THE FARRAGO.

Nº. IV.

Among the high privileges, which we digressive writers enjoy, may be reckoned that which Don Quixote gave his horse, to choose a path and pursue it at pleasure. In another point there is an affinity between us and that errant steed, so renowned in the volumes of Cervantic chivalry. When we begin an excursion, the Lord only knows how it will be prosecuted, or where it will end. Whim and caprice being commonly our guides, and those personages never keeping in their almanack a list of stages, we are sometimes most sadly benighted. As this is my day for similitudes, I stop not here; having so modestly compared myself and other ramblers to a quadruped, I will descend still lower into “the valley of humiliation,” and liken them to an insect, which is a spider. Though their stock is confessedly small, they have the art of drawing out a most lengthy texture. Thus an essayist, conscious of the scantiness of his stores, handles a topic as a farmer’s wife manages her annual pound of bohea, in such a manner as to make it last.

When I began my second speculation with some general remarks on the utility of an alliance between application and genius, I little thought that I should quit my sober task, and commence character painter. When Fancy handed me a pencil, and bade me sketch the likeness of Meander, I had no design to ransack his room, or transcribe his diary; and lastly, when the journal was published, I tremblingly thought I had said too much, and dreaded lest my readers should complain that they were surfeited by the Farrago. But they who are even tinged with the metaphysical doctrine of ideas flowing in a train, will not be confounded, though they see another speculation rising from the last, when I narrate the following incident. A friend who had attentively gazed at the portrait of Meander, saw me the day after its exhibition. So, Mr. Delineator, cries he, must you become a dauber in caricature? One so fond of the zigzag walk in life as you, is hardly entitled to ridicule deviation in another. I blushed; and the suffusion, like Corporal Trim’s bow, spoke as plainly as a blush could speak, “my man of remark, you are perfectly sage in your opinion.” This trivial circumstance led me to reflect, first on my own inconsistency, and next on that of others. By exposing the rambles of genius I virtually made proclamation for dissipation to depart, but she taxed me with issuing contradictory orders, and pertinently asked how she could go into exile, when I insisted on her keeping me company? I then looked on my neighbours. Their characters were similar to mine, and they wore not the uniform of regularity more than myself. Celia, who murders reputations, as “butcher felleth ox” pronounced, t’other day at a tea-table, a most bitter invective against scandal, though five minutes before she had invented a tale of calumny against her friend. Vafer censorially cautions a young gallant to beware an indulgence of the licentious passion, but forgets, while reading his lecture, that he once was amorous, that he solicited the virgin and the wife, and that, unsatisfied with the ordinary mysteries of intrigue, he elaborately refined on the system of seduction. Vinoso, whose face is as red-lettered as the court calendar, and who makes his Virginia fence at nine in the morning, applauds a very heavy excise on distilled spirits, and zealously damns every drunkard in the nation. Bobbin the haberdasher, who in vending a row of pins, defrauds the heedless customer of four, and who, when furnishing the village lass, with a set of apron-strings, pilfers from her a portion of the tape, exclaims against a vinter for adulterating his liquors, and wittily wonders, that he can adopt the Christian scheme so far, as to baptize even his wine. Messalina, whole chastity is valiant as a holiday Captain because no enemy is at hand, and who produced a lovely pair of twins six months before marriage, frowns at the forwardness of young flirts; and a decayed maiden, “far gone in her wane, Sir,” who has been but twenty these ten years, and who has more wrinkles in her forehead, than dimples on her chin, even she scoffs the vestal sisterhood, and turns up her note at the staleness of antiquated virginity.

In literature, as well as in life, we may recongnize this propensity. Authors are noted for inconsistence. Instances might be selected from almost every writer in our language. Pope, in conjunction with Arbuthnot and Swift, composed a satirical treatise, the design of which was, to lash his poetical brethren for attempting to soar, when their wings only served them to sink. Yet Pope, after some fine panegyrical verses upon Lord Mansfield, fell from a noble height of poetry to the very bottom of the bathos, by concluding his eulogy with the following feeble lines,

Surely this was as risible a couplet of anticlimax, as the distich the bard ridicules, by merely quoting it,

