AUCTIONEER.

A FINE Woman for sale—who buys—will you make us a bid gentlemen—one of the best of women—She will do you good and not [...]vil, all the days of her life—She seeketh we [...]l and flax and worketh willingly with her hands—Bid my dear friends, if you would make a fortune, bid or she's gone—and you shall [...] l [...]k upon her like again. Solomon, that Auct [...] [...] of old, who bought and sold so many women, s [...]ys her pri [...] i [...] far above r [...]ies—will you not bid—way do you despise her clothing because it is the work of her own hands?—alas, my friends, you do [...]t know the value of her—I will cry her [...]— [...]nd her back—I will keep her for my­s [...]lf.— [...], my friends, is an article which will [...]— [...]— [...]—make us a bid—"One hu [...]dred [...]o [...]lars," one hundred dollars, once—"two hundr [...]d d [...]llars"—"three hundred dollars," three hundred dollars, once—twice—bid or she is go [...]e— a fine [...]cle— [...] dr [...]p as an [...] [Page 75] her mouth is sweeter than oil—"four hundred dol­lars," four hundred, once—"five hundred dol­lars," five hundred dollars, once—now is your time —hear her talk—I have decked my bed with covering of tapestry, with carved works and with fine linen— O what a glorious creature—a fine piece of goods this—Come, she says, let us take our fill of love until morning. "A thousand dollars"—one thousand dollars once, twice—I shall cry no more—gone— you have got her, But her end is bitter as worm­wood—her feet go down to death and her st [...]ps take hold on hell.

HOW TO MAKE EXCUSES.

IN forming excuses, according to the common practice, the following rules are to be observ­ed—

1. The same excuses as seldom repeated as pos­sible—

2. That the excuses be as various and as plausible as possible.

3. By way of maxim—every kind and degree o [...] excuse deserves to be tried, because there is much less inconvenience in postponing a debt than in pay­ing it, and the advantages of giving words and part­ing with money are all on the side of the former.

To example these rules permit me to sta [...]e a case. Y. Z. owes me a bill, I sent it in on the first day of July. Now mark the excuses in s [...]ccession.

July 1. "O! this is M— bill, call [...]gain any time next week."

9. "Not at home." When will he be at home. "Any time to-morrow."

10. "Has a gentleman with him." W [...]s [...] hour. "Oh, ah! this is the b [...]ll— [...]—h [...] Look [Page 76] on it Monday." Monday. "Not at home; gone to the courts."

Thursday. "Leave the bill, and I'll look over it."

23. "Just gone out."

29. "I am busy now, tell your master I'll call on him when I go out."

August 16. "Bless me, I quite forgot to call; this bill is not discharged; bring me a receipt any time to-morrow or next day."

17. "Gone to Locan, and wont be at home until next month."

September 12. "What, did I not pay that bill be­fore I went out of town? Are you going farther?" Yes. "Very well as you come back, I'll settle it." Calls and he is gone to dinner at the Rock.

15. "Plague on this bill, I don't believe I have so much cash in the house, can you give me change for a 100l. note?" No. "Then call in as you pass to-morrow."

18. "Not at home."

25. "Appoint a day! d — me, what doe [...] your master mean. Tell him I'll call upon him, and know what he means by such a message."

October 14. "What, no discount?" Sir it has been due this two years.

"There is your money then." These guineas are light. "Then you must call again, I have no loose cash in the house."

And here ends the payment of £9 14 6 with three of the guineas light!

THE MEDDLER.

YOUTH is certainly the season for embracing the golden opportunity of improvement, and tinue to behave to my children with this candor and [Page 77] imbibing principles which will adorn, and g [...]e an useful dignity to the man. The breast free from every inquietude is never exposed to the in [...]ion of those cares, which are the troublesome [...]nts of manhood. It is left at leisure to do good, and apply to those pursuits which w [...]l render their fol­lowers more useful, virtuou [...] and conspicuous actors on the extensive theatre of human life. It is pos­sessed of a sprightly vigor for the attai [...]ment of knowledge, assisted by ambition and a generous, glowing emulation, which animate most strongly to the pursuit. The imagination though not so strong and faithful, is yet more lively and active than in manhood, and better fitted to make its wanton ex­cursions into the fields of science, and cull the choicest flowers they can boast.

