pplause of the public; if he limps in is measure, they hobble in their erses; if he is obscure, they are im⚫enetrable; and if he is indecent, hey throw off all modesty. Instead f quitting his own style of composiion, to adopt that of the noble Lord, he author of Lalla Rookh should have consulted Horace, who would have taught him a better lesson. "hunc ego me, si quid con ponere curem Non magis esse velim: quam naso vivere pravo Spectandum nigris oculis nigroque capillo." We shall pass over the songs of this elegant writer, for though not insensible of their merit as lyric compositions, we cannot but censure their lascivious tendency. Well would it be for the poet, were he to follow the example of the learned Adrian Beverland, who, after publishing many immoral books, printed a caveat against them, in the preface to which, he says, "I condemn the warmth of my imprudent youth; I detest my loose style and libertine sentiments; I thank God who has removed from my eyes the veil which blinded me in so miserable a manner, and who would not suffer me any longer to seek weak arguments for the defence of a wicked cause, but has inspired me with the resolution to burn all that I have written of this nature; and to call most solemnly upon every person who is in possession of any of them to do the same." We shall close this sketch with the solemn and indignant lines of that great moral poet, Dr. Young: "I grant, the muse shame. Man smiles in ruin, glorie s in his guilt, And infamy stands candidate for praise." NARROW ESCAPE. DR. Henry Alting, a learned Protestant divine, and professor of divinity at Heidelberg, was so obnoxious to the Romanists, that when the city was taken by General Tilly in the thirty-years' war, a search was made after him, but providentially without effect. He was in his study when the news was brought him that the city was taken, upon which he bolted the door, and had recourse to prayer. At that moment, one of his friends, accompanied by two soldiers, came and advised him to retire to the chancellor's house, which was protected by a guard, because Tilly wished to save the public archives. The colonel of a regiment who was upon this guard, addressing himself to Alting, said, "With this battle-axe I have to-day killed ten men, and Dr. Alting shall be the eleventh, if I can discover where he has hid himself:" then turning quick upon the professor, he exclaimed, "Who are you?"-Alting, with great presence of mind, answered, "I am regent of the College of Sapience ;" and was suffered to pass. He soon after found means to retire in disguise to Heilbron, and from thence to Holland. cousin's chest, appears to have been [The following letter, found in my written to caution him against some errors which are common to mankind. It was probably the gift of friendship on his entering the world. R. W.] My Dear Frederick, You ask me to write to you, but the scenery and occurrences of this neighbourhood present so little variety, that I fear they would afford you less interest. One thing, however, may be remarked, even in this sequestered spot, which is, that the generality of mankind display, in their actions, more folly than judgment; and though some great men have exercised their talents of ridicule on this subject, yet, I imagine, that a survey of the foibles of human nature may produce a more beneficial effect than we are apt to imagine. Let our observations be car ried on in the true spirit of philosophy, and we shall find that the errors there visible may serve as beacons to warn us. True philosophy, in my opinion, consists in a disposition to trace effects to their causes, and to act in reference to those causes, in all connections with their effects. The philosophical way, therefore, of making use of the defects of others, is, after having discovered whence they result, to avoid the things which we perceive have generated error in those around us. tageous, in that it points out the things we should avoid, but also as it directs us to those pursuits, in which it will be most eligible for us to engage. There are certain characters who spend their time in vain codevours to overthrow systems, which have been confirmed by the experi ence of ages, and in futile attempts disprove facts which are authenticated by the most respectable biste ries; and this they call rectifying popular error, and benefiting the world. Of this description, was the late Bob Handom, (with whom I was acquainted,) a man of some intellect, of classical education, and of extersive information. Unfortunately. while he was at college, he met with an eccentric character, who was at that time engaged in writing a treatise on the occult sciences. The applause with which this was received by many men of brilliant genius, and the contumely with which it was treated by others who possessed only common sense, gave Bob a strange idea, that the multitude were always in the wrong, and that nothing could be true that was generally believed. Inherit One