The New-York Weekly Magazine;

That the fair sex are supreme sovereigns of the universe, can never be doubted. Man has no will of his own but what woman delegates to him; she moulds him as she pleases; he seems most happy if but permitted to become her vassal, and she deputes and disposes of him according to her will and pleasure.

A smile of approbation, or the squeeze of the lovely hand of a charming woman, will immediately procure thousands of volunteers ready to undertake the most dangerous and hazardous enterprizes, if sanctioned by her enchanting fiat; such enviable distinctions will create cowards into heroes, who are ever willing to risk every thing under the fair one’s banner.

We whine, we tremble, we sigh at the fair one’s feet for days, years and ages, supplicating, some will perhaps say, the most trifling favours in the humblest manner: heavenly woman’s distinctions and favours are almost inestimable; therefore, as such, ought always to be considered of a sublime and fascinating nature. I sincerely pity those, if any such there are, who do not possess a sublimity of ideas to enable them to adore and value the charms and attractions of the fair; for ’tis they only who can expand and enlighten our minds and ideas. It is the bewitching eye, the enchanting features, the soft and delicate complexion, the charming symmetry and the tout ensemble of divine woman; that taketh at pleasure the soul of man by surprise, and renders him a prisoner. Man, as the humblest slave, is most happy in her chains; nor would he exchange them for fetters of gold. By enjoying her charms, he is possest of unspeakable bliss; for on divine woman depends the principal pleasures of life.

—I would call thee somewhat higher still

But when my thoughts search heaven for appellation,

They echo back the sovereign name of woman!

Thou woman, therefore! O thou loveliest woman!

CURIOUS ANECDOTES Of THE DISCOVERY OF ANCIENT MANUSCRIPTS.

It was a Florentine who found, buried in a heap of dust, and in a rotten coffer belonging to the monastery of St. Gal, the works of Quintilian: and, by this fortunate discovery, gave them to the republic of letters.

Papirius Masson found, in the house of a book-binder of Lyons, the works of Agobart. The mechanic was on the point of using the manuscripts to line the covers of his books.

A page of the second Decade of Livy was found by a man of letters on the parchment of his battledore, as he was amusing himself in the country. He ran directly to the maker of the battledore: but arrived too late; the man had finished the last page of Livy, in completing a large order for these articles about a week before.

Sir Robert Cotton, being one day at his tailor’s, discovered that the man held in his hand, ready to be cut up for measures, the original Magna Charta, with all its appendages of seals and signature. He bought this singular curiosity for a trifle; and recovered in this manner, what had long been given over for lost.

ON GEOGRAPHY.

Geography is a science which is no more looked upon as a fine accomplishment, but a necessary part of education; for there is no study which seems fitter for the entertainment and instruction of young persons than this. Geography gives them a perfect idea of the exterior surface of the globe, of its natural and political divisions, and of the curiosities of all its parts: hence it may be called with reason, the eye of history, the soldier’s companion, the merchant’s director, and the traveller’s guide.

It is also a study which holds the first rank among those qualities which are requisite for forming the scholar; for it is adapted not only to gratify our curiosity, but also to increase our knowledge, to banish prejudices, and make us acquainted with our real advantages, and those of our fellow-creatures.

ANECDOTE.

During the summer of the year 1780, an old Indian, an inhabitant of the wood, used to visit the town of Poughkeepsie for the purpose of disposing of wooden ware, it being the only means he had for gaining a livelihood---Among the purchasers of his goods, was a lady who much wished for a utensil for working her butter as she called it---and desiring him, when he came again, to bring some butter ladles.---“Butter ladles!” answered the tawny son of the forest, in the native simplicity of his soul---“Why mistress, if I was to fashion such things, they would all melt away before I could get here.”

ON THE MUTABILITY OF FORTUNE.

