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The Wilmingtonian, and Delaware register. (Wilmington, Del.) 1824-1825, May 27, 1824, Image 1

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SO. 37.
i iy Thursday, hv MUNDKNHALL iä WALTERS, No. 101, Market-street, at turn dollar t andffli/ cents per annum, payable half yearly in advance; or three dollars it not paid till the expiration oi the j egr.
Printed and published, ev
Printed published,
Price of subscription £2 .'>•) per annum, paya
ble six mouths in advance ; or, it not paid belorc
:;>e expiration of Hu*
N > subscription will be discontu
arrearages are paid, and one week's noti
A»vkhtiskmkn*ts not exceeding
he inserted four times for one dollar, and 20 cts
. l>r each subsequent insertion --If continued for
months $2 50—for six months $4 50 or for
ar, 5:1.
cd until all
square will
one year $8.
(fTSubscrihers are entitled to the privilege of
having their names, place of residence, and occu
pation, inserted in mir Register, oratim
Kamli, 45, 19.-" I sai l nnt to the
T,isi:s on
?red of Jacob, suck yc my lace i
ish'd ear?
What words are these that charm my n
Who t fms bespeaks the sons of J »cob's prayer?
.Jacob's God invites them to his throne,
and m ike their father's God their own ;
To come
Bow all f is seed of every age and nation,
And seek the Lord, the God of your salvation.
Daily dependents on his power and gr»ce,
Daily in humble hope, we'll seek his face,
To him in every new distress repair,
>coitr, and deliverance there ;
Ask counsel,
And while with rev'rend awe our souls adore him,
(ants and ev'ry fear before him.
Make known our
:ie knows the language of our bursting sighs,
His ear isopen to our suppliant cries;
•Tor has he e'er in mereile-s disdum
Bid Jacob's seed approach his throne in vain :
Mis Church in every age, while him addressing,
His truth and faith fui ness have been confessing.
1 WSiitvVr they ask, in mercy he bestows,
Or in withholding richer mercy shows;
Blessing.» on earth, his seeking servants crown,
<V better blessing* when set near his throne.
Thus safe in him, in him we tune our voices,
I '.ad Jacob's seed in Jacob's God rejoices.
J.T. R.
Upon a hillock's eastern si«ic.
Where brightest glowed the flood of day,
■ Arrayed in arromatic pride,
I A beauteous nymph dejected lay.
I Ï wondering, kened the curious maid!
From eyes of light her tears did flow,
To gem the bloom but recent laid
On spotless cheeks of purest snow.
As zephyr light her loose attire,
With sweets embued, cast incense round,
And pendant o'er her hung a lyre,
Which unseen fingers taught to sound;
A rod, unwreath'd, of brilliant fame,
Of magic virtues graced her bund ;
She gently breath'd, us heaven's own flame,
But touched, and lo ! the buds expand.
Flushed was her cheek—as young rose fair;
Her plaintive accents mildly sweet,
Green tendrils hound her glossy iiair,
And dew-drops glittered on her feet ;
She cast around a mournful glance,
O'er flowcrless field» and forests bare,
And sighed—but song nor frolic dance,
Nor happy labor's smile was there.
Her name was Spri
Which erst adorn the busy plain,
-Mysterious chursge ! ihe tribute showers
Recalled and fixed their tints again ;
Then round the oak the ivy wreathes,
(Thus Beauty clings to Valor's arm,)
And softly smiles and warmly' breathes:
E'en li'm rough nature owns the charm,
b p rose the maid ! her dazzling zone
M ith gems of morning lustre glowed,
Where'er her form resplendent :
A flow ret blush'd, a rivulet flowed !
triumphant sought with lightsome tread,
Some valley streamlet's sunny shore,
To tell her whom her bounty ted,
i hat plenty reigned supreme once more.
With tasteful negligence n!
Her fragrant stores profusely gay,
While mirth and joy in joe
Tripped gaily in the chequered way.
i o woodland then, she hied, and flung
Her mantle gently o'er the trees,
T he broidered robe unfolding hung
In sportive dalliance with the breeze.