As Youth is favoured by Nature with great ad­vantages in the acquisition of knowledge, and great openings for improvement; it is at the same time exposed to frailties and errors, from which a more advanced age is totally exempt.

Through a love of novelty it is prone to [...] every pursuit, and imitate not [...]ore the virtues [...]h [...]n the vices of it associates, and like a mirror re­ceives and reflects wh [...]tever object is before it, whe [...]her the image be inviting by its beauty or for­bidden by its deformity.

The frailty of youth ofte [...] g [...]ves way to vicious [...] wh [...]ch extend their influence to the remotest [...] life. Like cha [...]rs engr [...]ed on the [...]der b [...]k, wh [...]ch open [...]d appear more plain as the tree grows l [...]ger, these ha [...]s will have a m [...]re p [...]lpable and unbecoming appearance as nearer [...]p­pro [...]ches are made to the [...] of l [...]fe. It must certainly b [...] the [...] creature [...] spend the [...] [Page 78] part of the drama, to see that every thing may be properly carried on; for a youth of irregularity en­tails misery on old age, renders it a burden to itself, and to others an object of pity and disgust.

How happy and blissful must be the last days of him whose youth has been spent with propriety.— The review of that part of life which will obtain a smile of applause from the conscience, will enlive [...] the prospect of those fields which are yet to be pas­sed in the journey and make them both pleasing and inviting.

How particularly attentive then should perents be to the junior years of their children—to instil into their minds the principles of virtue and morality and to watch over their actions, and prevent them from too hastily forming puerile connections.

Husbands at home and husbands abroad compared.

IT has often been observed (perhaps with two much justice) that some men who are excellent compar [...]sons abroad, are more serious at home than their families could at all times wish. Many in­stances o [...] the kind [...]t this moment present them­s [...]lves [...]my recollection. Tommy Dobbi [...]s, who i [...] the sprigh [...]he [...] yo [...]g fellow in the world when out among his compa [...]r [...] is as [...]u [...]e as a mac [...]rel in the presence of his wife and children—with his associates, he is all whi [...], ple [...]santry and glee, and his tongue is everlastingly upon duty: with his wil [...] in a domestic [...]te a-t [...], they mutually yawn at each other, a [...]e as p [...]r [...]n onions of their words as if [...] had been [...]mposed upon every syllable. Mrs. Dubb [...] [...] blessed wi [...]h [...] f [...]ulty of [Page 79] speech like the rest of her sex, and is ever ready to exercise her voluble talents; but as [...] deary sel­dom condescends to answer any of her questions, and often reprimands her for her imp [...]ence, she finds it necessary to be as silent as her husband.— During a long winter evening when Tommy had been in one of his most talkative humours at home, twenty words on his part, and seventy on the part of his wife, were as many as ever escaped the lips of this taciturn pair in about three hours and forty five minutes—But though Tommy was so extremely si­lent under his own roof, he was not sulky and mo­rose, as many of this class of husbands are—William Wisdom, for example possesses, in an eminent degree all the sprightly talents of my friend Dobbins, and sets the company in a roar wherever he appears, except at home—But, like a cock upon his own dunghill, he there assumes a magisterial air, and sel­dom deigns to speak without a frown or menace— If Mrs. Wisdom kindly enquires after his heal [...]h, he expresses his astonishment at her impudence, for presuming to trouble him with her nonsense—She asked him one day how he liked a chicken, which he seemed to devour with a keen appetite—"I should l [...]ke it much better, answered the gloomy tyrant, if you would but hold your tongue, and not let me have any of your sauce with it"—Such char­acters as these, and others which resemble them, are more common than is imagined—Many hus­bands seem to think they are submitting to a loss of dignity, if they condescend to talk familiarly and tenderly to a wise, and that it is necessary to assume authoritative airs, that due subordination may be preserved—these men certainly entertain too high an opinion of themselves, or make an improper esti­mate of the consequence of the woman—perhaps both these considerations may operate in puffing up the pomposity of one of these lords of the creation— [Page 80] it is not to wives only that these su [...]len creatures display their heirs; their behaviour to their chil­dren is perhaps as brutal and as unjustifiable, and all without being able to assign a reason for it—On the contrary, they probably entertain the highest esteem and affection for both mother and children, and would execrate any one who should dare to speak disrespectfully of either—at the same time, however, they seem afraid of being suspected to en­tertain a partiality in their favor, by affecting a mo­roseness and severity which disgrace them, when if their real sentiments and feelings were perfectly known, they would appear as amiable at home as they do in their convivial parties.

