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days' keeping; I lose the three pounds at which I valued him above what he cost me, and I lose the advantage I might have made of my money in six months, either by the interest or by joining it to my stock in trade in my voyage to Barbadoes.

6. Lastly, whenever a horse is put to keep, the agreement naturally runs thus: The keeper says I will feed your horse six months on good hay and oats, if at the end of that time you will pay me three pounds. The owner says, if you will feed my horse six months on good hay and oats, I will pay you three pounds at the end of that time. Now we may plainly sec, the keeper's performance of his part of the agreement must be antecedent to that of the owner; and the agreement being wholly conditional, the owner's part is not in force till the keeper has performed his. You then not having fed my horse six months, as you agreed to do, there lies no obligation on me to pay for so much feeding.

Thus we have heard what can be said on both sides. Upon the whole, I am of opinion that no deduction should be allowed for the keeping of the liorsc after the time of his straying. I am yours, &c



The Lady was playing the Paiscrosa, and the Bard rallied her. She suddenly assumed the Allegn, and rallied him in turn. Whereupon he sun? as follows:

Heave no more that breast of snow,

With sighs of simulated wo,

While Conquest triumphs on thy brow,

And Hope, gay laughing in thine eye,

Cheers the moments gliding by,

Welcomes Joy's voluptuous train,

Welcomes Pleasure's jocund reign,
And whispers thee of transports yet in store,

When fraught with Love's ecstatic pain,

Shooting keen through every vein,
Thy heart shall thrill with bliss unknown before.

But smile not so divinely bright; _. .

Nor sport before my dazzled sight,

That "prodigality of charms," That winning air, that wanton grace, That pliant form, that beauteous face,

Zephyr's step, Aurora's smile; Nor thus in mimic fondness twine,

About my neck thy snowy arms; Nor press this faded cheek of mine, Nor seek, by every witching wile,

My hopes to raise, my heart to gain, Then laugh my love to scorn, and triumph in my pain.

I love thee, Julia! Though the flash

Of sprightly youth is flown—
Though the bright glance, and rose's blush

From eye and cheek and lip are gone—
Though Fancy's frolic dreams are fled,

Dispelled by sullen care—
And Time's gray wing its frost has shed

Upon my raven hair—
Yet warm within my bosom glows,
A heart that recks not winter's snows,

But throbs with hope, and heaves with sighs
For ruby lips and sparkling eyes;
And still—the slave of amorous care—
Would make that breast, that couch of Love, its lair.


Shade! O shade those looks of light;

The thrilling sense can bear no more! Veil those beauties from my sight,

Which to see is to adore.

That dimpled cheek, whose spotless white,
The rays of Love's first dawning light,

Tinge with Morning's rosy blush,

And cast a warm and glowing flush,
Even on thy breast of snow,

And in thy bright eyes sparkling dance,

And through the waving tresses glance
That shade thy polished brow

Who can behold, nor own thy power?

Who can behold, and not adore?

But like the wretch, who, doomed to endless pain,
Raises to realms of bliss his aching eyes,

To Heaven uplifts his longing arms in vain

While in his tortured breast new pangs arise—
Thus while at thy feet I languish,
Stung with Love's voluptuous anguish,
The smile that would my hopes revive,
The witching glance that bids me live
Shed on my heart one fleeting ray,
One gleam of treacherous Hope display;

But soon again in deep Despair I pine:

The dreadful truth returns: "Thou never wilt be mine"

Then shade! O shade those looks of light;

The thrilling sense can bear no more! Veil those beauties from my sight,

Which to see is to adore.

But stay! O yet awhile refrain!

Forbear! And let me gaze again •

Still at 0'-" ff-C'. 'mj.-isiuiied let me lie,

Tranced by the magic of thy thrilling eye;

Thy soft melodious voice still let me hear,

Pouring its melting music on my car;

And, while my eager lip, with transport bold,

Presumptuous seeks thy yielded hand to press,
Still on thy charms enraptured let me gaze,
Basking ecstatic in thy beauty's blaze,

Such charms 'twere more than Heaven to possess.
'Tis Heaven only to behold.