Excursive, on the gelid steep
She treads, and frees its noisy stream ;
The sparry sides of c:
W ith mingling brilliance sudden gleam ;
And then to close the witching scene,
She formed a lone umbrageous bower,
! lien spread a carpet, broad and green,
Of Velvet, worked with many a flower.
( ■
she wept those flowers
J mood,
t'rorn the London Nuv Monthly Maisazi
4 ili! lady buy these budding flow'rs,
am sad, and wet and weary ;
1 gather'd them ere break of day,
When all was lonely, still and dreary;
long I've sought to sell them h
To purchase clothes, and food, and dwelling,
r Valor's wretched orphan girls—
Tour me and my young sister Ellen
^h ! those who tread life's thornless way,
In fortune's golden sunshine basking,
May deem my wants require no aid,
Because my lips are mute, uiu sking ;
1 hey have no heart for woes like mine,
Lach word, each look, is cold—repelling,
*ct once a crowd of Hati'rers fawn'd,
And fortune smil'd on me and Ellen !
( buy my flowers, they're fair and fresh
As mine and morning's tears could keep them ;
' "'Sorrow's sun shall see them dead,
1 shall scarcely live to weep them ;
Yet this sweet bud, if nurs'd with care,
Soon into fullness would be swelling,
And nurtur'd by some gen'rous band,
So might my little sister Ellen.
She's sleeping in the hollow tree,
Her only home—its leaves her bedding,
\nd I've no food to carry there,
To soothe the tears she will be shedding.
Oh ! that those mourner's Jears which fall !
That hell which heavily is knelling;
And that deep grave were meant for me,
And my poor little sister Ellen !
When we in silence are laid down,
In life's last fearless, blessed sleeping,
No tears will full upon our grave,
Save those of pitying Heav'n's own weeping.
*.'ve liv'd, unknown must dir,
No tongue the mournful tale be telling,
Of two young, broken-hearted girls—
Poor Mary and her sister Ellen !
No one has bought of me to-day,
And night is now the town o'ershading,
And I like these poor drooping flowers,
Unnoticed and unwt pt am fading.
My soul is struggling tobe free—
It loathes its wretched earthly dwelling!
My limbs refuse to bear their load—
Oh ! God protect lone orph
How eloquent a lesson of wisdom is the follow,
ing—how powerful is its appeal to our judgmen
—and with what felicity of expression does it
point out the dangers of Procrastination. T'he
youth who commits it to memory, and makes its
precept the rule of his conduct, will be more ben.
«•fitted tLan his present experience can appreci
To morrow didst thou say ?
Methought I heard Horatio say, To morrow—
(io to—l will not hear of it— Tû-morrow !
•Tin a sharper, who stakes his penury
Against thy plenty—who takes his ready cash
And pays thee, nought but wishes, hopes and
The currency ofideots—injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!—To-morrow !
It is a period no where to be found
In all the hoary registers of T ime,
Unless perchance in the Fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tin Fancy's child, and Folly is its Father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are ; and as
As the fantastic visions of the evening.
But soft my friend— arrest the present moments:
For be assured they are all arrant tell tales;
And though tl.eir flight be silent, and their path?
T'ra* kless, as the winged couriers of ihe air,
They post to heav'n, ami there record thy folly
Because tho* stationed on t!i* important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless cenlinel,
Didst let them pass unnotic'd, unimprov'd.
And know, tor that thou* slumb'redst on the
Thou shall be made to answer at the liar
For every fugitive ; and when thou thus
Shull stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-w ink'd Justice, who shall tell thy audit
Then slay the present instant , dear Horatio,
Imprint the marks of wisdom
'Tis of more
ils wings,
•orth than kingdoms ! far more
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain.
() ! let it not elude thy grasp ; but, like
The good old Patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast, until lie bless thee.
" [rame to the. place of my births and said , the
friends of my youth where arc they! and echo aw
s we red j ivh ere are they!"
