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POETRY.
From the Louisville Journal.
When the Heart of the Minstrel is Breaking',
BV WILLIAM WALLACE.
When the heart of the minstrel is breaking
With sorrows by others unknown,
And he hears from his young harp, awaking
In darkness, no calm-breaking tone,
Let him look to the splendors that cluster
Around the bright land of his Birth,
And forget, in their glorious lustre,
The dark-rolling griefs of the earth!
Oh! who, where the blue-beaming river
Dashes on to its home of the deep,
Like an arrow let loose from the quiver,
Could pause on its margin and weep,
When a vision so lovely and splendid,
Like Liberty, bursts on the eye,
Audit seems that the soul had ascended
The blue-girdled halls of the sky ?
What grief, though the heart may be broken,
Should fetter his soul when he sees,
Like a brilliant tnillenial token.
Our Banner unrolled to the breeze—
While the Pleiads that shone through creation,
But lost from their homes in the blue,
Seem met on the flag of his nation,
And given again to the view' ?
When the wing of the morn is unfurling,
Its roseate light o’er the vale,
Or the cloud of the tempest is curling
Like the banner of God on the gala,
Oh ! who would permit in that hour
The ills of his lot to o’ershade
The thought of Columbia’s power,
Thus in sunshine and darkness displayed ?
Then bring forth the harp, so long darkling
Beneath the remembrance of wrong,
And give out its melody, sparkling
All o’er with the star-burst of song;
Ay, sing with a spirit unshaken
By the tempests of sorrow' and ill,
And see the bold Patriot awaken
To the words of its melody still!
MISCELLANY.
THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH.
We have read ;md heard many arguments
for and against the propriety of ‘ Capital Pun
ishment,’ as the vague phrase is. ( Capital
Punishment being simply the greatest punish
meat, abolishing tlie penalty of Death will
only make the next highest Capital, and not
abolish Capital Punishment entirely.) But we
were about to say that the following passage
which we gleam from a strange, wild impro
bable tale by Jerrvld the Dramatist in the last
New Monthly, entitled ‘The Lesson of Life,’
gives the best and most striking view of the
question that we have met. It is a dialogue in
tlie gaol of Puris between tlie cominou ltung
uj iii and a monk who had visited the prison
on on errand of mercy :
* * * Jacques Tenebrae, tl»e hangman of
Paris, quaffed bis wine and wuter, and drew
bis chair near tliecliair of Father George, tlie
most rigid and conscientious monk of tlie or
der—such, at least, was his reputation-—and,
in a tone of familiar confidence—for tlie friar
was Antoinette’s confessor —said, “ Father
George, I want you to iustruct me: never
mind that poor lud—poor innocent!” cried
criod Jacques, observing that the monk glan
ced at the vacant Narcisse; “Yes, I want
your counsel in an affair of conscience,” cried
tlie hangman.
“ Thou shalt htive it,” was the benevolent
promise of the monk.
“ Thou hast called death a punishment, most
holy father let us debate that simple point
and Jacques sidled still closer to his reverend
guest.
The declining sun shone through the case
ment, and falling upon the heads of the execu
tioner and the monk, bent, as they were to
wards each other, presented a strange and
striking contrast of character as developed in
their features. The monk’s face was long
and sallow, marked with deep lines about the
mouth, which s«> med restless w’ith ill-conceal
ed passions; his eye was black, full and heavy
—a joyless, unreposing eye. The counte
nance of Pierre Tenebra) was round and some
what jovial: a love of mirth appeared to twin
kle in his look, and his lips seemed made for
laughter; his black hair and beard were
sprinkled with white, and his complexion was
a clear, deep brown, flushed in the cheek with
wholesome red. The sun, shining upon these
heads, brought out their separate opposite
characters in the strongest relief to caclt other.
A stranger, looki tg at them from a distance,
would have thought the hangman some hum
ble, yet wealthy, good-tempered citizen of
Paris, consulting with his household adviser,
on a daughter’s portion, a son’s patrimony,
or some other domestic arrangement. \ cry
different was the subject which at that hour
supplied tlie discourse of Jacques Tenebrae,
th© hangman of Paris, and Father George, the
austere Capuchin.
«Thou dost call death a punishment ?”
repeated the executor. “I live by it, and
should, therefore, with the wisdom of this
world ”
<• The wisdom of this world is arrant folly.”
interrupted the Capuchin.