In the works of Swift, who omits no opportunity of damning dullness, may be found some compositions where the disappointed reader, instead of being dazzled with the gleam of fancy, sorrowing sees nothing but the vapid insipidity of a poet laureat’s ode, and eagerly inquires if it be upon record, that Swift ever studied the sing song of Cibber. Knox, a modern and, as he in his wisdom thinketh, a classic writer, censures, in one of his essays, the bombastic style; yet, were his own effusions arraigned in the court of criticism, they would, without any peradventure, be found guilty of turgidity. This pragmatical critic, who heated by high-church zeal, gives Gibbon to the Devil, and his writings to Lethe, presumptuously condemns that elegant historian for super-abundance of epithet, though a reader of Knox would suppose that the favourite page of this pedagogue’s grammar was that which contained the declension and variation of adjectives. Dr. Beattie, in the warmth of his wishes to promote social benevolent affections, almost hates the man, who practices not philanthropy. Rocked in the cradle of the kirk, and implicitly believing all that the nurse and priest had taught him, this presbyterian zealot declaims in terms so acrimonious against the sceptics of the age, that one is led to think his “milk of human kindness,” had became sour by the means he employed to preserve it.

Juvenal, the ancient satyrist, in one of his virulent attacks on the reigning Roman follies, avers that the most profligate of the senate were invariably strenuous advocates for a revival and execution of the obsolete rigid laws against debauchery. The indignant poet declares that if such glaring inconsistencies continue, none could be astonished should Clodius commence railer against libertines, and Cataline be first to impeach a conspirator. Were a name-sake of this bard to arise, I should tremble for the sect of modern inconsistents. He might brandish the lance of satire against such characters with more justice, though perhaps with less dexterity, than his classic predecessor. The field of foibles and follies is so fully ripe, that some one should put in the sickle. In this field appears, and will again appear, a labourer, who though aukward, may be useful, and who will be “worthy of his hire,” if he cut up nothing but tares.

A LETTER OF EXPOSTULATION TO A LADY ON HER MARRIAGE.

Your passion, my dear Mrs. ***, was to be rich, you married a man you despised, and whose intrinsic worth is centured in his wealth: which gave charms even to deformity, transformed Hymen into Mammon, and the god of love into a satyr. Content yourself then with wealth, enjoy it, cultivate your taste for those advantages it can produce; and let these console you for the loss of every thing you have sacrificed for it. Have recourse to the principles of your determination: you had other offers: you have therefore examined, compared, chosen, and regretted. Be firm to this decision of your own judgment, and do not act inconsistently, by repining that you do not possess what you did not purchase. If the vices, if the follies of your husband, should become every day more and more intolerable to you, it will be in vain to regret the tranquility, the peace, the tender affection, endearing attention, or confidential intercourse, which might have distinguished your days, had you been united to a man of merit. In the height of your despair, you exclaim! “Was it for this, my amiable mother nurtured me with such care, and cultivated in me, every idea replete with honour, enlivened by sentiment, and corrected with tenderness? Alas! these embellishments do now but add to my misery, in rendering me more sensible of the wretchedness of my state. The man I am chained to, is so far from possessing sensibility or taste, that he is dead to every impression of merit; and modesty, which might have endeared me to a man of delicacy, renders me hateful to this libertine; who by the indecency of his discourse, is continually offending against the sensations of a virtuous mind. While I regret the loss of intellectual enjoyment, my regret is strengthened by the direful effects of its privation on him. Mutual esteem is as necessary in a married state, as mutual affection; neither of which I enjoy. What is pomp, equipage, or splendor, compared with such seraphic sensations dwelling in the human heart? Will the blaze of diamonds atone for the deficiency of this passion? Will the gold of Ophir, melted into one mass, weigh against the raptures of uniting hearts, warmed with sentiment and truth?”