Without meaning any compliment to myself, give me leave to s [...]ate some accounts of my own con­duct, relative to domestic matters—I have a wife whom I esteem and love; and I have sons and daughters who share my tenderest affection, because they deserve it. I have the pleasure to add, that I have all the reason to imagine they are never hap­pier than in my company—My wife experiences from me all the attention of the lover, all the res­pect which is due from the sincerest friend—I am on such familiar terms with my children, that they treat me with the freedom of a brother, though they venerate me as the best of fathers—instead of look­ing on me with that dread and terror, which severi­ty and sullenness inspire, they make me their confi­dent, and consult me upon all occasions—If I ap­prove their little schemes and projects of amuse­ment, I declare my approbat [...]on in the strongest terms; If they do not perfectly correspond with my ideas of rectitude▪ I admonish them not to prose­cute such pursuits; but this is done with so much gentleness and good nature, that they seem per­fectly convinced of the propriety of [...] conduct, and thank me for my attention to them— [...]hile I con­familiarity, [Page 81] they will conceal nothing from me, they have no secrets among themselves which they should dread to have communicated to me; but the mo­rose father is unacquainted with the plots and con­trivances of a progeny compelled to keep their dis­tance; they fear his disapprobation of the most in­nocent transactions, and therefore keep their coun­cils among themselves, in consequence of which their little foibles grow imperceptibly into vices, from their having no confidence in a father who nipped them in the bud.

MATERNAL ARTIFICE. A TRUE STORY.

TWO young gentlemen of fashion and fortune, students of law, some years ago rented an el­egant double set of chambers, and lived together in Gray's-Inn. The apartments were on the ground floor, and the windows looked into and had an ea­sy communication with the charming garden belong­ing to that ancient seminary. One Sunday morn­ing, being at breakfast, with the window open, they observed a very beautiful young woman in the gar­den, with a child in her arms equally beautiful: she passed them several times, sedate and unobserving, but at length her attractions becoming too irresisti­ble, they spoke to her, and with much earnestness invited her to partake of their breakfast. The beau­tiful nursery maid, however, was inflexible; she re­sisted all intreaties, and in some time retired. For the whole day nothing else was thought of but her, and a thousand schemes devised to entrap her into the chambers.

The next morning, like a bright ray of returning Phoebus, she appeared in her former station, and the hearts of the young heroes felt, with redoubled force, the increasing energies of her charms; invi­tations [Page 82] were reiterated, but she still remained inex­orable, and, as on the preceding morning, left the garden at a particular hour. One of the youths followed, and watched her, but he was observed, and the game evaded his pursuit. In this manner did this extraordinary phoenomenon appear, and tor­ment for several days; until at length it was set­tled that, upon her next visit, one of the youths should contrive to secure the child, and give it in at the window to the other. This scheme was accord­ingly exe [...]uted, on a supposition that the maid, or mother, would soon follow: but alas! the device failed, for from that moment to this, neither maid nor mother ever troubled them with inquiries, or has since been heard of!

In justice to the generosity of these young gen­tlemen, we must not omit, that, having waited until evening with the greatest solicitude, they made the laundress who had [...] the child, pr [...]cure a nurse for it and provide it with necessary accommodation. It is now fourteen years of age, a boy of the most pro­mising part [...], and edu [...]ting, with a view of a liberal profes [...]ion, at one of the first academies in the vicin­ity of the metropolis.