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POETRY.
THE TEARS OF SCIENCE.
HI A SCHOOL JUSTS*.
AT the Rent of ir.slriifction, where once she was blcss’cl,
Fair Science mourning tvitli sadness oppress’d :
Her maps and her volumes lay scatter’d around ;
Her gloocs all in frajrracnts were strew’d on iheground;
There lay in rude tatters the relics of sense,
The waste and destruction of genius immense.
She wept, shook her head, and with anguish began—
“ Alas! for the boy that believes he's a man,
When his rtaturcgrows tall, and his fingers begin
To stroke the soft down that comes over his chin;
When lie talks of assemblies, assumes the fine air,
Tails in lovb, .as he calls it, and dreams of the fair !
£This school and these students I claim for my own ;
lore my precepts are utter’d, my maxims made known ;
Filispl iy*d the fair honor for wisdom design’d,
^Aml the lasting content she bestows on the mind ;
! open'd mv treasures—around me they came,
And I rous'd then* ambition for glory and fame ;
They heard me with rapture—I saw in their eyes
Fair hope, emulation and genius arise ;
f iiail’d the glad omen—“ .My children,'* I cried,
** Let no pleasing objects your bosom divide,
'Till crown'd with fair Virtue, with Learning refined,
I restore you a blessing and joy to mankind."
Ah, find expectation—I saw with despair,
Slow soon they forsook me to wait on die fair.
While I talk'd «.t* planets that roll’d in the skies,
Their thoughts were on dimples and beautiful eyes ;
1 laid down positions and strove to explain—
They thought of Khza, Mary and Jane.
I saw a fine youth, as apart lie retir’d,
Who seem’d with the ardor of learning inspir’d ;
His books and his pen he disposed in due place,
Aivl deep lines of thinking were marked in h.s face;
Sweet hope inmv breast was beginning to swell,
And I lov’d the dear boy that could study so well.
“ Nor shall my assistance be wanting,’' 1 cried,
I’ll crown thy exertions”—I sprang to his side—
Alas—an Acrostic—the verses were plann’d—
The name was all written—the letters were scannM—
The initials arranged to promote tiie design,
And his genius was working to get the firat line.
I shut up my Euclid—I blushed .for myself,
i laid Blair and Murray again on the shelf;
Disappo.ntcd, confuse l and oVrcome with regret,
1 uttered a wis^i I shall never forget :
jXh-tt all the fair maidens my counsel would prize,
Rod shun every lad until he s learned raid wise.
MONITORIAL.
THOUGHTS ON DEATH.
Milton lias very judiciously represented the
father of mankind, as seized with horror and
astonishment.at the sight of death,represented
to him on the mount of Vision. For surely
nothing ran so much disturb the passions, or
perplex the intellects of man,as a disruption of
his union with visible nature, a separation from
every thing that has hitherto engaged or de
lighted him ; a change not ojily of the place,
but the manner of li is being: an entrance
into a state, not simply unknown, hut which
perhaps he has not faculties to know, an
immediate and perceptible communication
■with the Supreme Being, and what is above
ail distressful and alarming, the final sen
tence and unalterable allotment.
Yet we, whom the shortness of life has made
acquainted with mortality, ran, without emo
tion, see generations of men pass away, are
at leisure to establish modes of sorrow, to
adjust the ceremonials of death, look upon
funeral pomp as a circumstance in which we
have no concern, and turn away from it to
trifles and amusements without dejection of
look, or inquietude of spirit. It is indeed ap
parent from the constitution of the world,
that there must he a time for other thoughts;
and a perpetual meditation upon the last hour,
however it may become the solitude of a mo-
nastry, is inconsistent with the duties of com
mon life. But surely the remembrance of
death ought to predominate in our minds as
an habitual and settled principle, always op
erating, though not always perceived ; and
our attention wanders so far from our own
condition, as not to be recalled and fixed by
the sight of an event which must soon, we
know not how soon, happen likewise to our-
_ selves, and of which though we cannot ap
point the time, we may secure the consequen
ces. Yet, though every instance of death may
justly awaken our fears, and quicken oar vi
gilance, it seldom happens that we are much
alarmed, unless some dose connexion is bro
ken, some scheme frustrated, or some hope de
feated. There are many, therefore, who seem
to live without any reflection on the end of
life, because they are wholly involved with
in themselves, and look on others as wholly
unworthy their notice, without any expectati
on of receiving or intention of bestowing good.