When 'he summer day of youth is slowly and
si ently waning away into the ni^ht full of age,
s of past years grow deeper atM
(l eper as life wears to a close, it is pleasant t
look back, through the vista of time, upon the nor
If we have :*
ith us, and
ami the shad
nd felicities of early years,
home to shelter, and hearts to r joice
if friends are gathered together around our fire
ill he
ay firing
sides, the rough places of our
worn and smoothed away in the tw ilight of lit« ,
whilst the sunny spots we have passed through
grow brighter ami more beautiful. Happy in
deed arc ino'c, whose in ercourse with the world
has not changed the tone of their holier feeling«,
nor broken those musical chords of the heart,
melodious, so tender and
so touching in the evening «if age. As th»-cur
1 of lime winds slowly aw-y, washing along
i'll it the sands of life and wasting the vigor of
years, like the stream that steals a
hos - vibrait*
s :uv
our gre«
wav the soil from the sapling upon its bank: we
look with a kind of melancholy joy ut die decay
of things around us. To see the trees, under
whose shade we sat in earlier years', and upon
who*.- rinds we carved our names in the light
hearted gaiety' of boyhood—as if the
Id long survive us ;—to see
heue withering away like ourselves with the in
firmities oi age, excites within us mournful but
pleasant feelings for the past, und prophetic ones
The thoughts occasioned by
those frail and perishing records of young, rdays,
when the friends, that are now lin:;
ourselves upon the brink of the grav
long been asleep in its quiet bosom, were around
us buoyant with the gaiety of youthful spirit, are
like the dark cloud«, when tin: storm
tinged by the farewell rays of the setting s
these recollections of former times the past and
the present meet together. We go back again
into the valley of youth, we gaze upon the ves
tiges we left behind ns then, and tread in the
footsteps we trod in before. We remember the
thoughtlessness and hilarity, the summer anti
sunshine of boyhood, the hopes and fears, the
aspirations and revelries of youth ; and we may
remember too that those whose hearts were light
est, and who^e hopes the fairest, were sooner than
existence w
tin* the future
ng like
or havr
. I
O'hers simmoneil away to the desolate and voice- the
less halls of death
Of those that were aroutul us in the spring
time of life, and went hand in hand with us thro'
the summer journey of youth, all perhaps have
parted from us on the verge of manhood, each to on
pursue a separate path towards bis own destina- the
tion. This parting may lave been the last time
we beheld them, from whom we never before
parted. We recollect the farewell pressure of
the hand, the countenance of hope and sadness, my
and the melancholy voice whose tones we now ful
think had something prophetic in them, that told
us we were never to meet again They had gone
to distant climes, had become strangers in strange
lands, felt the chastenings of adversity, and found
rest from the toils and troubles of life in the re
pose of the tomb.
When we hear of the death of friends, when
we know that those who loved, and were loved
by us, have gone before us into the vale of death,
and have fallen asleep upon the bosom of the
round our hearts, and strengthened with the
lapse of years, are broken and withered away,
though hardly without severing fhe chords of the |
heart with them. We cal to mind their gentle
ness, their forgiving kindness and benevolence to
wards us ; and with these some the recollections
of our own pride, our own revengeful thoughts,
and the swellings of our hearts against them. But
our repentance is too laic, our tears unavailing,
our sorrow unnoticed! The flume of their be
mg is quenched, the lamp of their existence is
gone out, and they have pissed away from us in
o the land of silence. There is something wihin
us that shrinks from the cold heavy hand of
death! Nature struggles at the portal of the
grave!—Yet when the hand of the living presses
that of the dying—when the voice of love is heard,
and religion has plucked away the thorn from the
death pillow, the spirit d. p.u ts on silent wings
from its wasted tenement But to die in a dis
tant land, to be taken away when the eye is turn
ed again to our homes, to know that the friends
who await our coming shall see us no more, and
the hearts that would welcome us, must beat to
sudder measures, is the bitterest dreg in the cup
we must drink, and adds a sorrow lo the thought,
that the feet of strangers will tread upon nurse
pulchres. The friends of our earlier and better
years may weep at our departure, but they can
not weep upon our graves! They may awaken
tender recollections of the past, but there is no
urn for love to encircle with her cypress w ren'li
Even memory withers and decay.*, when there i'
nothing to cherish it, as the taper got sont, whose
d ; and the hard of time wipes dry the
I mourner's tear and heals the broken hear 1 .