As this man’s character was known before you married him, can you have now any just reason of complaint, especially as you have not even the excuse of partiality to plead for his person? Recollect your own sordid selfish views; prevailing passion has been gratified, and you will pardon me, for questioning whether you would relinquish the advantages of your wealth, to be restored again to your liberty. Miss Aikin favours us with the following passage from one of Lucian’s dialogues. “Jupiter complains to Cupid, that though he had so many intrigues, he was never sincerely beloved: in order to be beloved, says Cupid, you must lay aside your ægis and your thunderbolts; you must curl and perfume your hair, place a garland on your head, and walk with a soft step, and assume a winning obsequious deportment.” “But replied Jupiter, I am not willing to resign so much of my dignity.” “Then, returns Cupid, leave off desiring to be loved.” He wanted to be Jupiter and Adonis at the same time: as you to be rich and happy. What right had you to expect that a miracle was to be performed in your favour? You knew well that the wretch to whom you have allied yourself, forsook humanity, and every genial feeling of an upright and honest heart, in the acquisition of that fortune, which you wished to possess, and have obtained, and which has since pampered the vices which disgust you. If he enumerates the spoils of his victories in ——, are they not covered with the blood of the vanquished? Did he give peace and happiness to the conquered? Did he accept the gifts of their princes, to use them for the comfort of those whose fathers, sons, or husbands, were massacred? Did he use his power to gain security and freedom to the regions of oppression and slavery? Did he endear the American name by examples of generosity? Did he return with the consciousness of his duty discharged to his country, and humanity to his fellow-creatures? If he was deficient in all this, what manner of right had you to expect tenderness and affection from him? You might with the same propriety look for the sensitive plant in a bed of nettles, and then complain you are stung by them. But you need not be upbraided for the folly of your election, since your own experience is but too severe a monitor. Debasement is the child of pride. All that remains for you now, is to render yourself as easy as possible; it is your duty to soothe the melancholy disposition your husband will be in (when alone) from a recollection of his crimes. Perhaps, by using your influence judiciously, you may yet have it in your power to humanize his passions, and refine his pleasures: but your good sense will tell you that there is so much pride interwoven in the heart of man, that his obstinacy will never condescend to receive any more than a hint from a wife. A husband is more likely to be praised into virtue, than rallied out of vice; and the most essential point in the art of leading others, is to conceal from them that they are led at all. If he reforms, and thinks the world gives him the credit of it, in a short time he will believe it proceeded from his own will and inclinations, which will insure his constancy in it. Every method is laudable on your part, to reclaim your husband, except an affectation of fondness for him: this would be a profanation of love: and a woman capable of such abject deceit, I should look upon as capable of the most determined baseness. If his crimes have hardened him, it will be in vain for you to attempt his reformation: but while you lament his depravity, you are left at liberty to spend your own time as you think proper. The gratifications of society, and the secrecy of solitude, are now equally in your power; please yourself and be content. If gaiety and dissipation are your pursuits, it cannot be denied that they are slight counterpoises for domestic felicity: but as the latter is entirely out of your reach, you should endeavour to make yourself easy. It is your own judgment alone that must lead you to obtaining that tranquility, which you may possibly find in the exulting joy of succouring virtue in distress, merit in indigence and obscurity; in wiping tears from the eyes of affliction, and in making the widow’s heart leap for joy. The serene complacency which springs in a good mind, on the exertion of benevolent principles, cannot be described; like the peace of God, it passeth knowledge. The poet says,

Thus you may evince the reality of your feelings, whilst it is in vain for others in less affluent circumstances to manifest their benevolence as they wish. Thus also, may you turn your husband’s (ill-acquired) perishable goods of fortune, into real blessings.

Wealth not only gilds the present moments as they pass; but like the sun, constantly supplies those rays which cherish all on whom they fall, and constitute an uninterrupted series of felicity in the bosom of that person from whom they proceed: whilst, on the contrary, the weight of poverty not only distresses a person for the present, but may perhaps prevent him from emerging into happiness, and others from participating of that benevolence, which warrants the means of exemplifying its sincerity. What must the poor man suffer, when the eye of friendship becomes inverted by his misfortunes in the world, and where he looks in vain around him for the benevolence of sympathy, and the consolations of human attachment!

I am, &c.

E. C.

LEVITIES.

At a late celebration of the marriages of two gentlemen, the company being large, respectable, and persons of considerable influence, a motion was made, and unanimously voted, That all Bachelors of the age of thirty, and upwards, should annually make an entertainment for the gentlemen of the place, unless prevented by intermediate marriage. What is very singular, a considerable part of the company were gentlemen of that description, who were unanimous in the resolution.

The next day a respectable company of ladies visited the two brides, and it is said, such of them as were unmarried were highly pleased with the resolution of the preceding day.

EPITAPH ON Mr. SCRIP.