It is indeed impossible without some, mor
tification of that desire which every man
feels of being remembered and lamented, to
behold how little ceremony is caused by the
eternal departure even of those who have
passed their lives with public honors, and
been distinguished by superior qualities, or
extraordinary performances. It is not possi
ble to be regarded with tenderness except by a
few. That merit which gives reputation and
renown diffuses its influence to a wide com
pass, but acts weakly in every single breast:
it is placed at a distance from common spec
tators, and shines like one of the remote stars,
of which the light reaches us, but not the
beat. The wit, the hero, the philosopher.
horn either their tempers, or their fortunes
have hindered from intimate relations, or
tender intercourses, die. often without any o-
tlier effect, than that of adding a new topii
to the conversation of the. day, and impresses
none with any fresh Conviction of the fragi.
lily of our nature, because, none had any par
ticular interest in their lives, or were united
to them by a reciprocation ofbeneffts and en
dearments.
Thus we find it often happens, that they
who, in their lives have excited applause,
and attracted admiration, are at length laid
in the dust without the common honor of a
stone,because bythose excellencies with which
many have been delighted, none, have been
obliged ; and though they had many to cele
brate them, they had none to love them.
Custom so far regulates the sentiments, at
least of common minds, that men may be
generally observed to grow less tender as
they advance in age ; and lie who, when life
was new, melted at the loss of every com
panion, can, in time, look without concern
upon the grave into which his last friend was
thrown, and into which he himself is ready
to fall ; not because he is more willing to die
than formerly, but because he, is more famili
ar with the death of others, and therefore not
alarmed so far as to consider how much near
er lie approaches to his end. But this is
tamely to submit to the tyranny of accident,
and to suffer our reason to lie useless. Eve
ry funcrel may be justly considered as r.sum-
mons to prepare for that state, into which it
is a proof that we must sometime enter, and
a summons more hard and piercing, as the e-
veut of w hich it warns us is at less distance.
To neglect, at any time making preparations
for death, is to sleep on our post at a siege ;
but to omit it in our old age, is to sleep during
the attack,
it has always seemed to me one of the most
striking passages m the Visions of Quevedo,
where he stigmatizes those as fools win) com
plain that they failed of happiness by sudden
death. “ flow, says lie, can death be sudden
to a being who always knew that lie mustdie,
and that the time of his death was uncertain.”
Since there are not wanting admonitions of
our mortality to preserve it active in our
ini.-ds, nothing can more properly renew the
impression than the examples wliich every
i day supplies ; and as the greatest incentive
to virtue is the reflection that we must die, it
may be useful to accustom ourselves, when
ever we aee a funeral, to consider how soon
we may be added to the number of those
whose probation is past, and whose happi
ness or misery shall endure forever....T. Folio.
ELEGANT EXTRACT.
“ There is something very attractive and
pleasing in progress. It is ngreWilc to ob
serve a stately edifice rising up from the deep
basis, and becoming a beautiful mansion. It
is entertaining to see the rough outline of a
picture filled and finished. It is striking in
tlie garden to behold the tree renewing signs
of life ; to remark the expanding foliage,
the opening hud, the lovely blossom, the
swelling, coloring, ripening fruit. And where
is the father, where in the mother, who fi ts
not sparkled with delight, while contemplat
ing tho chil l growing in stature ; acquirin ’
by degrees the use of its tender limbs ; be
ginning to totter, and then to walk more linn ;
the pointing finger succeeded by tic pratllin;
tongue; curiosity awaken; reason dawning;
new powers opening ; the character funning.
