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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