There is something so silent, so calm, and so
holy in »he close of a stimmerevening, that 1 love
•o linger in the melancholy twilight, and mail;
' he crimson of sunset growing fainter and fainter,
and fading away, like the hue of the withering
rose. When the quiet moon is rising, and the
skies and woodlands are mirrored in the silver |
l«ke beneath them ; when the breeze sighs its I
evening song, am. the distant bell swings slow j
and heavily, 1 love to loiter about the spot, that \
was the scene of so many of the j*>>s and fest» vi- i
ties of my boyish days. Ne«r this haunt of my !
childhood, a am ill rivulet w inds slowly along
through a woodland of beach and maph , and at
last pours its »till waters into the bosom of a peace
ful lake. Upon its hank is a small terrace of
green turf, in the rentre of which stands an old
beech-tree, scathed and worn by time, which in
the days of my boyhood was in the vigor of its
years. Beneath the shades of its level branches,
as they spread
broad { and of those that are still vigorous and
active in the bustle of the world, or lite myself
-lowly descending the dcclivi'y of years. As I
glance my eye over tins brief catalogue, 1 iniag
ine that the friends, who left these memorials of
t eir youth behind them, »re again gathered a
round me. They return from the land of str in
gers, ft on 1 the laud of the »lead ! They put off the
furins of manhood, age, ant! death, and are\o mg,
light-hearted and cheerful again The cheek of
health, the eye of joy, the smile of gaiety —I see
them now ! I hear the mirthful shout, und the
sound of youthful voices! 1 join in the sports of
•ther days, and 1 liston ag .in to the song that
oil is
To the sigh of the south wind their tremulous
it was
•custom to meet together at the close
of the long summer-day, and wear the evening a
way in the hilarity of youthful sport«. Here tor*
the germs of friend flop were warmed and cher
ished in our bosoms, whose buds, and blossoms,
and fruits, have since appeared in the interval of
years. My eye can yet truce up..n its venerable
trunk the names of "friends, that were, but are
not,"—of those that Crossed tb. threshhoid of the
grave in youth, ami in manhood, at Imme and a*
delighted . the tale that terrified whilst it pleas
cd !—But those days are no longer !—T he tale is
told, the song is finished, the gaiety done, and
friends departed. The grafe has closed overj
many, as the bark of the tree over their names. |
But the retrospect of age is not always upon a |
youth of gladness We may be young in years,
tbough old in sorrows. Indeed in the pilgrimage
of" life we cun pluck but few (lowers without feel
ing the thorn» : weave but few laurels, where the
cypress will not mingle. Tin* breeze that curls
the wave at sun-set, chafes tin} ocean in the night
sturru, and what we woo in yifuth as our joy, is
oft -11 our affliction. The feclof dea h are a-, of
ten heard in the circles of the young as of the
<>i(l ; his hand rests as often aid as heavily upon
the hearts of youth as of age. His touch, strong.
er than the finger of time, withers the rose on
the cheek of beauty ; und sorrow quenches the
pride and buoyancy of the spirit ; and if in our j
pilgrimage, the wing . dead• ..«s past harmless-1
ly by ua, that must soon pass «ver us ; and it we :
have been left to toil on «in» it be hour wbe
„ t be
ie ot existence shall go ouj from »'• s own ft e -1
bleues», experience must have naught us, that the L
sorrows and tears of youth aie as biller as those 1
of age, though sooner wiped akv;iv; mi.l the im
press from the seal of affliction us deep upon '.lie
y mug and tender heart, as upon that whose
chords have been w it bered by years. Indeed the
arrow wounds as sorely; but the wings of the
youthful spirit are soon expanded, and it falls to
tiie ground, whilst in age it rankles beneath the
covert of the pinion, tnat is too weak to spread
itself again.