But nothing is to be compared with the pro
gress of “ this building of God ;” these
>< trees of righteousness ;” this “ changing
into his image from glory to glory this
process of “ the new creature” from the hour
of regeneration “ unto a perfect man, unto
the lm asure of the stature of the perfect fei-
ness of Christ.” And. 0 what is it, when we
are the subjects too ! The nearer we live to
Heaven, the more of its pure, and peaceful in
fluence, we shall enjoy. The way of life,
narrow at the entrance, widens as we^ifo
rced. It is the nature of habits to render
their asts easy and delightful. There is lit
tle pleasure in religion, if there be no ferven
cy ; if there be no vigor in faith, no zeal in
devotion, no life in*duty, religion is without
a soul; it is.the mere increase of inanimate
virtue. What sensations of ecstacy. what
prospects of assurance ran such Christians
expect? In conversion, as in the alteration
of an old edifice, we first demolish, and this
only furnishes us with rubbish and ruins;
but afterwards we raise up an.orderly,beauti
ful building, in which we are refreshed ami
charmed. What happiness arises from dif
ficulties overcome, and labor crowned with
success ? What {plotiunscau equal the joy
of one, who, after the painful battle, “ di
vides the spoil i” But what can resemble
the satisfaction of the Christian, who on each
successful exertion, gathers fresh “ glory,
honor and immortality !” The life of the ac
tive C hristian is the labor of the bee, who all
day long is living from the flower to the hive;
but all his business is confined to fragrancy,
and productive of sweets.”—Jay's Sermons.
It is stated, “ thatfte, Methodist Society
in Europe ami America, is a flourishing
Church of 441,435 members, with an annual
increase of 14,435, under the pastoral care,
of 1GG5 regular itinerant Preachers accord
ing to the Apostolick economy, aided by a-
bout three times that number of local Elders
and Ministers w ho do not itinerate ; that 98
of these laborious Ministers are on foreign
missions in Asia, Africa, kc. for whose sup
port the Methodist Society alone (according
to the late returns from England) raised up
wards of 17,000 pounds 4 sterling the last
year—It is not a century since this people
was first known as a Christian Soricty in
Europe ; and now we behold them stretching
‘heir wings from the eastern to the western
ontiueul—•* So mightily grew the woi 1 anil
prevailed.”—Acts xjx, ‘29.
MISCELLANY.
drunkenness.
Alt the crime'! on e.irtfi do not destroy so many of the hu
man race, nor alienate so much property, as Drunken
ness. Dunn
If yon wish to he always thirsty, be a drunk
ard, for the oftener and more you drink, the
oftener and more thirsty you w ill be. If you
seek to prevent your friends raisingyou in the
world, be a drunkard, for that will defeat all
their efforts. If you would effectually coun
teract all your own attempts to do well, be a
drunkard, anil you will not be disappointed.
If you wish to repel the endeavors of the
whole human race to raise you to character,
credit, prosperity, be a drunkard, and you
will assuredly triumph. If you arc determin
ed to he, poor, he a drunkard, and you will
soon he ragged and penni less. If you wish
to starve your family, he a drunkard, lor
| that will consume the means of their support.
I If you would be spuugcd on by knaves, be a
J drunkard, and that will make their task easy.
