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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. DEVOTED TO LIT2BATUP.E, INTERNAL IMPROVEMENT. COMMERCE. AGRICULTURE. TOREIGN AND DOMESTIC NEWS. AMUSEMENT, fitc. «tc. TERMS I THREE DOLLARS, IN ADVANCE FOUR DOLLARS, AFTER THREE MONTHS. 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.