of the most common and dreadful sources of human error is, an extreme of self-love, which bears some resemblance to the excessive and ridiculous partiality that an injudicious mother manifests towards some favourite child; a partiality that admires ignorance, forbids instruction, applauds knavery, and connives at crime. From this evil, results a want of one of the most important attainments that human beings can possibly possess; that is, self-knowledge. Its advantages may be perceived, if we consider that it regulates a man's conduct. By self-knowledge, he discerns that the duty he has to performing from his ancestors an extensive towards himself is, to learn to guard those avenues of the heart (if I may be allowed the exprsssion,) which are not fortified by nature. Every one has his peculiar weakness; and to this point he ought to direct his more particular attention. It is vain for a man of a quiet and peaceable disposition, to direct all his efforts to guard against intemperate anger, a crime against which nature has already provided a bulwark. It is not less absurd for one of a censorious and severe disposition to be only solicitous to prevent himself from conniving at the faults of others; because he is naturally liable to run into the opposite extreme. It would be preposterous for a person who had a natural dislike to intemperance, to be solely and constantly employed, in order that he may not fall into the crime, against which he is so happily armed. And yet, how often is it the case, that men are only turning their solicitude to the prevention of those evils, from which they have much less to fear, than from dangers, against which they have provided no de estate, and a considerable property in net nunc was never inscribed on his tombstone." Before I could reply, "Be tween ourselves," continued he, "I have a friend who is a great antiquary, and who has lately been making & tour of Switzerland, in the north of which there is a cave, formerly used as a place of sepulture, and among a variety of inscriptions, in memory of persons there buried, is the fol fence. ***Mantua me genuit; Calabri rapuêre; te- | fat sheep, and one ox, should, on the net nunc Helvetu, cecini pascua, rura, duces.' "The characters in which this is inscribed are very antique, and seem to be about the age of the medals of Julius Cæsar; and hence it appears highly probable, that from this couplet some ignoramus endeavoured to argue, that Virgil was a native of Mantua. To be sure, his biographers assert that it was his own composition, but"Here our discourse was interrupted by a servant, who entered the room where we were sitting, to announce the death of a favourite horse. "Dead!" said my friend, in reply; "well, he died in a noble and glorious cause." "Parpureus veluti cùm flos succisus aratro Languescit moriens; lassove papavera colla Demisère caput, pluvià cam fortè gravantur." So saying, he left the room. I then took the opportunity to ask the menial what his master meant?" Why, Sir," returned he, "my master asserted, that a horse was a I cannot recollect what he called it, but he meant a beast that would live in water as well as on land. So the poor animal was kept in the pond for a few days, till it caught cold; and it died about five minutes since." Shortly after I took my leave, wondering that any one should be so destitute of prudence and common sense, as to devote his time to such preposterous and trifling pursuits. This unfortunate man, in the midst of his speculations, was at one time seized with a fever. I visited him during his illness. He was delirious, and was raving about the battle of Marathon, and Charles XII. of Sweden. When I inquired how he felt himself" So it is said," replied he; "but nobody shall succeed in persuading me that such a person as Miltiades ever existed." Before he died, he became perfectly sensible, gave directions, that after his death his body should be wrapt in linen, and conveyed, on an antique shield, to a large and enclosed plain behind his house; that a certain number of his books, and all his unpublished papers, with other combustibles, should form his funeral pile; that his corpse, deposited in the shield, should be placed on this pile, and burnt to ashes. He further ordered, that six No. 46.