It is the duty of love and of pious devotion to
go often to the graves of those that have depart
ed to the land " where the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary «re at rest." Though
human pride li.as dot';» n* v^h to obliterate every
trac** of the holy amJŸ '••tal feeling, that the
grave excites withinl vau va ni
tv, bv tli:* (k*
the tomb, would keep •'the dust we have, from ]
minci».* with the «lust »e are," yet there lin
gers around the grave of buried love an attrac
tire holiness, that often draws us to it. I he
breeze that sighs aroutul us brings tranquility up- by
on its wings : an I the air is pure and tree, as if
the spirits of those we love to think of are near
and wap-hing over us, had hallowe«! it by their
presence. Though lam not superstitious, yet I
should choose to die in my birth-place, tu close
my life where 1 began it, and to rest in the peace- be
ful bosom of that spot which was the scene of my
sports in childhood I should choose calmly to bid ly
the world farewell, and in the stillness and rt -
tirement of the country to wrap the mantle of age
about me, and to lie down at peace with mankind
and with my own heart, and that the friends who
came to look upon my grave, should say
Alas! lie is dead— *'
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree.
- ?
"The gentlemen assembled in a large apart- c
ment, in reality the court, but now used as a par
| or# \y e were seated on a Divan at one end of the
court, where the ceremony was to he performed.
Near us stood a large wax candle, and from the
ceiling were suspended seven chandeliers. Some
of the candles w ere burning, though it was not
datk. All the Orientals have a great fondness
for burning of lumps and candles in their places
0 f worship, and ou all religious occasions,
the opposite end of the court was a kind of galle -
ry, wher« the bride was making preparation for
the ceremony, and in front of which hung stripes
of different coloured paper, red, pale red, and yel
low, some of them covered with gold leaf. Now
an( | nu*n ihc bride she wed hei self through the
lattice or wooden net work, which stood in front
of the gallery* It reminded us of Solomon's S*ng
2: 9. " My beloved is like a roe, or a young
hart ; behold he atandeth behind our
looked forth at the windows, showing himself
through the lattice.**
About 5 o'clock the High Priest, (It^bbi Mer
cado) and five other Kabbies came in and took
their seats on the Div«n, and the service soon
commenced First, the clerk and the people re
plated in H brew the eighteen benedictions of
the name of God. Then the Priest arose, and
said, " Blessed are they w ho dwell in thy house ;
the y shall praise then forever." 'Fhe people re
spnnded, " Blessed people whose God is the
j n which the name of God oc«
Kacli time this name
s |,ook and trembled. After this prayer the
ti.il torch was lighted. It was a large wax candle,
dividing itself into nine branches, ail of which
were burning. This was carried up to the guile*
r y () f the ladies, were the bride was waiting, the
brid* groom being all the time among the gentle
men below Boy s then began to beat on cymbals,
;; nd the bride was conducted down stairs, cover
| cd wiiIt a long white veil, preceded by three wo
I , m>n w itf* cymbals, and led by two others. Seve
j ra |
\ tonally uttered a hideous shriek, winch we at first
i supposed a shriek of distress, but were after
! wards told i» was an expression of joy. The
whole court now rung with cries, shouts, and Ihe
at noise of the cymbals. The bride being led to the
])iv-«n, the bridegroom took his plac- by her side,
of and noth continued standing, while Rahbi Uerca
( i,>, accompanied by the people, repeated tlr*
in .5 r I » Psalm, "My heart is inditing a good matter,
»» The |t.«b'>i then tonka cup of wine, and
, a id, " Blessed art thou O Lord our God, King
„I the world, who has created the fruit of the
vine ** 'fhe people responded, " Blessed be he,
an I blessed be his name." Rabbi.— " Blessed be*
thou, O Lord, who sanctifies -v people by wed
dingand b\ marriage." People — Blessed be be,
and blessed be bis name "
One of the Babbies then took a ring and put it
on the finger of the bridegroom, and then on the
finger of the bride, and then gave it to the bride
groom, who placed it on the finger of lus bride
saying, " Verily thou art espoused to me by this
ring, according to the law of Muses and of Israel."
A large shawl was then thrown fiver the new
rird couple, and the Rabbi, twice giving them
wine to drink, said "Blessed art thou O Lord
nur King of the world, who has created all
I things for thy glory.**" Blessed art thou, 0 Lord
our God, King of the world who hast created man
of ; n thy likeness, and hast prepared for him and
a- from\\\m a bouse forever and ever.*' At the end
ofeach semence the people responded, " Blessed
be he and blessed he his name." Rabbi.—" lie
juice, shout and be merry thou barren. Thou
of u j|: soon gather *hy children about thee in joy.
