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cd th'tt during his absence the prev.oas winter
-thev had corresponded reguluilv and aLotnc
present one,till very recently. He had how
ever, written her a hist appeal to whicn he ex.
pceted an answer every day.
The morning afler C had told me all
in relation to the one lie loved, lie requested
me as I was passing bv the office to enquire
after letters for him. 1 his l did, after Inst
obtaining one for my sell Irom my friend 1. -•
and to mv inter astonishment U s lettei
proved to lx; in the same hand w nte. “\ • ew,
tlioughf l, ** this is a real joke, but it would he
none to,poor C it he knew it. Af
ter reading mv own, Wiijcii was written in t.e
most elevated strains of friendship, I can ted
mv friend's to.him, which he received with a
countenance indicating every variety of feel
ing from bright-cved Hope to black Despair.
But after he commenced reading, his features
lapsed into asettled gloom, from which I scarce
ly ever knew them afterwards to be freed.
“ Oh woman !” said he, as he completed the
letter, “ thou fair deceiver. Here lam stran
ded now forever on the shoals of disappoint
ment ; wrecked, wrecked, wrecked! But
I’ll be a man, and never shall it be said that
S. C fawned at the shrine of woman.”
He then read me the letter, which gave him
a regular blowing tip for various little offences
of which lie had been guilty, not the least of
which was his reporting that they were en
gaged. C answered this letter, hut nev
er received one in return, during his stay at
college. As for me, I wrote a brief letter of
thanks after some weeks, in answer to mine,
and stated, considering all the circumstances,
it was best for us to cease our communica
tions forever.
A few months after this, I wrote her a short
note, requesting all of my poems she had in
her possession. This was answered as briefly ,
and my request granted, with the exception of
one or two pieces which she preferred to keep.
This last note of hers is all that l now have
in my possession, which emenated from her,
every other letter and nemento lmving been
•destroyed.
I remained several years in . pursu
ing my medical studies, during which time 1
was permitted to hear from R but two or
three times. Once by Col. W , once by
Mr. L , the young Virginian, and the last
time by Mr. D , the old bachelor. W
told me, that when she finally rejected C ,
after his return home, lie made an attempt to
destroy himself by taking a large quantity of
laudnum, but was prevented by timely medical
assistance. He had also challenged a friend
about the affair, but this also was settled with
out terminating in a duel.
For nearly two years after receiving this in
formation, there was a perfect blank in the his
tory of my friend Miss R. E. S ,so
far as I knew aught of her, but this was after
wards filled up by an acquaintance who resi
ded in her town. After refusing the oilers of
many young gentlemen of high standing, she
at length married one who was every way un
worthy her, and against whom all of her friends
protested, as being devoid of those elements of
mind and moral character which were neces
sary to make her happy. Yet, in a moment
of horror, of gloom, and despair, she had ac
cepted his hand, and, as a lady of honor, felt
bound to comply. But liar affections—her
heart was not there. She still held in her pos
session the miniature of a young gentleman ‘
whom she loved, and on her bridal eve, while
alone in her chamber with a dear female friend,
she took from a little trunk which contained |
all that she prized upon earth, that likeness of
her heart’s affection, and cried in the bitterness
of her heart as she kissed it and clasped it
warmly to her breast, “ Oh! how can I give
thee up ?”
The fear of her friends proved too true in
relation to the one to whom she had united her
destiny for life. We would not enter, howev
er, into the sat red precincts of social life, and
say why she was unhappy, but it was enough
that the one to whom she had given her heart’s
first warm love, could never he her’s. Sur
rounded by such circumstances as these, with
others which wc forbear to mention, she be
came the untimely prey to an alarming dis
ease. And a few short months after her mar
riage she died in the most alarming and excru- j
dating manner, laboring under a high mental
excitement, induced no doubt, by the misera
ble existance slie was doomed to endure. —
Her remains lie interred in the church yard at
without marble or epitaph to tell it was
she, though the greensward of the first spring
that has bloomed over her grave, has scarcely
yet began to put forth in all its verdant beauty,
and lone whippowill has not finished his
mournful requium over her humble grave, or
ceased to chant a dirge to her memory in the
silent midnight hour. To her sweet but trou
bled spirit, I can truely say with the affection
of a brother, and faith of a Christian, “ Requi.
cscat in pace.”