There is nothing certain in this world but death: theory supposes, experience sometimes proves, but the latter often deceives. The fatality which constantly attends the wayward lot of mortals, is so secret in its operations, that it baffles all the penetration of men to discover it. Xerxes came to conquer Greece with such a numerous force, that his armies quite exhausted the rivers in quenching their natural thirst. He covered the sea with ships, as numerous as the caterpillars which formerly infested Egypt; whence he was inflated with such a certain prospect of success, that he already considered himself as a complete master of the sea; and he commanded it to be whipped with rods, for having the insolence to mutiny tempestuously against him. But, alas! he shamefully lost so many thousand men, and such a number of ships, that he thought himself very fortunate in escaping on board a small fishing bark.

MARRIED,

On Sunday se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Peter Hopmire, to Miss Sally Wilson, both of this city.

On Monday se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. James Bleecker, merchant, to Miss Sarah Bache, daughter of Mr. Theophylact Bache, merchant, of this city.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. William James, of this city, to Miss Ann Read, of Trenton.

DIED,

On the 27th ult. of a sudden illness, Timothy Mason, son to Christopher Mason, Esq. of Swansey, in Massachusetts. He promised fair to realize the hopes of his affectionate parents, but was prematurely cut off in the seventh year of his age, on a visit to the city. On the 28th, his remains were interred in the Baptist burying ground.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Elegy on an Unfortunate Veteran, by Matilda, and Twilight, a Sonnet, by Alexis, are received, and shall appear in our next.

Days of the Month.	Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M.	Prevailing winds.	OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.
	deg.	100	deg.	100	deg.	100	8.	1.	6.	8.	1.	6.
Aug. 24	70		74		69		NE.	sw.	s.	clear	do.	rain.
25	69		73		67		S.	do.	do.	clear	do.	do.
26	70		70		72		E.	do.	se.	clear	cloudy.	do.
27	70		76	50	79		NW.	do.	N.	clear	do.	do.
28	73		79		78		SW.	do.	do.	clear	cloudy	clear.
29	78		85	50	80		W.	nw.	w.	clear	do.	do.
30	76		86		80		SE.	W	NW.	clear	do.	do.
31	75		84		79	50	NW.	sw.	do.	clear	do.	do.

	deg.	100
Mean temperature	of the thermometer	at 8 A.M.	73	25
Do.	do.	of the	do.	at 1 P.M.	81	5
Do.	do.	of the	do.	at 6 P.M.	75	5
Do.	do.	of the whole month	76	45
Greatest monthly range between the 8th and 25th	21	0
Do.	do. in 24 hours	the 21st	12	0
Warmest day the	8	88	0
Coldest day the	25	67	0

14	Days it rained. A very large quantity of rain has fallen this month.
13	do. it was clear at	8 1 and 6 o’clock.
5	do. it was cloudy at	do. do.
22	do. the wind was to the westward of north and south.
7	Times it thundered and lightned in this month.

ADVERSITY.

Adversity is virtue’s school

To those who right discern:

Let me observe each painful rule,

And each hard lesson learn.

THE VELVET LARKSPUR AND THE EGLANTINE.

Amidst the flowers that lov’d to pour

Their sweets on every breath of May,

Along a green luxuriant shore

Where hoary Hudson winds his way.

There high upon a slender stem

A Larkspur bloom’d in scarlet pride,

And glittering with an evening gem,

She view’d her beauties in the tide.

Hard by, beneath a cedar’s shade,

An Eglantine of softest hues,

Her blushing buds and flowers display’d,

And shed her odours with the dews.

The setting SUN shot back a ray,

Once more the lovely plant to warm,

While warbling from a neighbouring spray,

A Thrush proclaim’d her power to charm.

The Larkspur turn’d her velvet head

To view the subject of the song;

“Come, minstrel of the wood,” she said,

“For me thy tuneful notes prolong.

“See how the waters, as they pass

To bathe the verdure of my feet,

Brighten before my glowing face,

And raptured roll in murmurs sweet.

“No flower that blossoms in the wild

Can boast a bloom so rich as mine;

No leaf that Flora’s hand can gild,

May like my polish’d foliage shine.

“Why therefore waste thy tender lay,

On yonder Eglantine so frail,

Whose faded tinges speak decay,

Soon as they open on the gale.