“I am of thy ghostly opinion,” observed Jac
ques Tenebrae, “ as to a good deal of it. Yet,
death being make a punishment, makes my
profession ; and, my profession —I speak this
to thee in private, and as a friend—my profes
sion is little less than arrant folly ; a mistake,
a miserable blunder!”
“The saints protect me! what meanest
thou by such wild discourse ?” inquired Fa
ther George.
“ Hear me out, listen to the hangman ?”
cried Jacques Tenebra;. ‘There is another
world, eh? good Father George ?”
The Capuchin moved suddenly from the
side of the querist, and surveyed him with a
look of horror.
“ Nav, nay, answer me,” said Jacques; “but
for the lorm of argument. ’Twas for that 1
put the question!’
“ The scarcely lawful even so to put it,’
said the Monk. “However, let it be granted
—there is another world.
“And all men must die!” asked Jacques
Tenebra?. “Eh f—it is not so t”
BV r. C. PENDLETON.
VOL. 11.
“We come into the world doomed to the
I penalty,” replied the Capuchin. “ Death is
the common lot of all.”
“Os the good, and the wise, and the un
j wise ? Eh, Father ?” cried Jacqttes
j “ Tis very certain,” answered the Monk.
“If such, then, bethecase,” said Tenebrae,
“if no virtue, no goodness, no wisdom, no
strength, .can escape death—if death lie made,
I as you say, the penalty of the good, why should
; it be thought the punishment of the wicked ?
Why should it lie thought the only doom for
the blackest guilt, which, it may be at the very
same hour, the brightest virtue is condemned
to suffer ? Answer me that ?” cried the hang
man.
i “ ’Tis a point above thy apprehension, Jac
ques Tenebrae,” replied Father George, appa
rently desirous of changing the discourse.
I “ Let it rest, Jacques, for abler wits than
j thine.”
“You would not kill a culprit’s soul, Father
j George ?” asked Jacques, heedless of the wish*
j cs of the Capuchin.
“What horror dost thou talk!” exclaimed
the Monk.
j “But the argument,” said the unmoved
Jacques. “Nay, l’tn sure thou wouldst not.
; 1 have heard thee talk such consolation Jo a
j culprit that, at the time, I have thought it a
j blessed thing to die. Well, lie died—and
| the laws, as the cant runs, were avenged. The
J repentant thief, the penitent bloodshedden, w as
| dismissed from the further rule of man ; per-
I haps, the very day he was punished, a lun
j died pious, worthy souls were called from the
| world : he was discharged from the earth,
I and—but thou know’est what thou hast twenty
! times promised such mid-doers, win n I had
| done my office on them.”
“ Thou art ignorant, Jacques Tenebra;—
I basely ignorant; thou art so familiarized with
| death, it has lost its terrors to thee,” said the
Capuchin, who again strove to shift the dis
course.
“Ofthat anon, Father George; as for death
lob the scaffold, ’tis nothing—but 1 have seen
j tiie death of a good man, in his Christian bed,”
said Jacques, “and that was awful.”
“ Thou dost own as much ?” observed
Father George, “ thou dost confess it.”
“ Awful, yet clieering ; and ’twas while I
beheld it that tlie thought came to me of my
ow'u worthlessness ”
“ Asa sinner,” interrupted tlie Capuchin.
“And hangman,” cried Jacques. “ I thought
it took from the holiness, the beauty, if 1 may
say it, of the good man’s fate—the common
fate, as you rightly call it, father —to give death
ta the villain, to make it the last punishment,
by casting him at one fling from the same
world with the pious, worthy creature, who
died yesterday. Now, the law would not.
could not if it w ould, kill the soul, and, but,
thou knowest what passes between thy broth
erhood and the condemned,thou knowest what
thou dost promise to the penitent culprit, and,
therefore, to kill a man for his crimes would be
a fitting, a reasonable custom if this w orld ,
were ail, if there were nought beyond. Then,
see you, Father George, thou wouldst hasten
tlie evil-doer iuto nothingness; now-, dost thou
speed him into felicity. Eh ? Am I not right, I
-is it not so, holy Father ?”
“And is such thy thought—thy true
thought?” inquired the Capuchin.