Blessed art thou, O Lord, thou tint makest joy
f,,| Zion's children,
Mil, he
After this the evening prayer was said»
» eighteen limes,
•as repealed the Rabbles
followed her, one of whom occas
omen al
Thou makest joyful with
a lovely pair, as thou didst m-ko joyful thy
realure according »0 thv image in the garden of
i^jcn of old Blessed art thou, O Lord
is j 0 *, ce st bridegroom anil bride ! Blessed art thou,
o Lord our God, King of the world, \vh
CPea t e d rojo'.cing and joy. and also bridegroom
| am j bride.' The voice of love and affection, cor
a | diality, peace and friendship, shall be speedily
|, e;m t t | ie c j t j,. s of Judah and streets of Jernsa
| em .— \\ )t > V(i j ce of rejoicing and the voice of joy ;
— u àe voice of the Bridegroom, and the voice of
? he bride ; the voice of shouting, au« I of wedding
( j H y 8f km \ n f marriage, and of feasting days, and
the voice of the music of tiie you'll.—Blessed art
thou, O Lord, who make-t joyful the Bridegroom
U . K |, t |, e bride, and make»! them prosper."
After this the bridegroom took the cup of wine
and tasted it, and then gave to his spouse. Both
0 ftheni continued standmg during the whole sei
vice. Then the Rabbi said*, " Praise the Lord, for
bis mercy endureili forever. Joys shall increase
j j„ Israel, and sorrow shal
shall be for
ho re
'av, and it
a good sign." As the Jew» present
fiered their congratulations to the bridegroom
they said, " A good sign." The nuptial torch wa
-1 then extinguished, but immefii tely i
L m | the bride vc.<s recouduct
h'ctl again,
.1 to her chamber
by »lie women with the sound of cymbals.
While the Rabbles were performing the service
some of the people attended t«i it with great ap
pearance of devotion, but other
laughing, and walking about the r*«>»n.
Rabbies went through the service in the hurried,
indistinct manner, which seems to pervade all re
ligious services in the East.
The 'White Mountains of New Hampshire the
highest in the United States, except perhaps, the
Rocky Mountains, are beginning to attract the a»
t ntion of travellers, and measures are about be
ing taken to open a road to Mount Washington,
which is said to exceed the highest parts of the
Alleghanies and the Green Mountains, in Ver
mont, by ',509 feet. " Mount Washington iß
more than 2000. feet higher than Ben Nevis, the
highe« Mountain in Great Brttatn mote 2 SUÜ
higher than Snowden, am of abouteqtial altitude
with mount OI> mptis, of classic aine. 1
by which I hare mentione« it is now p y e
established by custom, and
cede its rather unmusical Int ,a 1 i e ° -g
cook. It is surrounded by live ower pea a. ea -
mg the names of Adams, Jefferson, Madison,
Monroe and Pleasant. The, last name seemed to
be a sort ofloctim tenens, till ann ter p est et ta
election.—The highest 1 oint ot Mount W.is near
ly 2,000 feet below the itmi o perpe iu s\o
which in our climate is pro )a y a )ou ,
j here is however, a gréa quan i y o sro » -
maimng upon it till the month o . i y, an /
seasons a small portion might e oun in s îa y
crevices throughout the year, u a.» us u l
*' a(l een ra,n ?' palV^ndi^'the"White Moun
™ ,at Proper time or-ascend ng he W Moim
pisses itfwli ich t'he summit« are not enveloped in
? d , nar fo - , nd travellers are sometimes obliged
» •* "f .ban a week for weather sufficiently
c e * 1 ° iscover le pa .
"Here cloudless regions calm the soul,
Bid mortal cares be still ;
Can passions wayward will control,
And rectify the will,
<« [j^ re » m i<lst some vast expanse, the mind
Which swelling virtue fires,
Forget« that earth it leaves behind,
^ ni j lo Jts Heaven aspires."
ill doubtless super
Usp/uI rules for sundry sorts of people
1. When you go to m eting, always wait a
round the doors of the meeting house till the ser
vice has been commenced. B is an excellent time
and place to learn news and see fashions.