MEDICUS.
Communicated.
Mr. Editor :—Although the Spectator was
written more than a century ago, yet there is
so much of good sense, racidness of stile, ele- i
gance of diction and varitey and real inten
tion to inform and improve the minds of its rea
ders, exhibited in it, that even now, after this
long lapse of years, its freshness and beauty
still lingers around it and excites the mind to
quaff still deeper of its perenial fount of litera
ture.
It is now entitled to the dignified epithet of
one of Dr. Johnson’s ft Black-lettcied” vol
umes—one of the very few works embalmed
in its own virtues, and whose existence will be
the test test of the durability of the English
language.
May I ask the favor that you will insert in
your paper, number ti i ty-thice, which appears
to have teen a contribution from Mr. Hughes,
one of the writers for the Spectator during the
reign of Queen Ann, termed the Agustan
age of Literature in England.
And in lieu of the verses from Horace, ac
cept these lines selected by a young lady from
a number of Confcctionari / verses, which in
this instance is at least discriminating, if not
decidedly poetical :
“If beauty can my love allure,
Tis virtue must that love secure.”
[No. 33.] Saturday, April 7, 1711.
A friend of mine has two daughters, whom
1 w ill call Lmtijia and Daphne ; the former is
one of die greatest beauties of the age in which
she lives, the latter no way remarkable for any
charms in her person. Upon this one cir
cumstance of their outward form, the good &
ill of their life seems to turn. Lictitia has not,
from ter very childhood, heard anything else
but commendations of her features and com
plexion, by which means she is no other than
nature made her, a very beautiful outside.
The conciousness of her charms has rendered
her insupportably vain and insolent towards
all who have to do with her.. Daphne, who
was almost twenty before one civil thing had
been said to her, found herself obliged to ac
quire s<. mi accomplishments to make up for
the want of those attractions which she saw
in her sister. Poor Daphne was seldom sub
mitted to in a debate wherein she was concern
ed ; her discourse had nothing to recommend
it but the good sense of it, and she was al
ways under a necessity to have very well con
sidered what she was to say before she utter
ed it; while Lrctitia was listened to with par
tiality, and approbation sat in the countenance
of those she conversed with, before she com
municated what she had to say. These causes
have produced suitable effects, and Ltetitia is
an insipid a companion as Daphne is an agree
able one. Ltetitia, confident of favour, has
studied no arts to please ; Daphne, despairing
of any inclination towards her person, has
depended wholly on her merit. Lietitia lias
always something in her air that is sullen,
grave, and disconsolate. Daphne has a coun
tenance that appears cheerful, open, and un
concerned. A young gentleman saw Lootitia
this winter at a play, and became her captive.
His fortune was such, that he wanted very
little introduction to speak his sentiments to
her father. The lover was admitted with the
utmost freedom into the family, where a con
strained behaviour, severe looks, and distant
civilities, were the highest favours he could
obtain of Ltetitia; while Daphne used him
with the good humour, familiarity, and inno
cence of a sister: insomuch that he would
often say to her, ‘Dear Daphne, vvert thou
but as handsome as Lrctitia.’ She rc
j ceived such language with that ingenuous and
pleasing mirth, which is natural to a woman
without design. lie still sighed in vain for
Laititia, but found certain relief in the agreea
ble conversation of Daphne. At length,
heartily tired with the haughty impertinence of
Laetitia, and charmed with the repeated in
stances of good-humour he had observed in
Daphne, he one day told the latter, that he
had something to say to her he hoped she
would be pleased with— ‘ Faith, Daphne,’con
tinued he, ‘ I am in love with thee, and de
spise thy sister sincerely.’ The manner of
his declaring himself, gave his mistress occa
sion for a hearty laughter. ‘Nay,’says he,
‘ I knew you would laugh at me, hut 1 will ask
your father.’ He did so ; the father received
his intelligence with no less joy than surprise,
and was very glad he had now no care left but
for his beauty, which lie thought he could carry
to market at his leisure. Ido not know any
think that has pleased me so much a great
while, as this conquest of my friend Daphne’s.