“And if some hermit ere hath found,

And sought her simple sweets to taste,

With pois’nous thorns encompass’d round,

He mourn’d too late his witless haste.”

“Vain weed, the scented brier replied,

While my perfumes enrich the air,

And bless the dale on every side,

Wilt thou, indeed, with me compare?

“And shall thy boasted tints that glare

A moment on the astonish’d sight,

With my lov’d buds a chaplet share,

Which even when faded yield delight?

“Thy verdant foliage, though it shine,

Emits a faint and sickly smell,

While every leaf and thorn of mine

Soft and delicious sweets exhale.

“And even those thorns thy folly blames,

They shield me from the spoiler’s power,

Whose niggard with an object claims,

He knows must perish in an hour.

“Yes, and the bard by love imprest,

Or sacred grief, hath sought my shade;

And there the anguish of his breast

In mournful poesy display’d.

“Henceforth then, herb, to me give place,

Long shall my charms be sung by fame,

While all thy tawdry, worthless race

Bloom and expire without a name.”

A Hermit from his rocky cell,

With pity the contention heard,

And thrice did tears his eye-lids fill,

And thrice he shook his silv’ry beard.

For in the vivid blooms he saw

What he in former times had been,

When passion was his only law,

And pride led on each various scene.

But prosperous days full soon withdrew,

Wealth vanish’d like a fairy dream,

And Friendship from his moanings flew,

And Love forgot his wonted theme.

Then turn’d he from his devious path,

(A path with many a thorn bestrew’d)

From passions wild, and cares that scath,

And sought this silent solitude.

“Frail flowers (he cried) forbear your strife,

Why should the charms that nature gave,

To bless your fleeting space of life,

That space, of mild content bereave?

“Let neither to the palm aspire,

To each a share of praise is due,

Rich is the odour of the Brier,

And beauteous is the Larkspur’s hue.

“But ah, since fate with stinted hand

Allots to each her little day,

Let Peace its morning beam command,

And gild serene its evening ray.

“For on the wing of Speed draws near,

Old Death, too faithful to his trust,

And soon the unlovely and the fair

Alike shall crumble into dust.”

ANNA.

New-York, July 29, 1796,

THE KISS. INSCRIBED TO OLYNDA.

Those balmy lips outvie the rose,

A thousand sweets at once disclose;

Each kiss is heaven itself confess’d,

And nature made them to be press’d.

As feasts the bee on Flora’s plain,

I’d sip, and sip, and sip again;

At every taste new joy I’d prove,

And die of aromatic love.

Then, charmer, ne’er deny the bliss

That flows from thy delicious kiss;

And if there be a joy intense

In gratifying human sense,

Be love, and love alone, your plan,

And me alone the happy man.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.—Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane.

The singular state of man when asleep.

In order to know the omnipotence and wisdom of God, we need not have recourse to extraordinary events. The most common things, the daily changes which happen in nature, and in our own bodies, are alone sufficient to convince us, in the strongest manner, that it is a Being infinite in wisdom, goodness, and power, who has created the world, and who directs every event in it. Of the great number of wonders of which he is Author, I will now mention one only; and, though it happens daily, it does not the less deserve to be remarked, and to become the object of our admiration. How often have those been refreshed and recruited by sleep, who possibly have never reflected on that state; or at least have never considered it as one of the remarkable effects of divine goodness. They think that nothing extraordinary happens when balmy sleep comes upon them. They think the machine their body is formed for that situation; and that their inclination to sleep proceeds from causes purely natural.