He scanned with curious and prophetic eyo
Whatc'er of lore tradition could supply
From Gothic tale, or song or fable old-
Roused him still keen to listen and to pry.


You judge the English character with too much faTor

Lionel, said Col. R . The Englishman is not free:

Though vain, arrogant, and imperious, there is not a more abject slave on earth. His boasting spirit, his fullmouthed independence and his lordly step quail to rank, and he is ever crawling amid the purlieus or over the threshold of that fantastic temple of fashion called " Society." It is an endless contest between those who are initiated into its mysteries and those who crowd its avenues. Wealth batters down the door—assumes a proud niche in the chilling fane, and uniting itself to that silent yet powerful aristocracy which wields the oracles of the god, its breath can create you an exclusive, or its frown can degrade you to the vulgar herd. Rank, which is the idol of an Englishman's sleepless devotion, wealth because it is curiously akin to the former, and some indistinct conception of the difference between a people and the mob, render him, in hisown conceit, a gentleman and a politician. His first thought if cast on a desert island would be his rank, and if he had companions in misfortune, he would ere night arrange the dignity and etiquette of intercourse. Literature seeks the same degrading arena, and alas! how few are there who do not deck the golden calf with the laurels won in the conflicts of genius, and who, stimulated solely by lucre, shed their momentary light athwart the horizon, even as the meteor whose radiance is exhaled from the corruption of a fetid marsh. But there is a class who, ennobled by letters, are always independent; and though they be of the race of authors whom Sir Horace Walpole calls "a troublesome, conceited set of fellows," you will find them too proud and too honest to palter away the prerogatives of their station.

But we are now at the door of Elia; come, let me introduce you to one of his simple and unaffected suppers! I cheerfully assented to this invitation, and following my conductor up a flight of crooked and dark steps, we entered into a room, over a brazier's shop. A dull light trembled through the small and narrow apartment where, shrouded in a close volume of tobacco smoke, sat in pensive gentility—the kind—the generous—the infant-hearted Charles Lamb; the man whose elastic genius dwelled among the mouldering ruins of by-gone Hits, until it became steeped in beauty and expanded with philosophy—&i vrit-— the poet—the lingeringhalo of the sunshine of antiquity—the phcenixof the mighty past He was of delicate and attenuated stature, and as &agilely moulded as a winter's flower, with a quick and volatile eye, a mind-worn forehead and a countenance eloquent with thought. Around a small table well covered with glasses and a capacious bowl, were gathered a laughing group, eyeing the battalia of the coming supper. Godwin's heavy form and intellectual face, with the swimming eye of (« re us s. T.c. How quaint was his fancy!) Coleridge, flanked the margin of the mirthinspiring bowl.

Col. R 's introduction made me at home, and ere

my hand had dropped from the friendly grasp of our host, he exclaimed—And you are truly from the land of the great plant? You have seen the sole cosmopolite spring from the earth. It is the denizen of the whole world, the tireless friend of the wretched, the bliss of the happy. You need no record of the empire of the red man. He has written his fadeless history on a tobacco leaf.

At this time Lamb was a clerk in the " India House," a melancholy and gloomy mansion, with grave courts, heavy pillars, dim cloisters, stately porticoes, imposing staircases and all the solemn pomp of elder days. Here for many years he drove the busy quill, and whilcd away

his tranquil evenings, in the dalliance of literature. He was an author belonging to his own exclusive school—a school of simplicity, grace and beauty. He neither skewered his pen into precise paragraphs, nor rioted in the verbose rotundity of the day. He picked up the rare and unpolished jewels which spangled the courts of Elizabeth and Charles, and they lost beneath his polishing hand neither their lustre nor value. He was a passionate and single hearted antiquary, ever laboring to prop up with a puny arm, the column on which was inscribed the literary glory of his country. Ho was familiar with the grace of Heywood, the harmony of Fletcher, the case of Sir Philip Sydney, the delicacy and fire of Spenser, the sweetness of Carew, the power and depth of Marlow, the mighty verse of Shakspcare, the affected fustian of Euphues (Lilly) "which ran into a vast excess of allusion," and with the deep and sparkling philosophy of Burton. With all of them he held a "dulcified" converse, while his memory preserved from utter forgelfulness, many of those authors who to the eye of the world, had glittered like the flying fish, a moment above the surface, only to sink deeper in the sea of oblivion.

