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tpi# swrawsr* • —— ■ .- _ - ■ ■ ■ • - ——-■ -■ j \ tu'w edition of Dr. Peivivul’s poems,(says the INew-Yoik Pomnic'itirtl Advertiser,) i- now in flu; press. The first poem in the roljertion is mi original tide, entitled, lhe Wreck, wlin li extends to about lUOO lines. A can-tul penis,.l of this performance has satisfied ns that a vv'll do no discredit to the established repu tation of tlie author. The plot of tlie title is very simple . Two lovers me dividiLl !>y i)u*ir parents on account of their uiicipial condition lit;—whereupon the youth leaves his home secretly, and utter a lout; absence retimisto he wrecked in of port. In this slender plot there is nothin'.’ very striking—hut the manner of conducting it h made tlie vehicle, of many fine description -, and tender and exulted sen tiiiicnts in which bear the stamp ot a highly gifted nud feeling mind. The follow ing are sped nrus of the author’s power ot de scription—it is a common object, yet genius has here gifted it'with hues of such \ivid reali ty that it comes to the mind w ith all the ze -t of novelty: It is the rising ol a breeze, and the departure of the ship which hears away the love r. They looked upon the waters, and below Another sky swelled out, set thick with stars, . And ehcipiered with light clouds, which from the North, fame Hitting o’er the dim-seen hills and shot Like birds across the bay. A distant shade Dimmed theclearsheet —it darkened, kit drew Nearer. The waveless sea was seen to rise In feathery curls, and soon it met the ship, And n breeze struck her. Quirk the floating sails Pus.- up anddrooped again. The wind came on Fresher : (he curls were waves ; the sails w ere filled- Tensely ; the vessel righted to her course, And ploughed the waters; round her prow the foam [sides, Tossed and went hack along her polished And floated off, bounding the rushing wake, That seemed to pour in torrents lrom her stern. The wind still freshened, and the sails were stretched, Till the yards clicked. She bentbefore its force And dipped her lee-side low beneath the waves. . tr;light out she went to sea, as when a haw k Darts on a dove, and with a motionless wing t uts the light yielding air. The mountains dipped Their <i.n k walls to the waters, and the hills Scarce reared their green tops o’er them. One white point, On \vh ( i a light-house blazed, alonestood out In the broad sea. All were glad, And lunched and shouted, as she darted on. And plnntred amid thetoain, and tossed it high Over rhe deck, as when a strong-curbed steed Flings t';e froth from him in his eager race. Al! had been dimly star-lit, but the moon La!*‘ rising, silvered o’er the tossing sea, And lighted upits foam-wreaths, and just threw One parting glance upon the distant shores. They met his eye—the sinking rocks were bright, Ami a clear line of silver marked the hills, vVlieia he had said farewell. A sudden tear Gushed, and his heart was melted. Again, this tender and faithful description of young love • To that point Where the (lag waved,she often bent her steps, And gazed upon the ocean earnestly, Watching each dim speck on the farthest verge Os sight, and deeming every cloud a sail, And every wreath of foam her lover’s sigh. Ttvo years had gone away, and she had thus Sought the high cliff at morning, noon and Ami guzt and in eager longing till her eye [night, Was fixed and glazed. Her cheek grew thin and pale ; [row Her form was wasted, and all knew that sor f’reyed on the blossom of her health,and eat Her life aw ay. Youth is the time of love, All other loves are lifeless, and but flowers Wreathed round decay, ami w ith a livid hue Blowing upon a grave. The first fresh love Dies never wholly ; it lives on through pain And disappointment: oft w lien the heart Is cm lied and all its sympathies pressed out, This lingers and aw akens, and shines bright, Even on the borders of a w retched grave. REPARTEE.