“ I thank my stars it is, else I had not held j
my trade so long. Punishment! Bah! I calli
myself the rogue’s chamberlain, taking them j
from a wicked world, and putting them quiet
ly to rest. When he who signs the warrant
for their exit, and thinking closely what we!
all are, ’tis bold writing, i’ faith—must some!
day die, too, when the ermine tippet must, at I
some time, lie down with the hempen string, it
is, methinks, a humerous wax of punishment, j
this same hanging.”
“I tell thee, Jacques Tenebra',” cried the i
Priest, “ thy course faculties, made familiar
with such scenes, cannot apprehend their aw
fulness —their public use. The example
that ”
“ IIo! hold you there, Father—example !
’Tis a brave example to throttle a man in the!
public streets : why, I know the faces of my
audiences as well as Dominique did. I can
show you a hundted who never fail at the gal-1
lows’ loot to come and gather good example.
Do you think, most holy father, that the 'mob
of Paris come to a hanging as to a sermon—to
amend their lives at the gibbet ? No: many
come as they would take an extra dram ; it
gives their blood a fillip—stirs them for an
hour or two: many to see a fellow man act a
scene which they themselves must one day
undergo: many as to the puppets and bal
lad-singers at the Pont Neuf: but for ex
ample, why, Father, as I am an honest
executioner, 1 have in my day done my
j office upon twenty, all of whom w'ere con
| stant visiters of years’ standing at my morn
j ing levees.”
“Is it possible ?” asked the monk,
j “ Believe the hangman,” answered Jacques
Tct ebra?.
“ And thou wouldst punish no evil-doer with
death ?” inquired Father George.
“As I am an honest minister of the law.
I and live by rope, not I, for this sufficient rca
S son: nature having made death the punish
ment of all men, it is too good a portion for
rogues; the more especially when softened by
the discourses of thy brotherhood.”
“And thou wouldst lmng no man ?” again
asked the Friar with rising wrath.
| “ Though I speak it to my loss,” cried Jac
| ques, “ not I!”
' T.ie sting of reproach is the truth of it.
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MACON, (Ga.) SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 27, 1838.
THE TIRE AND THE ENGLISHMAN.
A Mr. Urquhart, who has travelled exten
sivelyattd resided for many years in Eastern
countries, has lately published a book of his
adventures and observations, in which we find
the subjoined curious antithetical portraiture
of Turks and Englishmen.
* Europeans commemorate the laying ofthe
foundation stone: Turks celebrate the cover
ing in ofthe roof. Among the Turks, a beard
is a mark of dignity ; with us, of negligence.
Shaving the head is, with them, a custom ;
with us a punishment. We take off our gloves
before our sovereign : they cover their hands
with their sleeves. We enter an apartment
with our head uncovered ; they enter an a
partwith with tlie feet uncovered. With them
the men have their necks and their arms naked;
with us, women have their arms and necks
naked. With us, the women parade in gay
colours,arid the men in sombre; with them,
in both cases, it is the reverse. With us, the
men ogle the women ; in Turkey, the women
ogle the men. With us, the lady looks shy
and bashful; iu Turkey it is the gentleman.
In Europe, a lady cannot visit a gentleman ;
in Turkey, she can. In Turkey, a gentleman
cannot visit u lady; in Europe lie can. There
the ladies always wear trowsers, and the gen
tleman sometimes were petticoats. With us,
the red cap is the symbol of license; with
them it is the hat. In our rooms the roof is
white and the wall is coloured, with them the
wall is white and the roof is colored. In Tur
key, there are gradations of social rank with
out privileges; in England, there are privileges
without corresponding social distinction.
With us, social forms and etiquette supersede
domestic ties; with them, the etiquette of re
lationship supersedes that of society. With
us, the schoolmaster appeals to the authority
of the parent; with them, the parent has to ap
peal to the superior authority and responsibili
ty of the schoolmaster. With us, a student is
punished by being ‘confined to chapel;’ with
them, a scholar is punished by being excluded
from the mosque. Their children have the man
ners of men; our men the manners of children.
Among us,masters require characters with their
servants; in Turkey, servants inquire into the
character of masters. We consider dancing
a polite recreation : they consider it a disgrace
ful avocation.