Lamb possessed in an eminent degree, what Dryden called a beautiful turn of words and thoughts in poetry, and the easy swell of cadence and harmony which characterised his brief writings declared the generosity of his heart, and the fertility of his genius. He could sympathise with childhood's frolic, and his heart was full of boyish dreams, when he gazed on the play-ground of Eton, and exclaimed "what a pity to think that these fine ingenuous lads in a few years will be changed into frivolous members of parliament!" He had the rough magnanimity of the old English vein, mellowed into tenderness and dashed with a flexible and spinous humor. He was contented to worship poesy in its classic and antique drapery. With him the fountain of Hypocrene still gushed up its inspiring wave; and Apollo, attended by the Muses, the daughters of Memory, and escorted by the Graces, still haunted the mountains ofHelicon, lingered among the hills of Phocis, or, mounted upon Pegasus, winged his radiant flight to the abode itself of heaven-born Poesy. These were the fixed principles of his taste, and he credulously smiled (for contempt found no place in his bosom) upon the sickly illustrations and naked imagery of modern song. His learning retained a hue of softness from the gentleness of his character, for he had gathered the blossoms untouched by the bitterness of the sciential apple. Ho extracted like the bee his honied stores from the wild and neglected flowers which bloomed among forgotten ruins, yet he was no plagiarist, no imitator, for he had invaded and lingered amid the dim sepulchres of the shadowy past, until he became its friend and cotemporary!

How has he obtained those curiously bound books, I whispered to Coleridge, as my eye fell on a column of shelves groaning under a mass of tattered volumes which would have fairly crazed my poor uncle?

Tell him Lamb! said Coleridge repeating my inquiry, give him the rank and file of your ragged regiment.

Slowly, and painfully as a neophyte, did I build tho pile, replied Lamb. Its corner stone was that fine old folio of Beaumont and Fletcher, which, for a long year had peeped out from a bookseller's stall directly in my daily path to the India House. It bore the great price of sixteen shillings, and to me, who had no unsunned heap of silver, I gazed on it until I had almost violated the decalogue. Poetry made me an economist, and at the end of two months my garnered mites amounted to the requisite sum. Vain as a girl with her first lover, I bore it home in triumph, and that night my sister Bridget read "The Laws of Candy" while I listened with rapture to that deep and gurgling torrent of old English, which dashed its music from this broken cistern. To her is the honor due, her taste has called all these obsolete wits to my library, for she keenly relished their fantasies, and smiled at their gauderies. In early life she had been tumbled into a spacious closet of good old English reading, without much selection or prohibition and browsed at will upon that fair and wholesome pasturage. Had I twenty girls they should be brought up in this fashion. I know not whether their chance in wedlock might not be diminished by it, but I can answer for it that (if the worst comes to the worst) it makes most incomparable old maids.

But there are some fearful gaps in my shelves, Mr. Granby! See! there a stately and reverend folio, like a huge eye-tooth, was rudely knocked out by a bold borrower of books, one of your smiling.pirates, mutilator of collections, a spoiler of the symmetry of shelves, and a creator of odd volumes.

The conversation now became general, and many a little skiff was launched on the great ocean of commonplace. Lamb most cordially hated politics which he called " a splutter of hot rhetoric ;" and he only remembered its battles and revolutions when connected with letters. He had heard of Pharsalin, but it was Lucan's and not Caesar's; the battle of Lepanto was cornered in his memory because Cervantes had there lost an arm. The glorious days of the "Commonwealth" were hallowed by Milton and Waller, and he always turned with much address from the angry debates about the execution of Charles I. to the simple inquiry whether he or Doctor Ganden wrote the "icon. Basi'iikc."