—i?v Swift. Cries Sylvia to a reverend Dean, \\ hat reason can be given (Since marriage is a holy thing,) That there are none in heaven ? There are no women lie replied— She quirk returns the jest— Women there are,but Tin afraid They cannot liifd a priest. THE DRUNKARD TO IMS BOWL. A PA BODY. Vital droji of hellish flame Enter quit k this mortal frame : Trembling, reeling, belching, blinking, Oli, the pain, die bliss of drinking. Haste, sweet brandy, down my throat, Nor let me languish for a It tout. Hark ! they whisper! Tipplers say, Brandy! Spirits! come ibis way. What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, dims tuy sight, Drowns my sorrows, gives me spunk— Tell me my bowl, rail I be drunk ? t lie room goes round—curb thing appears \\ itb wrong end upwards—and irrv ears F\v eet sounds satauic i atrli : Lend! lend your arms! I riel 1 1 die Oil, Hunt! w here is thy victors-, Oh, Grog! where"is thy match! V. OM \N—Fi trart from ,* Prize Poem. There is a bud in life’s dark wilderness, \\ ho e. beauties charm,\\ fragraiwc soothes distress; There i a beam in life’s o'errlouded kv That gild- the starting tear it ertuiot dry. ‘I bet flower, dint lovely beam,on Kdeii’s grove Blied tb’ full sweets ot heavenly light and love Alas ! that aught so fair could lead astray Man's wov’ring foot from duty's thornless way. Vet lovely woman ! yet thy w inning smile, M hir'i caus’d out carescnn every care beguile. 303 nax&Airxr Mxtratramary trial for Robbery. A gentleman, followed by a ser vant in livery, rode to an inn in tlie west ol England, one evening a lit tle before dusk. He told the land lord that lie should l c detained by business in that part of the coun try for a few clays, and wished to know if there were any amusements going on in the town to fill up tlie intervals of the time. The land lord replied, 44 that it was their race and assize week, and that therefore he would be at no loss to pass away the time.” On the gentleman’s making answer, “that this was lucky, for, that he was fond of see ing trials tlie other said, 44 that a very interesting trial for a robbe ry’ would come on the next day’, on which people’s opinions were much divided, the evidence being very strong against the prisoner ; but he himself persisting resolutely in de claring, that he was in a distant part of the kingdom at the time the rob bery was committed. His guest manifested considerable curiosity to hear the trial , but, as the court would probably be crowded, ex pressed some doubt ot getting a place. The landlord told him “ that there could be no difficulty in a gentleman of his appearance get ting a place ; but that, to prevent any accident lie would himself go with him, and speak to one of the beadles.” Accordingly, they went into court the next morning, and the gentleman was shewn to a seat on the bench Presently after the trial began ; while the evidence was giving against him, the prisoner had remained with his ey'es fixed on the ground, seemingly very much depressed ; till being called on for his defence, he looked up, and, seeing the stranger, he sud denly fainted away. This excited some surprise, and it seemed at first like a trick to gain tirne. As soon as he came to himself, on be ing asked by the judge the cause of his behaviour, he said, “ Oh ! my lord, I see a person that can save my life ; that gentleman fpointing to the stranger) can prove I am in nocent, might I only have leave to put a few questions to him.” The eves of the whole court were now turned on the gentleman ; who said “ he felt himself in a very awkward situation to be called upon, as he did not remember ever to have seen the man before, but that he would answer any question that was asked him.”—Well then,” said the man, ‘don’t you remember landing at Dover at such a time ?’ To this the gentleman answered, ‘ that he had landed at Dover, not long be fore, but that he could not tell whe ther it was on the day’ mentioned or not.’ ‘ Well,’ said he, ‘but don’t you recollect that a person in a blue jacket and trowsers carried your trunk to the inn ?’ To this he answered, ‘ that ofcourse some per son had carried his trunk for him but that he did not know what dress he wore.’ 4 But,’ said the prisoner don’t you remember that the per son who went with you from the boat told you a story of his being in the service, that he thought him self an ill used man, and that he showed you a scar he had on one side of his forehead ?’ Duringthis last question, the countenance of the stranger underwent a conside rable change ; he said, 4 he certain ly did recollect such a circum stance ; and on the man’s putting his hair aside, and shewing the scar, he became quite sure that he was the same person. A buz of satisfaction now ran through the court, for the day on which, accor ding to the prisoners account, this gentleman had met with him at dover, was the same on which he was charged with the robbery in a remote county. T he stranger, how ever, could not be certain of the time ; but said, that he sometimes made memorandums of dates in his pocket-book, and might possi bly have done so on that occasion. On opening his pocket-book, he found a memorandum of the time lie landed from Calais, which cor icsponded with the prisoner’s as sertion. This being the only cir cumstance necessary to prove the alibi, the prisoner was immediate ly acquitted, amidst the applause and congratulations of the whole court. Within less than a month after this, the gentleman who re cognized the prisoner; the servant in livery who followed him ; and the prisoner who had been acquit ted, were all three brought back to gether to the same goal for robbing the mail. Troubles of our own making. I here is in our nature such a rest lessness of disposition, that we commonly make to ourselvs more I than half the evils we feel. Unsat-’ isiied with what we are, or possses we are still cravingafter something past or to come, and by regrets, desires, and fears, arc perpetually poisoning the streams of present enjoyment. Ihe weather is too hot or too cold, too wet or too dry. If we have nothing to do, time hangs upon us, an insupportable burden. If our circumstance com pel us to daily labor, we fret to see others enjoying their leisure. Although we have food and rai ment enough, and good enough, still we are dissatisfied that we are not rich. If, on the contrary, we chance to be rich, the weight of cares, the pains of getting, the dif ficulty of keeping, and fears of loosing, give us incessant disquiet anihfatigue. Thus mankind, from a restless disposition, render themselves wretched when they might be much at their ease. It would be worth to one, more than any or even all the arts and sciences, to learn the art of living happy. I don’t mean perfect hap piness, which is to be enjoyed here ; but such a degree of happiness as our Maker has put in our power. The art of living happily does not lie in social apathy; tor as to the real and sharp affections ot life, while one ought “ to bear them like a man, he should also feel them like a man.”—Nor does he know the sweets of friendship, who feels little or no pain from being sun dered from a near friend. Much less does he who grovels in the lap of gross sensuality ; for the enjoy ment of the mere sensualist is no higher than that of the pampered horse in the stable or fattenen pig in the sty. Indeed, the brute has much the advantage, as it lives ac cording to its nature and destina tion, while the man is haunted with a perpetual conciousness of the shameful degradation of his mortal and intelectual faculties. The following maxims or rules of action might, if strictly observed, go far to increase the happiness, or at least to diminish the iniquiet udes, and miseries of life. Live constantly in the unshaken belief of the overruling Providence of an infinitely wise and good, as well as Almighty Being, and prize his favor above all things. Observe, inviolablv, truth in your words, and integrity in your actions. Accustom yourself to temperance, and be master of your passions. Be not too much out of humor with the world ; but remember, ’tis a world of God’s creating and how ever sadly it is marred by wicked ness and folly, vet you have found initmore civilities than affronts, more instances of kindness towards you than of cruelty. Try to spend your time usefully both to yourselves and toothers. Never make an enemy, or lose a friend, unnecessarily- Cultivate such a habitual cheerful ness of mind, and evenness of tem per, as not to be ruffled by travail inconveniences and crosses. Be ready to heal breaches in friendship and to make irp differ ences ; and shun litigation your self, as much as possible; for he is an ill calculator who does not per ceive that one amicable settlement is better than two lawsuits. Be it rather your ambition to acquit yourself ivell in your proper station than to rise above it. Despise not small honest gains, nor risk what vou have on the delu sive propect of sudden riches. If you are in a comfortable thriving way, keep in it, and abide in your own calling, rather than run the chance of another. In a word,” mind to use the world as not ‘abusing it,” and probably you will find as much comfort in it as is fit for a frail being,who is mere ly journeying through it to an im mortal abode. E.rlrart from Thnicher't Military Journal. Captain Houilin, commonly pronoun ced Udangis a Frenchman of singular manners and character, and ludicrous in his personal appearance, being rath er tall but slender, his features are sharp and irregular, complexion dark, with small jet black eyes. His