Here lies Timothy Scrip, late of ’Change Alley, Cornhill, Stockbroker. During the course of a long life he was diligent, industrious, and indefatigable in the exercise of his profession. He died in the seventieth year of his age, and died well, having left behind him a fortune of sixty thousand pounds sterling. It is however much to be regretted, that, stocks being shut at the time of his death, he was not able to make a transfer, or carry any part of it to his account in the other world. It was remarked of him, that he was always more solicitous to get the turn of the day to himself, than to do a good turn to his neighbour; and that though he frequently made bargains for time, he did not choose to risk any thing for eternity. He never gave money to the poor, though offered a very high premium, thinking it safer to make ten per cent. in the English funds, than ten thousand in those of a foreign country. For these reasons, though he was always esteemed a good man at Jonathan’s, it is much to be dreaded, that, at the general settling day, he will find himself on the wrong side, and be forced to waddle, a lame duck, out of Elysium.

FROM THE LATIN.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE SENTENCE.

[A continuation of the Criminal, from page 359.]

The sun, as usual, had bedecked the east with his golden beams, and the major part of mankind were pleased with the prospect. But the hero of this piece had enjoyed none of its enlivening rays, since he had been exiled from the world, until this morning: The gratings of the locks, and opening of the doors which secured the entrance into his cell, roused him to reflect that perhaps this was the day on which his fate was to be decided: his conjectures were right; he was to be tried this day by the laws of his country.

The attendants on the court had now penetrated into the place of his confinement, and the smith was set to work in loosening his fetters. Owing to the length of time, and their not being sufficiently large, the skin adhered thereto; and on their being knocked off, it accompanied them. Indeed, if there had been present one disinterested person, he would have inferred that a barbarous punishment, formerly practiced by eastern monarchs, had found entrance into a civilized country.

Being now freed from the galling irons, the culprit, safely guarded by the officers of justice, was in a few minutes conducted before her impartial seat.

In due time, and in the usual form, did the stern dispenser of justice commence the solemn interrogatory of “Guilty, or not Guilty?” As the prisoner had duly weighed in his own breast the answer he was to make, in an audible voice he replied in the negative.

——Say not, misjudging mortal, that this unfortunate being was to blame in what he uttered, for truth dropped from his lips. True, indeed, his hand, guided by desperation, had done the deed. Despair, that haggard fiend, actuated every feeling; reason had deserted his breast—The man was entirely annihilated. At this juncture his hand had perpetrated what his heart would have abhorred to have thought on.—Call this not sophistry, ye, who hold to the mild precepts of christianity; consider it well, and then let unbiased reason have its full scope.

The council for the prosecution set forth in its blackest colours the dreadful nature of the crime of murder; and concluded with assuring the jury, that unless they brought the prisoner in guilty, they would act contrary to every law, human and divine.

——The prisoner had no one to speak for him——

The learned Judge proceeded to give his opinion, in which it can truly be said he acted not the impartial part.

* * * * * * * * * *

A verdict was returned, agreeable to the wish of the court, which being done, sentence was passed in usual form, not forgetting, at the close, to entreat the compassion of the Deity. It seemed to breathe forth pity, but it was only the semblance; and the same Judge had pronounced it before this, times out of number.

L. B.

THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS.

The height of happiness, beyond all doubt, is to enjoy in the same person the delights of love, and the pleasures of friendship; and to find in that same person an affectionate wife and a faithful friend; no other felicity comparable to this, can the present life afford: But—let us say no more.

Love is a blind emotion, which does not always suppose merit in its object; yet it is far more flattering to a handsome woman, to be beloved by a man of merit, than to be adored by a fool.

Many women wish to appear lively because they thank it gives them an air of youth and wit; but, vivacity, which is not the result of these, only places folly in a more distinguished point of view.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday morning the 7th inst. at Staten-Island, by the Rev. Mr. Birkby, Mr. Henry Frome, to Miss Nancy Byvanck, both of that place.

Same time, by the Rev. Mr. Birkby, Mr. Abraham Merril, to Miss Polly Lake, both of that place.

On Thursday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Miller, Peter Hawes, Esq. to Miss Nancy Post, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Thomas Whitfield, to Miss Effe Van Aulen, both of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. Elam Williams, to Miss Catharine Bogert, both of this city.

On Sunday last, at Jamaica. (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. Tyson, of this city, to Miss Letty Rappelye, of Cow-Neck.

On Monday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Mason, Mr. Charles Miller, to Miss Ann Patterson, both of this city.

AN EVENING MEDITATION.

