It is almost as difficult t i make a man
unlearn his errors, as his knowledge. Mal
inloiination i-, more hopeless than non-in
formation; for error is always more busy
titan ignorance, Ignorance i- a blank slieet,
on which we mav write; lmt error is a scrib
bled one, on which we must first erase. Ig
nnrance is contented to stand still with her
bat k to the truth; hut error is more pre
sumptuous. and proceeds in the same direc
tion. Ignorance has no light. but error fol
lows a false one. The consequence is,
that error, when she retraces her footsteps.
Ins further to go before she can arrive at
the truth, than ignorance. Lacon.
f’orts.—\\ bile Goldsmith was complet
ing the closing pages of the Vi< ar of Wake
field. in a garret in (ireenahor, he was
roused from his on n pat ion by the unexpect
ed ,appearance of the landlady, tn whom he
was considerably in arrears, with a huge
bill for the last week's lodgings. The poet
was thunderstruck with surprise and con
sternation : he was unable to answer her
demands, cither then or in future ; at length
the lady changed the nature of his embar
rassment, by offering to remit the liquida
tion of the debt, provided he would accept
her as his true and lawful spouse. Ilis
friend. Dr. Johnson, chanced by great good
luck to coine in at the time, and by advanc
ing him a sufficient sum to defray the ex
penses of his establishment, consisting of
only himself arid a dirty shirt, relieved him
from his matrimonial shackles.
Puffins; signs—Much ingenuity is dis
played bv our lottery men and others, in
the meaning conveyed by their signs; but
neither Seror nor Arnold have ever equal
led the two gentlemen of the comb of'whom
the following anecdote is related. At a
time when IVi/./.led wigs and hair of natural
growth were contending for the mastery in
the world of fashion, rival species of
head-dress were advocated by two barbers
who lived opposite to each other in a cer
tain street in London. One excelled in
manufacturing perukes, and keeping them
in order : the other in dressing the locks
which nature had bestowed. At length
the former, to show the advantages of wigs,
had a sign painted, on which was the figure
of Absalom, hanging by his hair, and label
“ Curse on these locks and eke this tangling twig!—
“ l might have ’scaped, had 1 bu; w orn a wig.”
The other, not to be outdone, also mounted
anew sign, painted with a view of a man
diowning, while another, in attempting to
fluck him forth by the locks, only pulls off
is wig, and leaves hitn to sink. This sign
“Curse on this wig!—had not my hair been shaved
“To give it place, I now might have been saved.”
[A*. V Mirror.
Virtue is no enemy to pleasure, grandeur, or gio
rv : her proper office is to regulate our desires, that
wc may enjoy every blessing with moderation, and
lose them without discontent.
TIIK FUAILTY OK BF.AUTY.
[From the Remains of the Kev C. Wolfe ]
1 must tune up my harp’s broken string',
For the fair lias commanded the strain ;
Hut yet such a theme will I sing,
That I think she’ll not ask me again.
For I’ll tell her— Youth’s blossom is blown,
Anil that beauty the flower must fade ;
(And sure, If a lady can frown,
She’ll frown at the words 1 have Said.)
The smiles of the rose-bud how fleet 1
They came—and as quickly they fiv ;
The violet how modest and sweet I
Yet the spring sees it open and die.
llow snow white the lily appears;
\ et the life of a lily’s a day ;
And the snow that it equals, in tears
To morrow must vanish away.
Ah, beauty ! of all things on earth,
llow many thy charms most desire 1
Yet bi auty in youth has its birth—
And beauty with youth roust expire.
All, fair ones ! so sad is the tale,
That my song in my sorrow I steep,
And w here I intended to rail,
I must lay down my wild harp and w eep.
Hut Virtue indignantly seized
The harp as it fell from my hand;
Serene was her look, though displeased,
As she utter’d her awful command .
“Thy tears and thy pity employ,
l or the thoughtless, the giddy, the vain—
But those who my blessings enjoy,
Thy tears and thy pity disdain.
“ For beauty alone ne’er bestow 'd
Siirli a charm as hkiAriom has lent ;
And the cheek of a belle never glow’d
With a smile like the smile of content.
“Time’s hand, and the pestilence’ rage,
No line, no complexion can brave,
For h- auty must y icld to old age,
Bu' I will not yield to the grave.”