long black hair is brought in a braid to the top ol his head,which is constant ly cov ered with powder ; he is never seen without his small sword, nor in con versation without a display of vanity and affectation. lie converses in bro ken English, with rapid articulation, often perverting words from their le gitiinate meaning. Drs. ifiomas ami fjdang have at command an inexhaus tible fund of merriment and humor, and Udang once said to the doctor, “ you can take me oil’better titan I can myself.” On a return from Boston, in 1780, he related some incidents that occurred to him, which have frequent ly been repeated to aid in festive mil tit. Some wag, knowing his vanity and af fectation of consequence, had employ ed a negro wench to make a familiar address to him in some public place. This was a severe mortification, and destroyed all the comforts ol his visit. In answer to an enquiry, how he liked Boston, this vexation was uppermost in his mind. “ I like Boston very well al but one and and madam nig.” On being pressed further; lie related all the particulars with all the action and irritation that reality occasioned. “ One gentleman said to me, will )ou take a walk to the market—’twas one very line market—de poult, de geese, ebery ting —one very fine assortment: dere it was I hear somebody say be liimi—How do you do Capt. Udang, I look round one black bisli say again, making reverence “ / hope you be well Capt. Udong'H Who be you speak to me in de market. You for get, she say, l was vour sweetheart in ’77 110 l yo tongue, you d—d rascal bish. You speak to me in de market, when lam wid gentlemen, l cut off your head, 1 will you rascal wench. I was so ashamed, 1 put the hat over my eyes and run right home tro five thousand people. Next day some gentlemen tell me, who ow n the black bish dat spoke to me in de market, and advise me to tell de mistress. 1 go to the house and knock, knock—by bv door open, How do you do Capt. Udang —de same blacit bisli rascal dat spoke to me in de market—who own you —tell yo mistress one gen tleman officer wislito see her. Mad am, say I, do you own dat d—d madam nig, dat spoke to me in de markejt.— She say, if you had not been too fami ilar with my negro wench, she would not spoke to you in de market. I say you be one d—d rascal yourself, mad am.” Jlnecdote of Curran*— It was by giving proofs of the proud and indig nant spirit with which this celebrated barrister could chastise aggression that he first distinguished himself at the bar; of this, his contest with Judge Robertson is recorded as a ve ry early and memorabU instance.— Mr. Curran having observed in some case before that Judge, “ that he had never met with law as laid down by his Lordship in any book in his libra ry”—“ That may be, sir,” said the Judge, in an acrid contemptuous tone ; “ but I suspec that your library is very small.” llis Lordship, who like too many of that time, was a party zealot was known to be the author ot several anonymous political pamph lets, which were chiefly conspicuous for violence. The young barrister roused by the sneer at Ins circum stances, replied, “ that, true it was, that his library might be small, but lie thanked heaven that among his books there were none of the wretched pro ductions of the frantic phamphleteers of the day. 1 find it more instructive, my Lord, to study good works than to compose bad ones; my books may be few, but the title pages give me the writers’ names : my shelf is not dis graced by any of such rank absurdity, that their very authors are ashamed to own them.” He was here inter rupted by the ./udge, who said, — “ Sir you are forgetting the respect which you owe to the dignity of the judicial character.” “ Dignity ?” ex claimed Mr. Curran; “my Lord, upon that point, 1 shall cite you a case from a book of some authority, with which you are perhaps not unacquainted.— A poor Scotchman upon his arrival in London thinking himself insulted by a stranger, and imagining, that lie was the stronger man, resolved to resent the ailront, and taking oil'his coat, de livered it to a bystander to hold ; but having lost the battle he turned to ie suine his garment, when he discovered that he had unfortunately, lost that al so ; that the trustee of his habiliment had decamped during the affray. So, my Lord, when the person who is in vested with the dignity of the judg ment seat, lays it aside for a moment, to enter into a disgraceful personal contest, it is in vain when he has been worsted in the encounter, that he seeks to resume it.