All her acquaintance congratulate her upon
her chance-medley, and laugh at that premed
itating murderer her sister. As it is an argu
ment of a light mind, to think the worse of
ourselves for the imperfections of our persons,
it is equally below us to value ourselves upon
the advantages of them. The female world
seem to be almost incorrigibly gone astray in
this particular; for which reason I shall re
commend the following extract out of a friend’s
letter to the professed beauties, who are a peo
ple almost as unsufferable as the professed
wits.
‘ Monsieur St. Evremond has concluded one ;
of his esspysi-with affirming, that the last sighs :
of a handsome woman are not so much for the I
loss of her life, as of her beauty. Perhaps this
raillery is pursued too far, yet it is turned upon
a very obvious remark, that woman’s strong
est passion is for her own beauty, and that she
values it as her favourite distinction. From
hence it is that all arts, which pretend to im
prove or preserve it, meet with so general a
reception among the sex. To say nothing of i
many false helps and contraband wares of
beauty, which arc daily vended in this great
mart, there is not a maiden gentlewoman of a
good family, in any county of South Britain,
who has not heard of the virtues of May-dew,
or is unfurnished with some receipt or other
m favour of her complexion; and 1 have known
a phvsicinn of learning and sense, after eight
years study in the university, and a course of
travels into most countries of owe the
first raising of his fortune to a cosmetic wash.
‘This-has given me occasion to consider
how so universal a disposition in womankind,
wliieh springs from a laudable motive, the de
sire of pleasing, and proceeds upon an opinion,
not altogether groundless, that nature may te
helped by art, may te turned to their advan
tage. And, methinks, it would be an accepta
ble service to take them out of the hands of
quacks and pretenders, and to prevent their
imposing upon themselves, by discovering to
them the true secret and art of improving
beauty.
‘ln order to do this, before I touch upon it I
directly, it will be necessary to lay down a few :
preliminary maxims, vix.
‘ That no woman can be handsome by the
force of features alone, any more than she ean
be witty only by the help of speech.
‘That pride destroys all symmetry and
grace, and affectation is a more terrible ene
my to fine faces than the small-pox.
‘ That no woman is capable of being beau
tiful, who is not incapable of being false.
* And, that which would be odious in a friend,
is deformity in a mistress.
‘ From these few principles, thus laid down,
it w ill be easy to prove, that the true art of as
sisting beauty consists in embellishing the
whole person by the proper ornaments of vir
tuous and commendable qualities. By this
help alone it is, that those who are the favourite
work of nature, or, as Mr. Dryden expresses
it, the porcelain clay of human kind, become
animated, and are in a capacity of exerting
their charms ; and those who seem to have
been neglected by her, like models wrought in
haste, are capable in a great measure of finish
ing what she has left imperfect.
‘lt is, methinks, a low and degrading idea of
that sex, which was created to refine the joys,
and soften the cares of humanity, by the most
agreeable participation, to consider them mere
ly as objects of sight. This is abridging them
of their natural extent of power, to put them
upon a level with their pictures at Kneller’s.
flow much nobler is the contemplation of
beauty, heightened by virtue, and commanding
our esteem and love, whilst it draws our obser
vation ! How faint and spiritless are the
charms of a coquette, when compared with
the real loveliness of Sophronia’s innocence,
piety, good-humour, and truth ; virtues which
add anew softness to her sex, nud even beau
tify her beauty! That agreeableness which
must otherwise have appeared no longer in
the mo lest virgin, is now preserved in the ten
der mother, the prudent friend, and the faith
ful wife. Colours artfully spread upon can
vass may entertain the eye, but not affect the
heart; and she who takes no care to add to
the natural graces of her persons any excelling
qualities, may be allowed still to amuse as a
picture, but not to triumph as a beauty.
“When Adam is introduced by Milton, de
scribing Eve in Paradise, and relating to the
angel the impressions he felt upon seeing her
at her first creation, he does not represent her
like a Grecian Venus, by her shape or fea
tures, but by the lustre of her mind which
shone in them, and gave them their power of
charming:
“ Grace was in all her steps, heav'n in her eye,
In all her gestures dignity and love !”