But perhaps sleep may be considered in two different lights. On one side there is nothing in it which may not result necessarily from our nature. On the other, there is in this natural effect something so striking and wonderful, that it is well worth a closer examination. In the first instance it is a proof of the wisdom of our Creator, that we go to sleep imperceptibly. Let us try only to watch the moment in which we are falling asleep, and that very attention will prevent it. We shall not go to sleep till that idea is lost. Sleep comes uncalled. It is the only change in our manner of existence in which reflection has no share; and the more we endeavour to promote it, the less we succeed. Thus God has directed sleep, that it should become an agreeable necessity to man; and he has made it independent of our will and our reason. Let us pursue this meditation, and reflect on the wonderful state we are in during our sleep. We live without knowing it, without feeling it. The beating of the heart, the circulation of the blood, the digestion, the separation of the juices; in a word, all the animal functions continue and operate in the same order. The activity of the soul appears for a time in some degree suspended, and gradually loses all sensation, all distinct ideas. The senses deaden, and interrupt their usual operations. The muscles by degrees move more slowly, till all voluntary motion has ceased. First, this change begins by the forehead; then the muscles of the eye-lids, the neck, the arms, and the feet, lose their activity, to such a degree, that man seems to be metamorphosed into the state of a plant. The situation of the brain becomes such, that it cannot transmit to the soul the same notions as when awake. The soul sees no object, though the optic nerve is not altered; and it would see nothing, even if the eyes were not shut. The ears are open, and yet they do not hear. In a word, the state of a person asleep is wonderful in all respects. Perhaps there is but one other in the world so remarkable, and this is visibly the image of that state which death reduces us to. Sleep and death are so nearly alike, it is right to observe it. Who, in reality, can think of sleep, without recollecting death also. Perhaps, as imperceptibly as we now fall into the arms of sleep, shall we one day fall into those of death. It is true that death often gives warning of its approach several hours or days before: but the real moment in which death seizes us, happens suddenly, and when we shall seem to feel the first blow, it may be already our last. The senses which lose their functions in our sleep, are equally incapable of acting at the approach of death. In the same manner, the ideas are confused, and we forget the objects which surround us. Perhaps, also, the moment of death may resemble the moment of falling asleep: and the convulsions of dying people may possibly be as little disagreeable a sensation to them, as the snoring is to those that sleep.

STUDY.

Study, as far as it signifies any thing valuable or commendable, has been defined, the pursuit of youthful knowledge, in a close application of the mind to reading or thinking, for the due conduct or entertainment of life; and it is certainly one of the greatest and noblest pursuits in which the mind of man can be possibly engaged.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

Two years passed away without any other interruption of their joy, than the want of heirs; and though that no way diminished their love, yet it gave Thibault some uneasiness, which made him resolve on a progress to St. James of Gallicia; that age was not so corrupted as this is, the heroes fought as much to shew their piety as their courage; and what would now be thought a weakness, at that time gave a greater lustre to their virtue. It was not surprising therefore to see the valiant Thibault taking a resolution of going to Compostella; but the Princess not being able to bear a separation from so dear a husband, would needs accompany him, and join her vows with his; his unabated affection for her, made him receive the proposal with joy, and the Count de Ponthieu, always ready to oblige him, ordered an equipage to be got ready, worthy of those illustrious pilgrims, being willing that they should be well enough accompanied, to prevent any accident during their journey. They set out, and the hope of seeing them again in a little time, lessened the Count’s affliction at the separation.