—lt is in vain that he en deavors to shelter himself behind an authority he has abandoned ?”—Judge Robinson—“lfyou say another word, Sir, I’ll commit you.” Mr. Curran— “ Then my Lord, it will be the best thing you will have committed this term.” The Judge did not commit him; but he was understood to have solicited the bench to interfere, and make an example of the advocate, by depriving him of his gown, but to have received so little encouragement, that he thought it more prudent to proceed uo fuitiier in the affair. Snip the tailor was pronounced fellow of great capability, a gentk man ol honorable habits, ami ways suits every one. The shoe maker bristled up at this, and wq, ed exceeding wroth , swore the u lor was but a half sou led fellow, and that it was easy to shew he was no cut out for a gentleman. The chf, of ihe tailor was up in a minute he swore by his thimble he would never pocket such an insult—but would baste any man who dared rt. peat it. Honest Crispin said he was determined to give the tailor no quarters , and vowed he would lose his all but he would gain his ends ; he resolutely held on to th last, and on his threatening to bad strap his enemy, the tailor was com. pelled to sheer off, declaring at the same time he would have him bound over. Falling out. —A new married gen tleman and lady riding in a chaise, were unfortunately overturned— A person coming to their assist, ance, observed it was a very shock ing sight. “Very shocking in. deed,” replied the gentleman, “to see anew married couple fall out so soon.” It is sometimes good for man t withdraw himself from the busy scenes of life, and wander among the mansions of those whose spirits have winged their flight to another world. It inspires our minds with, a feeling of solemnity, and as we tread on the narrow mounds of earth which here and there arise, pointing out that it presses heavily upon the/bosom of some clay-cold tenant, we become absorbed in the reflection of the present, past, and future. Every action of a shoitand transitory life recurs to our mind, unrobed of their specious guise, and we view them in all their reali ty. They become associated with the concerns of the future, and aj we look beyond the narrow confines of this state of existence, and view on the one hand the brightened prospects of the Christain, and on the other the sinner’s doom, ouv minds become impressed with a. lesson which will influence it thro’, out our lives. Such were my re flections a few evenings since, while wandering in a neighboring grave yard. The beauty ot nature at this season of the year had so far attracted my attention, that I unconsciously strayed out of ray usual path, and soon found my self surrounded by the moulder ing monuments as they stood poin ting out the triumphs of Death over the victims beneath them.— The pale light of the moon, as she arose from behind the hills and res ted her beams on the inscriptions enabled me to discover the ages and ranks ol the tenants of this drearv mansion. I could perceive that the smiling infant, the bloom ing youth, the flower of manhood, and decrepid old age, were alike a prey to its destructive ravages.— None could claim an exception.— the man of wealth and honors, in whose train the humble poor had followed to deck with gaudy trap pings his few short hours, had fal len : the scythe of Death had done its work of destruction, and he now lay motionless in the tomb The bewailings of his family, the tears of his friends, were alike un availing : the summons of death could not be averted : the weeping willow rose above him, overspread ing by its drooping branches the narrow spot ; the wild briar grew luxuriantly on his grave ; the tomb stone proclaimed in shining capital* his virtues, but within the worm banqueted on his now lifeless form- By his side a little heap of earth proclaimed the dwelling of some poor cottager, whose life had been that of the laborious poor. monument reared its head abo’ - <‘ his grave, recording his virtue* > hut his spirit had taken its fl*!?' 11 to realms where the specious Ap pearances of this life are unknown and where it centres before om common God. I gazed upon tn scene. The voice of instruction arose from the grave, and sectne ( to whisper, though health, and hap piness may crown the days ol man* and honors adorn his brow, thoug 1 genius and beauty sparkle in bn countenance, yet he must wither, droop and die. The worm soon prey upon his vitals, win L his spirit ascends to Ilim vvhogaV w 1 S-