BY MISS CARTER.

ON MRS. MONTAGU.

BY A LADY.

ODE to SPRING.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Book-Store of Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street.

INTENT OF RELIGION.

If there be any principle fully ascertained by religion, it is, that this life was intended for a state of trial and improvement to man. His preparation for a better world required a gradual purification, carried on by steps of progressive discipline. The situation here assigned him was such as to answer this design, by calling forth all his active powers, by giving full scope to his moral dispositions, and bringing to light his whole character. Hence it became proper, that difficulty and temptation should arise in the course of his duty; ample rewards were promised to virtue; but these rewards were left, as yet, in obscurity and distant prospect.

The impressions of sense were so balanced against immortality, as to allow a conflict between faith and sense,—between conscience and desire,—between present pleasure and future good. In this conflict the souls of good men are tried, improved and strengthened:—in this field their honours are reaped;—here are formed the capital virtues of fortitude, temperance, and self-denial;—moderation in prosperity, patience in adversity, submission to the will of God, charity and forgiveness to men amidst the various competitions of worldly interest.

HOPE.

Hope to the soul, when distracted by the confusions of the world, is as an anchor to a ship in a dark night, on an unknown coast, and amidst a boisterous ocean. In danger it gives security;—amidst general fluctuation it affords one fixed point of rest. It is the most eminent of all the advantages which religion confers. It is the universal comforter;—it is the spring of all human activity.

Upon futurity, men are constantly suspended; animated by the prospect of some distant good, they toil and suffer through the whole course of life; and it is not so much what they are at present, as what they hope to be in some after time, that enlivens their motions, fixes their attention, and stimulates industry.

Was this hope entertained with that full persuasion which Christian faith demands, it would in truth totally annihilate all human miseries; it would banish discontent, extinguish grief, and suspend the very feeling of pain.

HUMILITY IN COMPANY.

Of all the qualifications for conversation, humility, if not the most brilliant, is the safest, the most amiable, and the most feminine. The affectation of introducing subjects with which others are unacquainted, and of displaying talents superior to the rest of the company, is as dangerous as it is foolish.

There are many who never can forgive another for being more agreeable and more accomplished than themselves, and who can pardon any offence rather than an eclipsing merit. The fable of the nightingale should be ever had in remembrance, as it conveys a most useful lesson replete with valuable instructions. Had the silly warbler conquered his vanity, and resisted the temptation of shewing a fine voice, he might have escaped the talons of the hawk. The melody of his singing was the cause of his destruction; his merit brought him into danger, and his vanity cost him his life.

MAN’S DANGER AND SECURITY IN YOUTH.

In that period of life too often characterized by forward presumption and headlong pursuit, self-conceit is the great source of those dangers to which men are exposed; and it is peculiarly unfortunate, that the age which stands most in need of the counsel of the wise, should be the most prone to contemn it. Confident in the opinions which they adopt, and in the measures which they pursue, the bliss which youth aim at is, in their opinion, fully apparent. It is not the danger of mistake, but the failure of success, which they dread. Activity to seize, not sagacity to discern, is the only requisite which they value.

The whole state of nature is now become a scene of delusion to the sensual mind. Hardly any thing is what it appears to be: and what flatters most is always farthest from reality. There are voices which sing around us, but whose strains allure to ruin. There is a banquet spread where poison is in every dish. There is a couch which invites us to repose, but to slumber upon it is death. Sobriety should temper unwary ardour; Modesty check rash presumption; Wisdom be the offspring of reflection now, rather than the bitter fruit of experience hereafter.

THE

WANDERINGS
 
OF THE
IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 371.)

CONCLUSION

OF THE

HISTORY OF CAPTAIN S——.

She arrived at the house of Mrs. Moore, and on enquiring for Mrs. S——, was answered by a coarse, vulgar-looking woman, that “she know’d no such person; but that she was a stranger, and her mistress was out.” Mrs. Wilmot was not to be so easily repulsed after her morning’s fatigue; and on her mentioning the child, the woman added, “Oh, to be sure, she meant the grand lady that had supped there the night before, after she had been to the play; for that she had lighted her home, and would tell the coachman where she lived.”