In Tu.key, religion restrains the imposition
of political taxes; in England, tlie govern
ment impose* taxes for religion. In England,
the religion of the state exacts contributions
from sectarians; in Turkey, the religion of
the state protects the property of sectarians
against government taxes. An Englishman
will be astonished at what he calls the absence
of public credit in Turkey ; the Turk will he
amazed at our national debt. The first will
despise the Turks for having no organization
to facilitate exchange ; the Turk will be as
tounded to perceive, in England, laws to im
pede the circulation of commerce. The Turk
will wonder how government can be carried
on with divided opinions; tlie Englishman will
not believe that without Opposition, indepen
dence can exist. In Turkey, commotion
may exist without disaffection ; in England,
disaffection exist without commotion. A Eu
ropean, in Turkey, will consider the adminis
tration of justice defective; a Turk in Eu
rope, will consider the principles of law un
just. Tlie first would esteem property, in
Turkey, insecure against violence; the se
cond would consider property, in England,
insecure against law. The first would mar
vel how, without lawyers, law can lie adminis
tered ; the second w'ould marvel how, with
lawyers* justice can be obtained. Tlie first
would be startled at the want of a check upon
the central government; the second w ould be
amazed at the absence of control over the local
administration. We cannot conceive immu
tability in the principles of tlie state compati
ble with well being ; they cannot conceive
that what is good and just is capable of
change.
The Englishman will esteem tho Turk un
happy because he has no public amusement ;
the Turk will reckon the man miserable who
lacks amusements at home. The English
man w ill look on the Turk as destitute ot taste
because he has no pictures; the Turk will
consider the Englishman destitute of feeling,
from his disregard of nature. The Turk will
be horrified at prostitution and bastardy ; the
Englishman at polygamy. The first will he
disgusted at our haughty treatment of our in
feriors ; the second will revolt at the purchase
of slaves. They will reciprocally call each
other fanatic in religion—dissolute in morals
—uncleanly in habits—unhappy of the dcvel
opement oftheir sympathies and their tastes—
destitute severally of political freedom—each
will consider the other unfit for good society.
; The European will term the Turk pompous
and sullen ; the Turk will call the European
flippant and vulgar. It may therefore be ima
gined how interesting, friendly and harmoni
ous must be the intercourse between the two.
The sight even of a felled tree is painful:
still more is that of the fallen forest, with all
its green branches on the ground, withering,
j silent and at rest, where once they glittered in
j the dew and the sun, and trembled in the
breeze. But there is even a worse image of
vegetable death than this—tlie impression of
which passes not away. It is the lofty trees
ofthe forest still erect —the speaking records
of former life and of strength unsubdued—
! stripped by the winds anti scattered by the
lightning, and like gigantic skeletons, throw.
! ing far and wide their white and bleached
1 tones to the storms and the rain, the wltirld
-1 winds and the winter.
THE ritOFESSOR OF SIGNS.
Or, two ways of telling a story.
In the days of King James the first, the
“Solomon” of England, the Embassador from
the Kingdom of Spain, in conversation with
I James, spoke of the difficulties he met with in
his intercourse with strangers, and lamented
j that there were notin the colleges Professors,
to teach the language of Signs, which should
be a universal language among the jieople of
all countries. 11 is Majesty, as much given
to the sin of boasting ns any man need be,
declared that at his college of Aberdeen
there was ntt office, a Professor, who
taught the language of signs. O, said the
Embassador, I will go and converse with him.
But, said the Kin", it is a great way off, many
hundred miles. If it were ten thousand lea
gues I will see him. I will start off’ to-mor
row. Saying which, lie bowed and left the
King. James, finding in what a dilemma he
had placed himself, immediately wrote to the
heads ofthe college, stating what he had done,
and ordering them to prepare immediately for
the Embassadors' visit, and to get off' as well
as they could. Tlie professors were bothered
at first to guess what to do ; but the King’s
command they dated nt t disobey : at 1 tst they
thought of one Geordy,a droll fellow living in
the town, who had but one eye, whom they
j believed would bring them off if anyone could.
Gcordy was accordingly procured, and was
duly tutored, wigged and gowned to prepare
for the Embassador. In due time the Em.
bassador arriving made known his business,
and was ushered with due ceremony into the
room where Geordy was, the professors re
maining trembling in an adjoining one.