-Vol. IV. same day, be killed and roasted, that his tenantry might feast thereon; that when his body was reduced to ashes, a sufficient quantity of wine to quench the fire should be poured on it; that his ashes should then be deposited in a silver urn, and be placed in his study. The ceremonies thus enjoined were actually performed by his nephew and heir; and in his quondam study is still to be seen his magnificent cinereal urn, and the antique iron shield of which I have already spoken. Poor Handom might have been, by his talents, property, and influence, rendered a blessing to the world, instead of which, he passed his time in employments, that excited the pity of the wise, and the derision of the ignorant; and his name only serves as a warning, not to engage in pursuits, that neither produce personal benefit, nor increase the knowledge of others. One grand evil that is the result of an excess of self-love, and a lack of self-knowledge, is slander, "Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie The employment of a certain class of persons, is, to spread this moral pestilence, and they only rejoice when they find their reports credited and retailed. Venomous as a serpent's tooth, ruthless as death, universal as the grave, these destroyers of reputation stalk about their neighbourhood, bearing with them a fatal atmosphere, that withers every flower of joy, and destroys every prospect of delight, leaving behind them weeping virtue, ruined character, triumphant envy, and applauding malice, to point out the track through which their devastating influence has passed. Youth, beauty, inexperience, accomplishments, instead of defending against their weapons, serve only, in many instances, as the butts of their barbed shafts, and expose their owners more fatally to their vile aspersions. Well has the Roman orator observed, "Nihil est tam volucre quam maledictum, nihil facilius emittitur, nihil citius excipitur, nihil latius dissipatur." Truly we might imagine that there would be a sanctuary found against slander 3 T in the grave:-but, no; while the heart | is wrung with anguish at the loss of some dear and valued friend; while his last couch of rest is watered by the tears of surviving affection; while his example is quoted as a model for conduct by admiring friendship; the sacrilegious calumniator enters; the character, which, while life lasted, might live down slander, is no longer armed against his malignaney, and, with the utmost deliberation, will he tear from the sacred dead each jewel with which he has been adorned. One would imagine, from the vehemence with which the slanderer exclaims against crime, that he himself must be a most immaculate being. Were the world so full of wickedness as he asserts, and had he so deadly a detestation towards evil as he pretends, one should conclude that he would, as far as possible, withdraw from the society of such miscreants as he represents mankind to be. The different course of conduct, however, which he pursues, reveals the motives that excite his animadversions; for the fact is, that he only desires to make those around him believe that he is not like other men ; he hopes to establish his own character upon the grave of the character of others, and to build his own credit upon the tomb of his neighbours' reputation; and the smile which he assumes, when he exercises his mischievous talents, is not so much the smile of malice, as the expression of fancied superiority and self-conceit. The great advantage of self-knowledge is, that it is influential: did such characters as the above possess it, they would ascertain, that to rectify their own errors is the employment in which they should engage; nor would they then with such delight represent the failings and improprieties of others; they would pity rather than expose them, knowing, "Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit." Nor does self-knowledge teach us only our personal duties, and our duties to mankind; it also instructs us to acknowledge the Supreme in all our ways, and thus secures divine direction over our paths. Before, my dear Fred, you proceed in life, study to know yourself, and you will find the benefit of it in future years. I remain, Your very affectionate friend, ESSAYS MORAL AND LITERARY. No. 5.—On Happiness. "Alas! where shall we find Some spot to real happiness confia'd!” So says the pensive Goldsmith; and the question may in one sense be answered by a reference to that bearfiful invitation, "Come unto me, all ye that are weary, and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Various, and unceasing, is the inquiry after happiness. The schoolboy seeks it in his holiday pastimes; youth and manhood alike pursue it with the eagerness of expected pos session; and even age, with its acermulated experience, is often not slow to follow. Each, in imagination, beholds some object in which it resides, or marks out for himself some track in which it may be found. There is a vacancy in the heart of every man, which he seeks to people; an inquietude in his spirit, which he hopes to allay; and his constant cry is-restrest. The objects around him are each in its turn examined, but they fail to give it; the amusements of the age are participated in, but they cut the wound still deeper; and even nature, in her loveliest creations, is but the faintest pathway to it, for her primeval glory has departed. In our earliest days, indeed, life is to us an endless beauty; and every object we look upon appears "apparalled in celestial light," for, as the poet says, "Heaven lies about us in our infancy:" but we soon begin to feel that we have tasted the forbidden fruit; to know that good is