If you wish tube robbed, be a drunkard,
( which will enable the thief to do it with more
safety. If you w ish to blunt your senses, be
a drunkard, and you . ill soon be more stu-
[ pid than an ass. " If you would become afool,
1 he a drunkard, anil you will soon 'lose your
understanding. If you wish to incapacitate
yourself from rational intercourse, be a
drunkard, for that will vender you wholly un
fit for it. If you wish all your prospects in
life to be clouded, be. a drunkard, and they
will 3ion be dark enough. If you would de
stroy your body, be a drunkard, as drunken
ness is the mother of disease. If you mean
i to ruin your soul, be a drunkard, that it may
! be excluded from Heaven, lfyou are resolved
on suicide, be a drunkard, that being a sure
mode of destruction. If jnu would expose
both your folly and your secrets, be a drunk-
arti, and they will run out while your liquor
runs in. If you are plagued with bodily
strength, be a drunkard, and it will soon be
subdued by a powerful antagonist. If you
would get rid of your money without know
ing how, he a drunkard, and it will vanish in-
sensibl y. if you would have no resource when
past labor but a work house, be a drunkard,
and you will be unable to provide any. If
you arc determined to expel all domestic har
mony from your house, be a drunkard, ami
discord, with all her evil train, will soon en
ter. lfyou would be always under strong
suspicion, be a drunkard, for little as you
think it, all agree that those, who steal from
tin s.iselves and families, will rob others, If
you would be reduced to the necessity of shun
ning your creditors, be a drunkard,and you
will soon have reason to prefer the bye paths
to the. public streets. It you liKe me amuse
ments of a court of conscience, he a drauk-
ird, ami you may be often gratified. If you
would be a dead weight on the community, k
cumber the ground,” be a drunkard, and
ihat will render you useless, helpless, bur
densome and expensive. If you would be a
ut’isance, be a drunkard, lor the approach of
a drunkard is like that of a dunghill. lfyou
would be odious to your family and friends,
ue a drunkard, and you will soon be more
than disagreeable. lfyou would be a pest to
society, be a drunkard, and you will be a-
vi.idea its infectious, lfyou dread reforma
tion of your faults, he a drunkard, A you will
be impervious to all admonition. If you would
suiasii windows, br eak the peace, get your
bones broken, tumble under carts and horses,
and in' locked op in watch houses, he a drunk
ard, and it will be strange if you do not suc
ceed.—Finally, if you are determined to he
utterly destroyed in estate, body and soul, be
t drunkard ; and you will soon know that it
is impossible to adopt a more effectual mean
to accomplish your—eki>.
Drunkenness expels reason, drowns the me
mory, defaces beauty, diminishes strength,
inflames the blood, causes internal, external
ami incurable wounds—is a witch to the sen
ses, a devil to the soul, and thief to the purse,
the beggar’s companion, a wife’s woe, and
children’s sorrow—the picture of a beast, &
self-murderer, who drinks to other’s good
health, and robs himself of his own.
London Magazine.
Fly drunkenness, whose vile incontinence
Takes Inuli auuy the reason and the sense,
Till with Circic.ai cups the mmil oppress'd
Leaves to he man, and wholly turns a beast.
Think whilst than swallow's! tht* capacious bowl
Thou ict'st mse*3 to wreck and drown thy soul—
—QuAc, leave this vice, and turn not to’t again
Upon presumption of a stronger brain :
For he that holds more wine than others can,
1 rather count a Hogshead than a man.
P. S. If each editor in the United States
would give, (and he is respectively requested
to give) one conspicuous insertion in his pa
per to the above treatise, who knows but he
may be the instrument, under divine Provi
dence, of arresting at least one valuable cit
izen in the course of danger and of ruin ?
Five reasons for not using Spirituous Liquors.
X. Because it poisons the blood and destroys
the organ of digestion. 2. Because an enemy
should he kept without the gate, 3. Because
! am in health and need no medicine. 4. Be
cause I have my senses & wish to keep them.
5. Because I have a soul to he saved or lost.
To the man whose mind is untouched by all
or any of the above reasons, a volume on the
subject would be useless. lie is unfitted for
society ; and tbe sooner lie is in his grave the
better—Better for society and himself—for
himself,because his future torment will be !i -
RAISING THE WHISKEY.
In 1812, when our government sent seamen
from Die Atlantic to the Lakes, (just before
the war.) the first detachment of jolly tars
were landed at Albany, and conveyed from
thence to the Niagara frontiers in waggons.
Many of those men, endowed with more
bravery than worldly prudence, were desti
tute of cash, so that a resort to ingenuity be
came indispensible, whenever they wanted to
raise an additional glass of grog. The no
velty of their appearance, combined with
their peculiar oddities and nautical phrases,
rendered it no difficult matter, during the
first few days of their inland voyage, to levy
contributions of whiskey on inn-keepers ;
they would quaff - the juice of the rye; bid
the landlord to keep a good look out astern
for the commissary, tell him how much liquor
they had drank, and lie would pay for all.
After a lapse of five or six days, this traverse
would not work ; a report of it travelled in
advance, and the landlords had adopted a
rule of touch penny before you touch pot.