They got safe to a little village within a day’s journey of Compostella; there Thibault stopped, to rest the Princess; and the next day, finding themselves somewhat fatigued, he sent his attendants before him to provide for their coming, that they might lose no time, retaining only his chamberlain. When they thought themselves sufficiently reposed, they set forward; but having learned there was a dangerous place in the forest, through which they were obliged to pass, the Prince sent his chamberlain to recal some of his people. Nevertheless they still went on, and their ill fortune engaged them in a road, which had so many cross ways to it, that they knew not which to take. The robbers had made an easy plain path, which led travellers into the most intricate part of the forest, getting numbers by this means into their power: it was this fatal one; the unhappy Thibault and his lady imagined to be in the right; but they soon perceived their error. When not having gone above two bow-shots into it they found it terminated in a thicket: out of which, before they could avoid them, rushed eight men completely armed, and surrounded them, commanding them to alight. Thibault had no arms, but his courage disdaining to yield obedience to these ruffians, made him answer in terms which let them see it must be to their number they must be obliged to force him: one of them thinking to do so, quitting his rank, made at him with his lance; but Thibault with an admirable dexterity avoided the blow, and seized the lance as it passed him, with the vigour of an arm accustomed to victory; then seeing himself in a state of defence, he set on them with an heroic fierceness, killing one immediately, and facing them all, pierced a second; but in attacking a third, the lance flew into a thousand shivers, and disabled him from resisting farther. The remaining five encompassing him, and killing his horse, seized him; and notwithstanding his efforts, and the piercing cries of the Princess, stripped him, and tied him fast to a tree, not being willing to steep their hands in the blood of so brave a man. The heat of the combat, and their eagerness in tearing off his rich habit, had hindered them from casting their eyes on the Princess; but she being now left alone, she appeared a more precious booty than what they had just taken. Love inspires virtuous minds with a desire of doing only great and noble actions, and in the hearts of any others than these barbarians, would have endeavoured to have insinuated itself by pity: but that virtue being unknown to them, the charms of this unfortunate lady only redoubled their cruelty. Their fury and brutality inflamed them; and no intreaty could deter such hardened wretches from being guilty of the most shameful crimes!---What a spectacle was this for a husband!---The soul of the wretched Thibault was torn with the most poignant anguish---distracted at not being able either to succour, or revenge her, who was a thousand times dearer to him than his life---he conjured heaven to strike him dead that moment---all that can be conceived of horror, of misery, without a name, was his.---But if his despair was more than words can represent, how much more was that of the afflicted Princess?---she tore her hair and face, begged, threatened, struggled, till her delicate limbs had lost the power of motion; filled all the forest with her piercing cries, without making those relentless monsters recede from their design. Never woman so ardently wished to be beautiful, as she did to become deformed, she would have rejoiced so have had her lovely face that moment changed into the likeness of Medusa; but all her prayers and tears were ineffectual; victim of force and rage.---The cruel leader of these fiends had just effected his diabolical intentions, when a sudden noise of the trampling of horses and the distant voices of men, forced them to fly. Fear, the companion of villainous actions, made them abandon their prey, and make off with incredible swiftness, so that the wretched Princess soon lost sight of them; but her irremediable misfortune, too present to her mind, to vanish with the authors of it, disordered her senses so cruelly, that abhorring herself, and believing she could no longer inspire her husband with any thing but contempt, she looked on him as one that was become her cruellest enemy; witness of her disgrace, her troubled imagination made her believe she ought to free herself from the only one who had the power of publishing it.---Struck with the idea of being unworthy of his affection, all the love she had formerly bore him, now changed into hatred and fury; and becoming as barbarous as the very ruffians, who had just left her, she snatched up one of the dying villain’s swords, and ran with her arm lifted up to take away the life of her wretched husband: but little accustomed to such actions, the blow fell on the cords which bound him, and gave him liberty to wrest the weapon from her hands.---He discovered immediately her thoughts, and made use of the most moving softness to calm the tempest of her soul: “If,” said he, “you could read my heart, you would find grief and pity only there---with what alas! can I accuse you!---What are you guilty of?---I still am your husband---still love you with the same unabated fondness---am the only witness of your ill fortune; I’ll hide it from the eyes of the world, nor shall you ever be sensible that I myself remember it---seek not therefore by a blind fury to publish our mutual shame---comfort yourself, and let us by sentiments of piety, endeavour to purify ourselves from an involuntary crime.” In this manner did he talk to her, but all his love and tenderness made no impression on her mind---she answered him only by her endeavours to snatch away the sword, and stab him. During this melancholy struggle their attendants arrived; they had also lost themselves, and having sought their master all over the forest, the noise of their horses, though then at a distance, had frighted the robbers, and saved the Princess from further violation.

Thibault took a cloak from one of his equipage, and having mounted his disconsolate lady on horseback, did the same himself, and in a short time arrived at Compostella, neither he nor she speaking a word. Deep affliction was imprinted in both their countenances; but the princess had a wildness in her eyes and air, that discovered the distraction of her mind. Thibault placed her in an abbey, and went and prostrated himself at the feet of the altars; not with the design he went for, but to beg of heaven to enable him to undergo so terrible an adventure. This act of piety being over, he returned to the Princess: who remaining still in the same humour, not being able to get any expressions from her but threats against his life, he took her out, and returned with all possible speed to Ponthieu, where they were received with a joy that they were not able to partake.