followed by evil; that earthly things are insufficient to quiet our inward restlessness, or to satisfy our fondest longings; and that there is none fully happy, no, not one. The hero may march on in triumph, and may gain a thousand victories; but we know that Cæsar wept when he reflected that at his age Alexander had conquered half the world; and, that Alexander himself sat down and sighed, because he had not another world to conquer. Even literature itself is tinged with sadness, and the poetry of the age is imbued with melancholy. Perfect happiness, then, is at best but an unseen good, and its residence in this world as imaginary as the philosopher's stone. I have often noticed the power of religion as administering happiness. It casts a fitting glance upon the world, and seems to carry its possessor above all fear and suffering. It binds his reflections down to one point; and he does not, like others, seek to anchor his little bark amid the uneven waves of this world. He regards it as the sole end of his being, for he feels that in it there are Happiness and misery, when consi- | common cares, some sincere attachlered in reference to society, may, ment, some hour of youthful love, that perhaps, be said to be nearly relative each in its turn was a blessing to him terms. It cannot, however, be doubt- then, and which now becomes a haled, that contrasted states of feeling lowed spot of beauty, casting its sahave a widely different influence upon cred light upon the trials and misforindividuals; yet the abstract portion tunes of after-life. These are some of of happiness and misery, belonging to those sweet incidents which bind us any condition in this world, is but to earth, and to each other; and small. It appears to me, that the which do not, like the more glittering chief source of pleasure and pain is vanities by which they are surrounded, the imagination; and that any mani- "make to themselves wings and fly festation of an extreme in either, is away." dependent upon our temperament. A writer of a mild and contented mind, pictures the world in the light and varying tints of peaceful enjoyment; while one whose disposition is sad, and full of sensibility, usually speaks of it as harsh and unfeeling, and filled with sorrow. It is evident that neither of these views is in itself correct; we gain the truth by blending them together. That man whose fancy is lively and romantic, may, in one sense, be said to partake most of happiness, because he has it sometimes in deed, and always in thought. Whether, however, the pleasures of anticipation be greater than those of retrospection, is perhaps a question. Mr. Campbell and Mr. Rogers have contested the point; and for my part, I must join in the same theme as the elegant author of the Pleasures of Memory. The reason is this-the realities of life, of whatever description, are never arrayed in the colours which we previously give them; fine scenery, for instance, seldom comes near to the ideas we formed of it; and therefore we experience disappointment in proportion to our excitement of mind. In this sense, then, "ignorance is bliss ;" and it is better for every man, no matter how dull his imagination may be, to rest satisfied with his conceptions, since thousands have proved it "folly to be wise." But independently of constitutional differences, there have been lights and shadows in every man's life. To select and dwell upon the happy passages, is a pleasing work; they glitter upon the rude path we have trodden, like the beautiful oases of the desart. There is none who is, or has not once been, endeared to something in the world around him; every one can remember some early friend, some portion of time that was exempt from "truths which wake To perish never.' I remember an instance of this. Maria Nwas in her eighteenth year, and it was manifest that she was dying, the victim of a hopeless decline. She was the only daughter of a humble village curate, a pious and intelligent man. He had, in very early years, laid the foundation for that hope, which was afterwards the support of Maria. In her dying moments she felt its influence; through her youthful life it had budded and put forth leaves, but then it blossomed. Her heart was happy, for it had lost its attachment to the world, so that a sorrowful thought never tinged its peaceful reflections. I would not seem to jest, but consumption is a poetical malady, and there is something in its very appearance, when aided by religious feeling, that is indescribably interesting. The fixed look of resigned thought, the uncomplaining heart, the tearless yet spiritless eye, the pale thin hand, and that hectic spot upon the cheek, which is the sure harbinger of death, appeal too tenderly to the heart ever to be forgotten. The interval from the first touch of sickness, too, is a preparatory season, in which the soul is purified from all earthly blemish, and at last there is a union of all that is most holy in this world, and most happy |