The Embassador, after a brief conver
sation with Geordy, returned to the room
where the college officers were, and de
clared himself highly gratified with his in
tercourse with the Proiessorof Signs. They
wished him to give particulars. “When
I entered the room, I held up one finger sig
nifying there is one God. He replied by
holding up two, meaning that there were two,
the Father and tlie Son. I held up three sig
nifying the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. He
answered 1 y clenching his hand, signifying
that these three were one.” (For the Embas
sador was a “ good Catholic,” and of course
believed in the sublime mystery.) “ I then
look from my pocket an orange, signifying
that God was good in giving us the luxuries
of life, lie answered by holding »p a piece
of bread, signifying that God gives not only
the luxuries, but the necessaries oflife.” The
Embassador then left the place, and Geordy
was called in to give his version of what took
place. “The rascal,” said he, “dont you
think the first provoking thing he did was to
hold up one finger, as much as to say you
have got but one eye. I held up two firtg rs
to let him know that I thought my one eye as
good as his two. He then held up three fin
gers, to say there were but three between us.
I clenched my fist, shook it in his face, and
had a mind to knock him down, and would
have done it but for displeasing your worships.
Well, then, to provoke nt still further, he held
up an orange as much as to say, ‘ see here—
your poor, beggarly', cold country can’t pro
duce the like of this.' I held up a piece of
barley bannock, to tell him I did n’t care a
d—n lor his orange so long as I could get
this. But I’m sorry after all, I didn’t knock
the rascal down, and will do it if he provokes
me again.”
THE DISOWNED LAMB.
In one of my morning walks, I met a lad,
carrying in his arms a disconsolate looking
little lamb ? With a cadence expressive of
commisseration and tenderness, he replied,
“ Its mother will not own it.” I felt sorry
fertile poor little creature, and was indulging
my sympathies in his behalf, when, suddenly',
my thoughts took another turn —even towards
the thousands of disowned children, who sink
in despondency, or cry in the bitterness of
their souls, because their u tfecling parents ut
terly neglect them. In the midst of this asso
ciation of ideas, that impressive passage in
Isaiah, 49th chapter, was called to mind—
“ Can a woman forget her sucking child, that
she should not have compassion on the son of
her womb? Yea, they may forget, yet will
1 not forget thee. Behold, I have graven thee
on the palms of my hands; thy walls are con
tinually before me.” It was also natural to
think of Isa. xl. 11. “ lie shall feed his flock
like a shepherd; he shall gather the lambs
with his arm. and carry' them in his bosom.”
Our Saviour encourages us to obtain instruc
tion from the lilies of the field, from the fowls
of the air, and from the lambs of the fold. The
most common.place events may suggest to us
delightful reflections. Our most profitable
thoughts mav thus have their origin. If we
would always be ready to cherish such sugges
tions, we should never be destitute ot food for
the mind. In this way we have access to na
ture’s vast library.
The European correspondent of the Wor
cester Spy, writes:—Apropos to Galvanism.
—A fact of no inconsiderable importance has
recently l>een demonstrated by a French Phy
sician. It is this: that the two surfaces of the
human tongue are alicaps in o)iposilc states of
electricity, the upper being if I remember right,
electro-negative, and the under electro.positive.
This fact is of great importance to the phy
siologist, and it may lie the means of eventually
enabling us to arrive at some positive knowl
edge in regard to animal magnetism—at the
power of demonstrating whether that present
I hobby has, in reality', a ‘ local habitation’ as
! well as * a name.’ ”
C. R. IIANLEITF.R, PRINTER.
MATRIMONY.
In the married life we have comfort in dis
kless, advice in difficulties, attention in sick
-1 ness, and consolation in the hour of death. But
! the man who stands alone in society, who has
jno partner in his joys, or companion in his
; sufferings—how miserable must be his situa
tion ! Who pities him when he is misjudged
or misrepresented by the world ? Who
watches by his side, when death is stealing
upon him—or weeps over his lonely grave ?
: Alas! he is entirely deserted —he is a stranger
I among men.
The surest foundation of connubial happi
ness is religion. The husband who is desti
tute of this, who never makes a Deity the sub
ject of meditation, is more likely to run into
I vice and immorality, and abandon his family
jto misery' and despair. The wife, also, whose
i heart is not warmed and animated with reli-
I gious emotions, is divested of one of her most
'inestimable charms, and is less capable of
soothing the rugged sorrows of her husband.
jTlte woman whose soul is not consecrated
with the indwelling of a God, is not suscepti
j bio of those high perfections which are so pc
tculiarly the ornament of her sex - . Newly
j married people, if they prize future happiness,
j should not regard this subject with indifler
! ence.