Godwin in vain essayed to introduce the "conduct of the ministry," and being repeatedly baffled, he said pettishly to Lamb, And what benefit is your freehold, if you do not feel interested in government?

Ah! I had a freehold it is true, the gift of my generous and solemn god-father, the oil-man in Holborn; I went down and took possession of my testamentary allot ment of three quarters of an acre, and strode over it with the feeling of an English freeholder, that all betwixt sky and earth was my own. Alas! it has passed into more prudent hands, and nothing but an Agrarian can restore it!

The bowl now danced from hand to hand, and I did not observe its operation until Lamb and Coleridge commenced an affectionate talk about Christ's Hospital, the blue coat boys, and all the treasured anecdotes of schoolday friendship. This is the first and happiest stage of incipient intoxication, and the " willie-draughts" which are pledged to the memory of boyhood, ever inspire brighter and nobler sympathies, than are found in the raciest toasts to beauty, or the deepest libations to our country.

Do you not remember, said Lamb, poor Allan! whose beautiful countenance disarmed the wrath of a towndamsel whom he had secretly pinched, and whose half

formed execration was exchanged, when she, tigress-like

turned round and gave the terrible W for a gentler

meaning, bless thy handsome face! And do you not remember when you used to tug over Homer, discourse Metaphysics, chaunt Anacrcon, and play at foils with the sharp-edged wit of Sir Thomas Browne, how your eye glistened when you doffed the grotesque blue coat, and the inspired charity boy (this was uttered in an under tone) walked forth humanized by a christian garment. Spenser knew the nobility of heart which a new coat gives when he dressed his butterfly.

The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie, The silken down with which his back is dight His broad outstretched horns, his hairy thichs His glorious colors, and his glistening eyes. Col. R. now motioned to me to retire, and I bid a reluctant goodnight to the joyous scene, the exclamation "do you not remember!" from Coleridge, and the cheerful laugh ringing through the whole house and its dying echo following us to the street.

Gentle reader ! the critics have called Lamb a trifler, the scholars have called him a twaddler! Read Elio, and let your heart answer for him.


This word is pronounced by the common people para-re. I was in the peninsula of Michigan, and had been for a day or two traversing the most dreary country imaginable, when I saw for the first time a salt or wet prairie, which is only a swampy meadow, grown up in a rank, coarse, sedgy grass.

Not long after we began to catch glimpses of the upland prairies. These are either clear prairies, totally destitute of trees, or oak openings which consist of clear prairie and scattered trees. A clear prairie—a broad unvaried expanse —presents rather a monotonous appearance like the sea, but surely the human eye has never rested on more lovely landscapes than these Opi; Cjjenings present. They answered my conceptions of lawns, parks and pleasure grounds in England; they are the lawns, parks and pleasure grounds of nature, laid out and planted with an inimitable grace, fresh as creation.

In these charming woodlands are a number of small lakes, the most picturesque and delightful sheets of water imaginable. The prairies in the summer are covered with flowers. I am an indifferent botanist, but in a short walk I gathered twenty four species which [ had not seen before. These flowers and woods and glittering lakes surpass all former conception of beauty. Each flower, leaf, and blade of grass, and green twig glistens with pendulous diamonds of dew. The sun pours his light upon the water and streams through U* sloping glades. To a traveller unaccustomed to such scenes, they are pictures of a mimic paradise. Sometimes they stretch away far as the eye can reach, soft as Elysian meadows, then they swell and undulate, voluptuous as the warm billows of a southern sea.

In these beautiful scenes we saw numerous flocks of wild turkies, and now and then a prairie hen, or a deer bounding away through flowers. Here too is found the prairie wolf which some take to be the Asiatic jacbilL It is so small as not to be dangerous alone. It is said however, that they hunt in packs like hounds, headed by a grey wolf. Thus they pursue the deer with a cry not unlike that of hounds, and have been known to rush by a farm-house in hot pursuit. The officers of the army stationed at the posts on the Prairies amuse theraselres hunting these little wolves which in some parts are very numerous. c. c.