Thus directed, they proceeded near half a mile farther; from whence Mrs. Wilmot would have been probably sent back as much in the dark, had not the sudden appearance of Mrs. S—— at an upper window caught her eye, and there was no possibility of denying herself. Mrs. Wilmot ordered the coachman, without much ceremony, to open the door, but knocked repeatedly at that of the house before she was let in. She was at length shewn into a sumptuous parlour where every thing bespoke luxury, and Mrs. S—— came to her. Her visible confusion, and the style of her dress so different to that in which Mrs. Wilmot had been accustomed to behold her, would have soon convinced a person of less penetration than that worthy woman, of the deception practised on her master.

“Without making any comments, she delivered her message, and earnestly intimated that the little boy might return with her; to which Mrs. S—— most reluctantly assented. They were soon seated in the coach, and Mrs. Wilmot thought it her duty to forbear interrogating the child; but confined herself to her own pious reflections on that gentle pity which she thought it necessary for every human being to bestow on the lost young creature, from whom she had just parted. She wished it had not been reserved for her to make the discovery of unquestionable guilt; and while she contemplated the sweet features of the lovely boy, she inwardly ejaculated a prayer to his Creator, that his young mind might remain uncontaminated by bad example; for she could not suppose that at such early years he could be an adept in the school of deception; or that a mother, though lost in her own person, could train up her child in the paths that led to infamy and corruption. Alas, his little heart was already less pure than her own; and he was an able practitioner in the art of dissembling.

“Mrs. Wilmot’s silence lasted no longer than till her return home; when immediately requesting a few minutes private audience with her master in his study, she, with many apologies, entered into a full explanation of what she had seen, and what she conjectured.

“When dinner was over, my uncle questioned Frederick; and was astonished at the hardened resolution with which he at first equivocated. On finding, however, that his secret had transpired, and his interrogator was resolved, the weakness of a mind not yet sufficiently strong to be consummate in hypocrisy, betrayed him, and he revealed all he knew.

Shocked at the idea of suffering the child to return to his imprudent mother, yet not possessing in himself sufficient authority to detain him, there was but one expedient, and that was to send for me. He drew from him a promise not to mention to his mother a word of what had passed; and promising to him if he did not, such presents as were most desirable at his age, he sent him home; and it was the day following on which, at his own request, I waited on him.

Our conversation was such as might be expected, and I had the happiness to see myself restored to a relation, whom I had hitherto scarcely known. He invited me to reside at his house; and in a few days his attorney waited on Mrs. S—— with a formal requisition, in my behalf, for the restoration of my son. She complied by force, but had the littleness to take from him all his wearing apparel, save that in which he sullenly appeared before us. My emotions on seeing him cannot be described. He received my caresses with disgust; and seemed to consider us both more as his tyrants than his protectors. For several weeks we tried what effect kindness, little presents, and the partaking of different amusements, would have on his mind. None of these succeeded; his temper was vindictive, stubborn, morose, and even revengeful. He never spoke of his mother, and we as carefully avoided her name in his presence. We fitted up without his knowledge a small room in the house for his use, and stored it with such books as might amuse his fancy, and instruct his mind. No act of kindness made any impression on him. Often did the unmanly tear roll silently down my cheek, as I traced the distant, but well-finished resemblance of his lovely mother. He frequently observed me as my heart yearned to embrace him, but his ungracious looks repelled the too tender emotion. My uncle at length told me of his determination to send him to school, and hinted at the same time his intentions in his favour. We soon after placed him at an academy ten miles from town, and had the pleasure to receive very satisfactory accounts of his conduct and improvements. We seldom visited, or sent for him, but at the time of the general holidays; as from that mistaken indulgence arises so frequently a love of pleasure and idleness, and a disgust to all which should be materially attended to. He wrote, at my express desire, to his mother, to inform her of his new situation, and of the orders which had been given to prevent any interruption of his studies; but this caution proved needless, as she neither answered his letter, nor took any farther notice of him.

I passed about two years in this state of negative happiness, when death suddenly robbed me of my valuable relation; a misfortune the more grievous, as it was wholly unexpected. The physician who occasionally attended him had not perceived any alarming symptoms; and a few mornings after his last visit, Mrs. Wilmot found him dead in his bed. He was a man of sound morals, but great eccentricity. He had been so long estranged from the world, and those few who had any claim of relationship, that ’tis probable he would have left his possessions for the use of public charities, had not Mrs. S———, without intending to serve me, so materially effected it.