‘ Without this irradiating power, the proud,
est fair-one ought to know, whatever her glass
may tell her to the contrary, that her most per
fect features are uninformed and dead.
‘ 1 cannot tetter close this moral, than by a
short epitaph written by Ben Johnson with a
spirit which nothing could inspire but such an
object as I have been describing.
“ Underneath this stone doth lie
As much virtue as could die ;
Which when alive did vigour give
To as much beauty as could Live.”
‘ I am sir your most humble servant,
1L * ‘ R. B.’
For the Southern Post
THE DREAM OF INNOCENCE.
TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SAID HER DREAMING HOURS WERE
THE MOST PLEASANT ONES OF HER EXISTENCE.
Oh, lovely dreamer ! on that brow of thine,
Where Innocence her purest wreathlets twine—
I’d gaze with fondness in thy sleeping hours,
While fancy reigned o’er all thy mental powers ;
Nor gloom of night should hide thee from my view,
Though mantling all beside in sable hue.
Some lovely summer’s eve, when zephyrs blow
From Indian isles, where fragrant spices grow,
And the meek sun shines through the forest trees
Upon thy brow and mingles with the breeze—
Which like some spirit hand gently unfurls
From off thy cheeks those bright Hyperion curls.
O, with what rapture could my fond eyes gaze
Upon those features, basking in the rays
Os a fast sinking sun—which, as they shone
With lustre there, reflected back thy own.
But still more rapturous could my feelings be,
Could I suspeet thou ever dreamed of me—
While I with fondness would my vigil keep,
And thou so sweetly slept, or seemed to sleep.
My fancy brings to view, with magic power,
The beauty of thy form in such an hour ;
And memory, though it flatters every day,
Still brings-thee near while thou art far away.
The joyous smiles of innocence and love,
Touched by some artist’s pencil from above,
With which, as on thy cheeks they richly glow,
Not Tyrian dyes could half such beauty show ;
Are lingering yet in memory’s fondest dreams
To shed upon my heart thy brightest gleams,
And light the way-worn path of constant love,
With some feint stars like those which shine above.
Dream on, pure one—in all thy fondness dream !
And let thy life’s free current, like the stream
Os joyous waters, gladly roll away,
’Till rising upward like the ocean sprat’,
It mingles with the fall of heavenly showers,
And sheds its sweetness on Elysian bowers.
VILLAGE BARD.
From the Southern Literary Messenger.
Blanks.
My earliest recollections of newspaper read
ing are connected with the name of a myste
rious person, who made a conspicuous figure
in our little country paper, under the patriarch
al title of Job Printing. I was at first at
tracted by the stately capitals in which the name
appeared, week after week, before I had be
gun to take much notice of the “ reading mat
ter” printed in small type. As the printer of
the Village Herald chose to put the name of
Mr. Printing in a most conspicuous part of
every number, and in the most glaring lettei
that his fount afforded, it is his fault, not my :
own, that l began to look upon this eminent |
public character with a degree of reverence
akin to superstition. As my skill in reading
grew, and I began to give attention to second
rate, as well as capital articles, I found my
favorite Job enveloped with a tenfold mystery.
Instead of advertising, as his neighbors did,
some commodity for sale, or other business
news, his advertisement was occupied with a
mysterious announcement in relation to him
self, which filled me with astonishment and |
awe. “Job Printing done at this office, with !
neatness and despatch! ” I was reserved and I
addicted to solitary thought, and as I found 1
that there were some tilings which 1 must not
ask about, at least with any hope of a direct
reply, I set this down upon the list, and wait
ed till the secret should unfold itself. llow a
man could be “ done ” with neatness and des
patch, was inconceivable, and ns the printer’s
office was the scene of the performance, I found !
various excuses for frequenting it, and loitering
about it, in the hope that Job might be “done”
some day while I was there. But, alas, I ho
ped in vain, and true to my Pythagorean prin
ciple of silence, 1 returned to the solitary stu
dy of Job’s stereotype advertisement. At
length I was startled by a sudden and impor
tant change in this enigma of typography.