One day a sailor, of more than ordinary
whim, sauntered into a tavern, resolved to
try a new expedient ; he observed the land
lord rigidly requiring the deposit of the mo
ney before* he would deliver the liquor—not
appalled by this precautionary measure, al
though he was perfectly stiverless, Jark care
lessly walked into the bar room, when the fol
lowing dialogue ensued :
.< Jack—Landlord, have you got any crack
ers ? Landlord, yes sir. Jack, well, let’s have
sixpence worth. The landlord’s caution was
lulled into security by the sailor’s not asking
for liquor, and lie delivered the crackers with
out first requiring the money. Jack, (look
ing at and turning the crackers in his hand,)
now that I’ve got ’em I don't think I can cat
’em. Landlord, won't you give me some
thing else for these crackers ? Landlord, yes
sir ;What do you wish in stead ? Jack, how
much whiskey will you give me for 'em ?
Landlord, a gill. Jack, it’s a bargain—here
take the crackers. The landlord gave Jack
the whiskey, which he drank, and walked to-
wards the door. Landlord, stop, sir, you
huv’nt paid me for the whiskey. Jack, did'nt
I give you the crackers for it ? Landlord, ve
ry well—but you did’nt pay ine for the crack
ers. Jack, why have you got your crackers
back again, you laud-lubber, and wliat more
do you want.”—Salem Gazette,
"WHO’LL TURN GRINDSTONE ?
“ When I w as a little boy, I remembered
one cold winter 's day/I was accosted by a
smiling man, with an axe on his shoulder,
“ My pretty hoy,” said lie, « 1ms your father
a grindstone. ?” “ Yes sir,” said I. “You
mi. n ttno litllo follow,” tiuiil 111', will you let
me grind my axe on it ?” Pleased with Ids
compliment of “ fine little fellow,” “ 0 yes,
sir,” I answered, “ it is down in the shop,”
“ and will you my man,*’ said he, tapping me
oil the head, “ get a little hot water !’’ 11 .,v
could 1 refuse, I. ran and Soon brought a ket
tle full. “ How chi are you, and what’s your
name,” continued he, without waiting for a
reply, “ I am sure you are one of the finest
lads that ever ! have seen, will you just turn
a few minutes i” Tickled with the flattery,
like a little fool, I went to work, and bitterly
did I rue the day. It was a new axe, anil I
toiled and tugged till I was almost tired fi>
death. The school bell rung and I could not
get away, iny hands were, blistered, and it
was not half ground. At length, how
ever, the axe was ground, and the man turn
ed tc me with “ now you little rascal, you’ve
played the truant, scud to school or you will
you’ll rue it.” Alas, thought I, it was hard
enough to turn grindstone this cold day, but
now to be called “little rascal’ was too much.
It sunk deep in my mind and often have I
thought of it since.
When I have seen a man of doubtful cha
racter, patting a girl on the. check, praising
her sparkling eye and ruby lip, and giving
her a sly squeeze : beware, my girl, thought
1, or you will find to your sorrow, that you
have been turning the grindstone for a villain.
When 1 sec a man flattering the people,
making great professions attachment to li
berty, who is iu private life a tyrant; me-
tliinks, look out good people, that fellow
w ould sot you to turning grindstones.
When I see a nian holding a fat offire,
sounding the “ horn on the borders” to call
the people to support I lie man on whom he de
pends for his office. Well, thinks I, no won
der the man is zealous in this cause, he evi
dently has an axe to grind.”
After Oliver Cromwell was settled in ths
Protectorship, he gave orders for several pie
ces of ordnance to be immediately cast. It
was desired to know his pleasure as to what
arms should he upon them—to which he an
swered “ the arms of the commonwealth of
England ;”and after a little pause, “ let (says
his highness) the motto be, Open thou our lips,
and our mouths shall shew forth thy praise."
Jcrseyism.—A countryman returning with
great haste into a store in Trenton which lie
had just left, enquired with much earnestness,
—“ Has not noboddy seen no box no where
that no buddy left without no kiver «n it as
noboddy knows on—do’iR there ?”
1’L'llHSHKU WKl'.KhY, BY
J. B. HINES,
\T THRKP. DOl.l.AUS PI'N YKAR, IV AOVAVCT.