ACCOUNT OF THE LAST MOMENTS OF THE CELEBRATED DR. JOHNSON.

He arrived in London on the 16th of November, and next day sent to Dr. Burney, the following note:

“Mr. Johnson, who came home last night, send his respects to dear Dr. Burney, and all the dear Burneys, little and great.”

Soon after his return to the metropolis, both the asthma and dropsy became more violent and distressful. He had for some time kept a journal in Latin, of the state of his illness, and the remedies which he had used, under the title of “Aegri Ephemeris,” which he began on the 6th of July, but continued it no longer then the 8th of November; finding, probably, that it was a mournful and unavailing register.

Dr. Herberden, Dr. Brocklesby, Dr. Warren, and Dr. Butter, physicians, generously attended him, without accepting of any fees, as did Mr. Cruikshank, surgeon; and all that could be done, from professional skill and ability, was tried, to prolong a life so truly valuable. He himself, indeed, having on account of his very bad constitution, been perpetually applying himself to medical enquiries, united his own efforts with those of the gentlemen who attended him; and imagining that the dropsical collection of water which oppressed him, might be drawn off, by making incisions in his body, he, with his usual resolute defiance of pain, cut deep, when he thought that his surgeon had done it too tenderly.

About eight or ten days before his death, when Dr. Brocklesby paid him his morning visit, he seemed very low and desponding, and said, “I have been as a dying man all night.” He then emphatically broke out, in the words of Shakspeare,

“Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d?

“Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow?

“Raze out the written troubles of the brain?

“And with some sweet oblivious antidote,

“Cleanse the full bosom of that perilous stuff,

“Which weighs upon the heart.”

“——————therein the patient

“Must minister unto himself.”

On another day after this, when talking on the same subject of prayer, Dr. Brocklesby repeated from Juvenal,

“Orandum est ut sit mens sana in corpore sano,”

and so on to the end of the tenth satire; but in running it quickly over, he happened in the line

“Qui spatium vitæ extremum inter munera ponat,”

to pronounce “supremum,” for “extremum;” at which Johnson’s critical ear infirmly took offence, and discoursing vehemently on the unmetrical effect of such a lapse, he shewed himself as full as ever of the spirit of the grammarian.

Having no near relations, it had been for some time Johnson’s intention to make a liberal provision for his faithful servant, Mr. Francis Barber, whom he had all along treated truly as an humble friend. Having asked Dr. Brocklesby what would be a proper annuity to bequeath to a favourite servant, and being answered that it must depend on the circumstances of the master; and that in the case of a nobleman fifty pounds a-year was considered as an adequate reward for many years faithful service. “Then,” said Johnson, “shall I be nobilissimus, for I mean to leave Frank seventy pounds a-year, and I desire you to tell him so.” It is strange, however, to think, that Johnson was not free from that general weakness of being averse to execute a will, so that he delayed it from time to time; and had it not been for Sir John Hawkins’s repeatedly urging it, it is probable that his kind resolution would not have been fulfilled.

Amidst the melancholy clouds which hung over the mind of the dying Johnson, his characteristical manner shewed itself on different occasions.

A man whom he had never seen before was employed one night to sit up with him. Being asked next morning how he liked his attendant, his answer was, “Not at all, Sir. The fellow is an idiot; he is as awkward as a turnspit when first put into the wheel, and as sleepy as a dormouse.”

THE FUNERAL—A FRAGMENT.

“Fresh in my mind the uncheery scenes arise,

“Each groan again I hear! each piercing cry!

“Each languid look I see! the dawn of death,

“And the sad beatings of the death-bell still

“Hum slow and solemn in my frighted ear!”

MRS. FAUGERES.

——The cavalcade moved slowly on—The old mourner raised his eyes to heaven, as if to implore the aid of Omnipotence in resigning him to the fatal stroke, and anon the tear of grief would steal down his furrowed cheek.