As least my eye one day upon the paper, I
perceived at once that Job’s advertisement was
lengthened. I could not be mistaken, for its
previous dimensions were engraven on my
memory too deeply to be razed. I soon dis
covered the occasion of the change. Beneath
the usual laconic notice anew sentence had
been introduced, composed of seven words ;
“Blanks for sale and executed to order.” I
was at once relieved and disappointed ; for I
found that this idol of my imagination was a
bona fide trader after all just like his neighbors,
qnd my reverence for him sank with my con
viction of this fact. But, at the same time, a
new mystery engrossed my thoughts. The
village where I lived was sustained by manu
\ factures, and even tit that tender age, 1 knew
its staple products, but the blank manufacture
was entirely unknown to me. I could dwell
with painful pleasure on the successive steps
by which I gradually formed a conception of
this novel fabric, but I spare my readers the
detail, and hasten to inform them that my
chronic doubt and wonder was at length de
stroyed by my honored father’s placing in my
hand a sample of the manufacture, winch he
told me was a “law blank.” The joy of the
i discovery was lost in admiration of the blank
' itself, especially when I had got possession of a
number, and hv ddigent comparison, had form
ed a just conception of the genus Blank. The
j singular vagueness and impersonality of these
i strange compositions, their punctilious ahsti
-1 nencc from all details of time or place, their
i scrupulous suppression of the names of individ
| uals, and their studied ambiguity even in rela
tion to the sex of the mysterious non-entity re
ferred to, as evinced by the use of h for
his and her; together with the tantalizing hu
mour of the author, in encouraging the reader
to expect some most particular and technical
announcement, and then leaving a chasm in
the very spot which ought to give the informa
tion—all these peculiarities of style, while they
perplexed me, charmed me too, and I became
intoxicated with a fond ambition to employ mv
time and talents as a writer of blanks. Never
shall I forget the day on which 1 mustured
courage to communicate this purpose to my
father. The loud laugh of derision which as
sailed my ear, when I expected his applause I
and approbation, went like a dagger to my
heart; hut even that pang was forgotten in
the shock which was to follow. I shudder
when I think of the cold-blooded irony and un
disguised contempt with which my heartless I
parent heard and answered my appeal to the f
distinguished reputation of Job Printing as a
proof that the blank business was both lucra
tive and honorable. Never let me feel again
what I then felt, on being told that my imagi
nary man was a mechanical operation, his
Jewish name an English noun, his surname a
mere particle! Those who have experienced
the sudden demolition of long cherished fancies,
may, perhaps, appreciate my feelings at that •
moment. May they never feel the consequen- j
ces which I felt. My intellectual being had
teen so bound up in the existence, personality,
and future acquaintance of the great Job Print
ing, that his sudden disappearance from the
catalogue of entities, impaired my understand
ing. Let this te my excuse for incoherence
or absurdity. Being thus unfitted for fresh
mental effort, and my test days having been
consumed in earnest preparation for my cho
sen walk oflife, I was under the necessity of
following, though with a feeble mind and bro
ken heart, the course I had begun. Mv inter
vening days have, therefore, all teen spent in
bringing to perfection the art of composing
blanks. I soon found that mere business
blanks had been already perfected by business
men ; and I determined therefore to dc
myself to b'anks of a superior order, and if, * '
sible to introduce this sort of composite./’ o’' 0 ’'
all the higher walks of public life, ’pj “ i:r j
have not teen influenced by mercenary n
tives, is apparent from the* long and \ v /°*
years of silence, during which I have beeirtU
ing out mv strength in sol'tude, instead ofthr/'
ing my unfinished projects on the notice ■
the public, or the patent office. Having,/'
approached so near perfection in the maiiufT
ture, as to feci secure of the result, and b//
sensible of the approach of age, I am constrain
ed to guard again* unknown contirg enc ;'
and human fraud, by laying a few samples
mv art before the public. I request the use of
a few columns, therefore, to exhibit my Con
gressional, academical, convivial, and O tU
blanks, without noto or comment, or anythin®
to recommend, and them beyond th< )
own intrinsic merit. In the meantime I su /
scribe myself by that name which I have f or
years assumed. Your friend,
JOB I’BINTINg,
SUPPRESSION OF DUELLING,
The Philadelphia Herald and Sentinel throw?