I The happiness of tlie husband and wife Is
mutually derived from each other. They pnr
j take alike of joy and sorrow, glory and igno
! tnony, wealth and poverty. They are the
| same to each other, in all the circumstances
:oF life. The misfortune of the one is the
I misfortune of the other. Nothing but the
' grave can sever their connexion. Even the
bonds which unite brothers and sisters, or pa
rents and children, are far less endearing.
The youth has grown into manhood. He is
now contending with the difficulties of the
world. He receives no longer the protection
of a lather or mother. The old are sinking in
the grave around him. Ilis only solace is the
wile of his bosom. She, pet haps, has fled
from the paternal roof, willing to sacrifice
every tiling for his sake, and now clings fond,
ly to him lor protection and support. She,
therefore, is his chief delight, and, by her ten
| derness and love, can sweeten his toil, and
scatter sunshine in the pathway of existence.
A Dr. Alt KISS.
A curious trial wa» recently lield nt Middle,
sex Sessions, in England. Thomas Saver
land, the prosecutor, stated, that on tlie day
j after Christmas, he was iu the tap room where
the defendant, Caroline Newton, and her sis
ter, who liar! come from Birmingham, were
i present. The latter jokingly observed that
she had promised her sweetheart that no man
should kiss her while absent. It being holi
day time, Saverland considered this a chal
lenge, and caught hold of her and kissed her.
The young woman took it as a joke, but her
sister, the defendant, said she would like as
little of that kind of fun as he pleased. Saver
land told her, if she was angry, ho would kiss
her ttl.se ; he then tried to do it, and they fell to
the ground. On rising the woman struck
him; he again tried to kiss her, and in the scuf
fle she bit •ffhis nose, which she spit out of her
mouth. The action «as brought to recover
damages for tlie loss of the nose. The defen
dant said he had no business to kiss her; if she
wanted kissing she had a husband to kiss her,
I a better looking man lluin ever tlie prosecutor
was. The jury, without liesitation acquitted
her; and the chairman said, that if any man
attempted to kiss a woman against her will,
she had a right to bite off'his nose if she had a
: fancy for so doing.
RF.LIGION.
Conceive ai arch wanting enly the key
stone, and still supported by tlie centring,witti
out which it would fall into a panless heap. It
is now held up merely by the supports be
neath it. Add tiif keystone, and il wiil stand
a thousand years, although every prop should
be shattered or fall in dust. Now, it is idle to
say that this change in the principle of the
structure was accomplished by the mere ad
dition of one or more stone. Tlie difference
is not only that of increase, but also that of
almost magical transmutation. No stone be
fore helped to hold up its neighbor; and each
having its ow n prop, any one might have been
removed without shaking the support of the
others. Now, each is essential to the whole,
which is sustained, not from without, but by
an inward law. So is it with religion. It
not only adds anew feeling and sanction to
those previously existing in the mind, but
j unites them by a different kind of force, and
one for the reception of which all the invisible
frame was prepared and planned, though it
may stand for years unfinished, upheld by
I outward and temporary appliance, and mani
festing its w ant of tlie true bond and centre
which it has not yet received. Blackwood.
Wc look with wonder at the spectacle which
ns'ronomy presents to us, of the thousands of
worlds and systems of worlds weaving to
gether their harmonious movements into one
great whole. But the view of the hearts of
men furnished by his history, considered as a
combination of biographies, is immeasurably
more awful and pathetic. Every water-drop
of the millions in that dusty stream is a living
heart, a world of worlds ! How vast and
strange, and sad and living a thing he only
knows nt all who has gained knowledge by
labor, experience, and suffering; and he knows
it not perfectly. ibid.
A State Medical Society is about to be
formed in Louisiana.
From the Metropolitan for September.
ABSURDITIES OF HUMAN LIFE.
To rise early on a cold morning when you
have nothing to do.
Not to go to bed when you are sleepy, be
cause it is not a certain hour.
To stand in water to your knees fishing for
trout, when you can buy them in a clean dry
market.
Curates, younger brothers, &c., mam-in"
out of hand ? and when they find themselves
with a numerous progeny, lamenting the seve
; rity of their lot, and abusing bishops, elder
j brothers and patrons of all denominations for
! not providing for them.
To suppose that every .one likes to ltear
your child cry, and you talk nonsense to it.
The perpetual struggle of affectation to pass
j for an oddity-.
Old men affecting The gaiety and gallantry
;of youth ; young men assuming the gravity
and sanctity of age.