A MO'IHF.K’S GIFT.
BY WALTER FERGUSON, ESiJ.
Remember, love, who pave thee this,
When other thus shall come:
When she who had thy earliest kiss,
SK eps in her narrow home.
Jh member, ’tuas a mother gave
The gift to one she'd die to save.
That mother sought a pledge of love,
The holiest for her son;
And from the gifts ot God above
She chose a goodly one.
She chose, for tier beloved boy,
The source of light, and life, and joy.
Ami bade him krep the gift,—that, when
The patting hour would come,
They might have hope to meet again,
In an eternal home.
She ‘aid. Iris faith in that would b.j
Sweet mcense to her memory.
A.nd should the scoffer in hi9 pride,
I.augli that fond faith to scorn,
And bid him cast the pledge aside,
'1 hat lie from y oiith had borne.
She bade him pause, and ask his breast,
If lie, or she, had loved him best.
A parent’s blessing on her son,
Goes with this holy thing ;
The love that would retain the one
Must to the other cling.
Remember, ’tis no idle toy,
A mother’s gift—Remember, boy!
[From the N York JMirror.]
THE BROKEN PROMISE.
1 knew men kept no promises—nr none
At least with women—am) jet, knowing this,
With credulous folly, still I trusted one,
Whose woul seemed so like tiii th, that I forgot
The lessons I had learned full oft before—
And 1 behevid, because he said he’d come,
That he would co:m—and then, night after eight,
I watched the clouds, and saw them pas- away
From the bright moon—and leave the clear blue sky,
As spotless, and serene, and beautiful
As if no promises w ere broken e’er
Beneath it. —Man forgets, in busy hours,
What In Ins idle moments he has said,
Nor thinks how often w oman’s happiness
Hangs on Ins lightest words —It is not things
tU great importance which aflcct the heart
Most deeply-—tiiflcs often weave the net
Of misery or of bliss in human life
There’s many a deep ami hidden grief, that comes
Front sources which admit ot no complaint —
From things of which we cannot, date not speak—
And yet they seem but trifles, till a chain,
I.ir.k after link, is fastened on each thought,
And wound around the heart—they do their work
In secrecy and silt nee—hut their power
Is far more fatal than the open shafts
Of sorrow and misfortune ; for they prey
Upon the health and spirits, till the hlnom
Ot hope is changed to fever’s hectic flush :—
They break the charm of youth’s first, brightest,
And thus wear out the pleasures of the world—
And sap, at length, 'lie very spting of life.
But this is woman’s fate. It is not thus
With proud, aspiring man—his mind is filled
\\ ilh high and lofty thoughts—and love, and hope,
And all the w armest feelings of his heart,
Are sacrificed at cold ambition’s shrine
lie feels that the whole world was made for him:
And it some painful disappointments cross
IIis path of life, he does blit change bis course ;
Nor broken promises, nor hopes destroy ed,
Are e'er allow ed a place on memory’s page.
’Tis only woman, in her loneliness,
And in her silent, melancholy l ours,
Who treasures in her heart the idle words
That had no meaning—and who lives on hope
Till it has stolen the colour from her cheeks—
The brightness from her eyes; who trusts her peace
On the vast ocean of uncertainty —
And, it ’tis w recked, she learns her lot to hear,
Or slit- may learn to die—but not forget.
it is for her to hoard her secret thoughts,
To brood o’er broken promises, and sigh
O’er disappointed hopes—till she believes
There’s less of wretchedness in the wide world
Than in her single heart F.stlllc.
THE WATCHMAN—nr moose.
C.oml night, pood night, my dearest,
11 o \v fast the moments fly !
!Tis time to part—thou hearest
The hateful watchman’s cry,
“ Cast twelve o’clock I”—good night.
A et stay a moment longer—
Alas! why is it so?
The wish to stay grows stronger,
The more ’tis time to go
"Past one o’clock!”—gocJ night.
Now wrap thv cloak about thee,
The hours must sure go w rong—
Tor when they’re past without thee,
They’re oh' ten times as long
“Fast two o’clock!”—good night.
Again that dreadful warning!
Had ever Time such flight?
And, see the sky—’tin morning—
So now, indeed, good night!
“ Past three o’clock!”—good night
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