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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.