To the loss of time and money at the card
table to add that of your temper. *
j An honest thriving soap-boiler imagines ho
has a talent foi public speaking, commence*
orator, and cannot comprehend, after many a
speech, why tlie government does not become
better, nor why his business
worse.
You have a dozen Bhildren with different
dispositions and capacities, and you give them
all the same education.
'Io send your son to travel into foreign
countries, ignorant of the history, manners
and language of his own.
To tell a person from whom you solicit a
loan of money that you are in want efit.
You lie in bed till eleven, take a luxurious
breakfast, lounge about your park, return to a
j sumptuous board at seven, play at cards till
midnight, eat heartily again at supper, ami
wonder that you do not enjoy a perfect elas
ticity and health of mind and body.
To call a man hospitable who indulges his
vanity by displaying his service of plate to his
rich neighbors frequently, but was never
known to given dinner to any one really in
want of it.
You indulge your child in an unlimited
passion for fine clothes and good living, and
| are afterwards shocked at his being a coxcomb
i and a glutton.
That any man should despair of success in
any the most foolish undertaking, in a world
so overstocked with fools.
Such a man is indebted to you in a large
sum of money, and has no means in possession
jor in prospect of paying you ; that it may be
utterly impossible for him to earn it by his in
dusty, you immure him in a prison for the re*
mainder of his days.
Y ou make a very foolish match, and grave
ly ask a judicious friend his opinion of your
j choice.
To suppose that all men in public life must
be actuated by corrupt or interested motives.
i wo armies, who know not, even the cause
of quarrel, previously indulging in the work
of slaughter on the sound of a trumpet and
( onlteatof a drum instantaneously stopping
and reciprocally performing every act of kind
| ness.
A man of superior talents and accomplish
| ments is always pronounced conceited by the
'c)«v,,, a n-Locuiinoi ttiuterstaml turn. -
With all the experiei ce of the vicissitudes of
fortune and tlte decline of empires, to think
1 our own immortal.
j To desire the chambermaid of an inn to air
your sliects, or tlie ostler to feed your horse,
i To salute your most intimate friend when
j he is walking with any very great man.
To think every one u man of spirit who
i fights a duel.
To doubt what travellers' - report, because it
contradicts our own experience, or surpass©*
our own conceptions.
To pronounce those the most pious who
never absent themselves from church.
To take offence at the address or carriage
I of any man, with whose mind and conduct we
1 are acquainted.
Not to be profoundly deferential to a quar.
relsome ntan.
To expect punctuality from an idle man.
In a severe paroxysm of gout, you deter
mine never to commit excess again.
To laugh at the appearance/ir manners of
; foreigners, ts whom we must appear equally
ridiculous.
To congratulate a* hypochondriac on his
good looks.
To tell a confirmed beauty she looks much
better than she did the last session.
To occupy the attention of a large compa
ny by the recital of an occurrance interesting
to yourself alone.
To ask advice of a man who has always
mismanaged his own affairs.
To indulge in all manner of excess and vice,
and imagine yourself cunning enough to con
ceal it from tli 3 world.
To subscribe to any indefatigable collector
for public charities, who has no visible means
of subsistence.
To give any man wise in his own conceit,
or superior to you in life, a candid opinion
when he asks your advice.
To give advice to, or argue with a fool.
ASTROLOGY.
A celebrated writer, treating on this sub
ject, said it was remarkable that among the
many predictions which have been made by
astrologers, from time to time, so few of them
have been verified. History, however, records
many instances where the predictions of astro
logers have been fulfilled. In the present age,
w ien such events occur, they are merely con
sidered remarkable coincidences.
The Duke of Athol, uncle of James 1., of
Scotland, had been assured by a pretender to
the occult sciences, that he would live to be a
king, and would be crowned publicly in pre
sence of a large assembly of the people. Ho
put faith in this prediction, and, to hasten tho
fulfilment of the prophecy, caused his nephew
to be assassinated. But he paid tlie penalty of
his crime—and was led to execution in one of
the public squares of Edinburgh. He was
taunted and reviled by the populace, who
placed on his head an iron crown, on which
was inscribed “ The King of Traitors.”
The fate of JEschylus, the Greek tragedian,
is well known. It had been predicted that he
would be killed by the falling of a house. One
day, while he was walking in the fields, at a
distance from any human habitation, an eagle,
which had carrier! off a tortoise in his talohs,
NO. 1.