out some hints for the formation of a Nation
al Anti-Duelling Society, involving also thees.
tablislnnent of a Court of Honor, to consist of
at least three gentlemen of high standing, wjtf,
right of appeal, &c. &c. Now all this sounds
very beautiful in theory, but in practice has a],
ready been found impracticable and useless,
Not only so, but in principle it is as ancientas
any other part of the nonsense of duelling; and
is thus happily ridiculed by Shakspear.—D{,
troit Post.
Touchstone. I have had four quarrels, and
like to have fought one#
Jacques. And how was that ta’en up f
Touchstone. Faith we met and found th?
quarrel, was upon the seventh cause ?
Touchstone. Upon a lie seven times re.
moved :—as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of
a certain courtier’s beard ; lie sent me word,
if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in
the mind it was; this is called the Retort Cour.
teous. If I lent him word again it was not
well cut, he would send me word he cut it to
suit himself; this is called the Quip Modal.
If, again, it was not well cut, he doubted my
judgment; this is called the Reply Churlish.
If again, it was not well cut, lie would answer,
l spake not true; this is called the Reproof
| Valiant. If, again, it was not well cut, he
would sajpl lie; this is called the Counter,
check Quarrelsome, and so to the Lie Gram.
I stanlial, and the Lie Direct.
Jacques. And how oft did you say his
beard was not well cut.
Touchstone. I durst go no further then
the L/c Circumstantial, nor durst he give me
the Lie Direct, and so we measured swords
and parted.
Jacques. Can you nominate in order now,
the decrees of the lie ?
Touchstone. Oh, sir, we quarrel in print by
hooks, as you have books for good manners:
I will name you the degrees. The first, the
Retort Courteous; the sceond the Quip Mod.
• est ; the third, the Reply Churlish ; the fourth,
j the Reproof Valiant; the sixth, the Lie with
i Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct,
All these you may avoid but the Lie Direct,
and you may avoid that too with an If. 1
knew when seven justices could not take up a
quarrel ; but when the parties were met them
selves, one of them thought but of an If, as If,
you said so, then I said so ; and they shook
hands and swore brothers. Your If is the on.
ly peace-maker ; much virtue in If.
MAMMOTH BONES.
In the excavation of the Brunswick and A
latamaha Canal, there has teen discovered,
about five miles from this place, a large depos
it of hones of extraordinary size, and in a re
markable state of preservation. Several ver
tebrae, of eight inches in transverse diameter,
have been discovered. Teeth, ofwhichthetop
is nine inches in the longer diameter and five in
ches in breadth, and about as large as a man’s
lmt, have also been excavated. These were
evidently of a moral character. There have
teen found also, smaller teeth of more solid
structure, with pointed crowns, and apparent
ly belonging to some carnivorous animal.—
Portions of large tusks have also been excava
ted, of the perfect structure of ivory. These
last were much crumbled, but to judge by the
size of the circles marked in the ivory, the ori
ginal diameter of the tusks could not have been
less than ten or twelve inches. It is probable
that the principal deposit of bones has scarce
ly teen reached as yet, though several cart
loads have been excavated, all that have yet
been discovered w ere within six feet of the
surface. They lie mostly embedded in a bin*
clay. Thus far they have not teen uncover
ed with care, and no notes have teen taken ot
the relative positions in which the different spe
cies of bones have teen found. In future the
excavation w ill proceed with the attention due
to the discovery of such curiosities. Me be
lieve they are the first of the kind that have
been found in Georgia. Specimens "ill
forwarded to scientific societies, and we wait
the result of their examination with great in
terest.
In the salt marshes upon the shores of ° ur
bay are found, at the depth of from six to in
teen feet, frequent roots and stumps of the cy
press—a tree which grows only in fi cs ‘'
marshes. May it not be, that the Alatamaha
once discharged its waters at this port, and