2. If you care nothing about news or fashions,
still go into the house ;«s late as possible. This
will shew that you are calm and composed, as you.
should be.
3 Whenever you go in—go with all speed and
a good deal of noise.—Life is short at best, and
none of it should be wasted ; and besides, noise 13
a proof of zeal.
4 Never apply the sermon to yourself but to
your neighbours and friends; otherwise you would
tacitly charge the preacher with dealing in per
5. Never go to Church in the afternoon, lest you
should thereby be made to forget the sermon you
heard in the morning
6. Gentlemen of all ages, would do well in com
p my to sit in a position approaching the horizon
tal : as for instance, with the feet against the
jambs and the body resting chiefly on the buck
bone :—This will aid the circulation ; and save
tin- blood the trouble of running up hill,
7. People should be ambitious and take aim at
exalted distinctions and uncommon attainments :
—This proves the folly of attending to such
things a* common honesty—any body can do that.
8. Private scandal and tattling ought to be prac
tised and encouraged :—they give relish to con
ve< sation—keep the world on its guard, and pre
serve alive n proper sence of our rights and privi
leges :—Beside«, there should be no secrets in a
Republican Government.
9. Never pay y mir debts so long as you can a
!n this way you will prolong the plea
sures of Hope, and the joy of anticipation on the
part of your Creditors.—You know that Hope is
an anchor, and anticipation beats enjoyment ail
to nothing
10. Be careful how you bestow favours, for they
lay people under the weight of obligation : and
what cm be more painful to free, sovereign and
independent citizens ?
11. Never give up your opinion though you are )
convinced it is wrong; if you do—you will gt:
such a habit of giving it up, that you will surren
der it when it is right.
12. Be sure that you never forgive an injury .
for if you should, it is ten to one you may forget
it—and thus be exposed to further injury.—Be
sides, it shows a want of spunk.
13. It is an old proverb, " If you wish to make a
person honest, convince him that you think so.'*
— Therefore, it a young gentleman calls a yge he
Lady an angel, she should by all means .till still
him : He will then treat her accord : neateg, most
will propably become one.
14 Flattery being somewhat .oes at reduced
every Lady should have some p
a delightful stimulant and giv
ming sensations. _____
15. As M.,n is the Lord of Cr»
the Lady of it, one lias ns gooi 1
as.tlie other : Hence, if husbu
agree, it is their right and dutw
against each other, and appeal i\J8
Independent Power are in the habit*
I think with yon, that the most mngnifis*^r
ject under heaven is the great deep ; and c.»
but feel
unpolite species of astonish me.
when I consider 1 lie multitude» that view it with
out emotion, and even without reflection In all
its various forms, it is an object of all others Iht*
most suited to afiVct us with lasting impression*
of the awful power that created and controls it.
1 am the 1 ss inclined to think this negligence
excusable, because, at » time|of life when 1 gave as
little attention lo religious subjects as almost any
man, I yet remember that the wavvs would preacn
tome, and that in the midst of dissipation I had
an ear to them. One of Shakspeare's characters
says—"1 am. never merry whe
musick." The same effect that harmony seems
to have had upon him I have experienced from
the sight and sound of the ocean which have of
ten composed my thought into a melancholy no;
ithout its use.
hear sweet
The moment a man takes it into his foolish head
that he has what the world calls genius, he gives
himself a discharge IVotn the servile drugery of ail
friendly offices, and becomes good for nothing,
except in the pursuit of his favourite employment
Cowpcr's Correspondence.
This brave bn» ill-fated general, in the retrea;
from Mosco, had rer urse to every manœuvre
that the mont extraordinary courage and and tal
cn»s could effect. F.ts.sing over an unknown
country, he marched with his troops drawn up in
the form of a square, and constantly repelled with
success the attacks "f six thousand Uossacks, who
every moment charged furiously upon him, to
compel him to surrender. His retreat was one 0 :
the most beautiful operations of the campaign
When he pissed the Dnieper, all his troops were
in despair,, and every one considered himself lost,
ï His staff eagerly sought him \ . ui*

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