As it was not unusual for my uncle to pass several days together in his own apartment, during which I seldom or ever saw him, I had no idea till Mrs. Wilmot suggested to me her opinion that a new will had been lately made. Mr. Term, the lawyer, whom he had employed to bring my son to us, and in whom he had always appeared to place much confidence, had been latterly more frequent than usual in his visits; and Mrs. Wilmot was afterwards justified in her opinion that her master had been guided by him in the regulation of his affairs. I sent immediately for that gentleman, and we proceeded into the gloomy chamber of death, where we had no difficulty to find the object of our search. He opened and read it to us. We found that he had left the bulk of his fortune to my son; an annuity of two hundred pounds to myself; and to Mrs. Wilmot, his houshold furniture, plate, and other articles, besides fifty pounds a year for her life. Mr. Term was his sole executor; and I had no cause to be displeased with the choice. He appointed that gentleman and myself the joint guardians of Frederick. Mrs. S——— was not mentioned, but some trifling sums were bequeathed to different people.

“We found on investigation, that after discharging these incumbrances, my son’s property would not exceed from seven to eight thousand pounds. When the funeral was over, I took lodgings in the neighbourhood; and my son, whom I had sent for on that occasion, returned to his school. I had not been there many days, before I received a letter from Doctor C——, his worthy preceptor, informing me that Frederick had suddenly disappeared; and that in so secret a manner, that none of the boys, whom he had severally questioned, could give the least intimation of his design. I immediately waited on Mr. Term, and invested him with full power over him, desiring him to act for me as well as himself.

“We had no doubt of his mother’s being privy to his flight; but though she did not deny having any knowledge of him, it was impossible to prevail on her to reveal what she had done with him. We gave up the pursuit; and, though I could not be happy, I endeavoured to be composed.

“I knew that my re-union with my wife was now beyond the reach of possibility. Dear, and undeserving as she was, I could only pity, and lament her. I knew too that she must be inevitably wretched; for though I was well assured she had a settlement nearly double to my income, yet I was equally so that no provision, however splendid, could compensate for the loss of every social virtue, and the self-accusation of perfidy, and ingratitude.

“In a few months, she sent me an insulting letter; telling me, that as she knew her son’s fortune to be out of the reach of his guardians, she could be under no apprehensions for his future welfare; but that of his present conduct she should take charge; which, if we objected to, would oblige her to continue silent respecting his residence. We soon, however, without any difficulty, found out that he was at a respectable military academy; and as we could not suggest any reasonable motives for withdrawing him, unless it was to prevent him from seeing his mother, which we knew would drive them both to extremities, we were silent on the subject; and, at length, answered the different bills that were necessarily contracted for his support and education.

“My son is now in his twenty-fifth year, and has been nearly nine in a regiment of foot, at this time in Ireland. For my present poverty, I can only alledge, that dangerous rock on which all my peace has been wrecked, a too large portion of natural affection. His unbounded extravagance has reduced me to distress; and I have taken up, at different times, to assist him, sums so inadequate to my circumstances, that some years must pass before I can enjoy anew that comfortable independance, which was forfeited almost as soon as acquired!

“Of Mrs. S—— I know nothing. Time has blunted the sharp edge of grief; but the wound has penetrated my heart, and that will never know a cure.

“My son knows I can do no more for him, and leaves me to my fate. Thus is every balsamic drop that is mixed in the full cup of human woe, converted into deadly poison; the more fatal to me, as they issue from the fount that flowed pure and unadulterated from the hands of its Creator.

“Thus, Madam, have you patiently attended to the undisguised story of a poor, unfortunate old man, worn out by sorrow more than by years; a man, who has been a friend, though an unsuccessful one, to human nature, but who is now become a burden to himself, and to the World.”

I pitied him—I wept with him:—But it is reserved to the High Power alone whom he worships, to administer consolation.

Should the eyes of youth, and levity, be cast over the preceding history, may they be moistened by the tear of Sensibility! And may the heart of every child that is callous to the distresses of a parent, recoil with horror at the unnatural crime; and, by returning to his duty, fulfil the great Commandment of Heaven!

(To be continued.)

OBSERVATION.

Flattery is often the guide to destruction.—It is the first rudiment which man attends to with success, and the first lesson he repeats to gain our affections; too often, my fair friends, you give ear to it, and suffer your hearts to be enslaved for encomiums which your mirror tell you are false.