How must it rend the heart of a fond, a doting father, who had promised to himself many days of uninterrupted happiness, in an amiable child, to see him torn from his embrace, ere he yet had arrived at manhood! Is it not afflicting? Ye, who have felt the smart, it is you that best can reply: It is you alone can tell what pleasure, and what pain a parent feels.

Full sixteen suns had run their annual course since Samuel saw the light. And on his birth-day morn, sol darted forth his beams in rich effulgence; yet ere the noon-tide came, the only prop of age had sunk to an eternal rest. The sparkling eye, the crimsoned cheek had lost their wonted charms, and nothing in their stead remained, save a sad semblance of mortality. Death, that insatiate monster, had stretched forth his iron fangs, and grasped his spotless soul; and in one moment brought to nought each fancied joy.

Now here is room for one who has ever wept at the wayward lot of mortals, to drop the briny tear, and mourn the partial decree of fate, that summoned hence this opening rose. Alas! that it could not be revoked!

The gate was already open, and the clergyman led the way across several graves that had long been inhabited. Doubtless, their bodies have, ere this, left nothing save a handful of ashes. Once they were as gay as thou art, O reader! Some, perhaps, launched into the vortex of pleasure, while others found happiness at home, in company with their playful infants.---What are they now?

The ceremony was begun: the corpse was deposited in its narrow cell. Tears flowed more freely from the eyes of the mourners, and when the first spadeful of earth had fallen heavy on the lid, they arose to sobs. The spectators dropped theirs in unison.

It resembled the funeral of Jacob. The labourers had ceased:---the spades had fallen from their hands, and they looked round with astonishment. Perhaps they had never witnessed such a scene; and well might they gaze on the one before them. At length the fountains of nature were drained, they could no longer weep.

OBSERVATION.

The coldest hearts, nay the hardest, cannot forbear admiring virtue; but, while they stop at this involuntary and barren homage, the feeling mind burns with emulation.

STUDY OF NATURE.

From the effect of great objects on the human mind, we may trace the origin of every useful and pleasing art. The painter, whose susceptibility is peculiarly irritable in viewing majestic heights and the variegated foliage of nature, infuses the happiest effect in his productions; the poet’s flight of fancy has its birth in streams, in hills, in vales, &c. The philosopher, in contemplating the heavens and earth, unfolds the omnipotence of the Deity, and conveys the sublime information to surrounding millions, engaging them in pursuits interesting to the present, and necessary to an existence hereafter.—From these observations, how necessary is it to form our minds to the study of nature.

REMARKABLE CURE OF A FEVER BY MUSIC.

At Aix la Chapelle, a celebrated Master of Music, a doctor in the science, and a great composer, was seized with a fever, which increasing daily, became perpetual: On the 9th day he fell into a very violent delirium, accompanied with shrieks, tears, panics, and a perpetual wakefulness, almost without any intermission. On the third day of his delirium, one of those natural instincts, which, it is said, cause the brute animals, when sick, to seek the herbs that are proper for them, caused him to desire that a little concert might be performed in his chamber. It was with great difficulty that the physician consented to it. On the patient’s hearing a tune he himself composed, and which was much approved, his countenance assumed a serene and pleasing air, his eyes were no longer fierce or wild, the convulsions totally ceased, he shed tears of pleasure, and shewed a much greater sensibility than could be expected or hoped for so soon. He was free from the fever during the whole concert; but as soon as it was finished, he relapsed into his former condition. Upon this they did not fail to continue the use of the remedy, whose success had been so unforeseen, and so happy; the fever and delirium were ever suspended during the time the concert was performing: and music in a few days time became so necessary to the patient, that at night he prevailed on a kinswoman who attended him to sing several tunes and even to dance. One night in particular, when there was not a person with him but the nurse, who had no voice for singing, nor knew any piece but a wretched, stupid ballad, he was obliged to her for even that dull performance, and it is said had some relief from it. In about a fortnight music perfected his cure without any other assistance than once bleeding in the foot, the efficacy of which was held as rather doubtful.

ALL MEN ARE SLAVES.