The .%<.—Its leading fault, to which we of America »re especially obnoxious, is this: in Poetry, in Legislation, in Eloquence, the best, the divinest even of all the arts, seems to be laid aside more and more, just in proportion as it every day grows of greater necessity. It is still, as in Swift's time, who complains as follows: "To say the truth, no part of knowledge seems to be in fewer hands, than that of discerning when to have done."

Dancing.—The following are sufficiently amusing illustrations of the fine lines in Byron's Ode,

"You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet j
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone.'"

The French translation of St. John (de Creve-cceur's) American Farmer's Letters—a book once very popular— was adorned with engravings, to fit it to the European imagination of the Arcadian state of things in America. The frontispiece presents an allegorical picture, in which a goddess of those robuster proportions which designate Wisdom, or Philosophy, leads by the hand an urchin— the type, no doul t, of this country—with ne'er a shirt upon his back. More delightfully still, however, in the back ground, is seen, hand in hand, with knee-breeches and strait-collared coats, a band of Pennsylvania quaker men, dancing, by themselves, a true old fashioned sixhanded Virginia reel.

But of the Pyrrhic dance, more particularly: the learned Scaliger—that terror and delight of the critical world—assures us, in his Poetics, (book i, ch. 9) that he himself, at the command of his uncle Boniface, was wont often and long to dance it, before the Emperor Maximilian, while all Germany looked on with amazement. Tlanc saltationem Pyrrhicam, nos sa:pe et diu, jussu Bonifacii palrui, coram divo Maximiliano, non sine stupore totius Germanise, representavimus."

.Jrioslo.—Has not the following curious testimony in regard to him escaped all his biographers? Montaigne, in his Essays, (vol. iii, p. 117, Johanneau's edition, in Sto.) says, "J'eus plus de despit encores, que de compassion, de le veoir a Ferrare en si pileux estat, survivant a soy mesme, mecognoissan t et soy et ses ouvrages; lesquels, sans son sceu, et toutesfois en sa veue, on a mis en lumiere incorrigez et informes."

"I was touched even more with vexation than with compassion, to see him, at Ferrara, in a state so piteous, outliving himself, and incapable of recognizing either himself or his works; which last, without his knowledge, though yet before his sight, were given to the world uncorrected and unfinished."

Thin Clothing.—It would be difficult more skilfully to turn a reproach into a praise, than Byron has done, as to drapery too transparent, in his voluptuous description of a Venitian revel.

"The thin robes,

Floating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze and heaven,"

form the very climax of many intoxicating particulars.

The Greeks seem not to have practised a very rigorous reserve, as to the concealment of the person. The Lacedemonians, indeed, studiously suppressed, by their institutions, whatever of sexual modesty was not absolutely necessary to virtue. Among the Romans, however, the national austerity of manners made every violation of delicacy in this matter a great offence. Their Satyrists (as Seneca, Juvenal, and others) abound in allusions to the license of dress, which grew up, along with the other corruptions of their original usages. The words of Seneca, indeed, might almost be taken for a picture of a modern belle, in her ball-room attire. He says, in his De Beneficiis, "Video Sericas vestes, si vestes vocandae sint, in quibus nihil est, quo defendi aut corpus, aut denique pudor, possit: quibus sumtis, mulier parum liquido, nudam se non esse, jurabit. Haec, ingenti summa, ab ignotis etiam ad comrnercium gentibus, accersuntur, ut matrons? nostra; ne ndulteris quidem plus suis in cubiculo, quam in publico, ostendant." "I see, too, silken clothing—if clothing that can be called, which does not protect, nor even conceal the body—apparelled in which, a woman cannot very truly swear, that she is not naked. Such tissues are brought to us at enormous cost, from nations so remote that not even their names can reach us; and by the help of this vast expense, our matrons are able to exhibit, to their lovers and in their couches, nothing at which the whole public has not equally gazed."

Mythology.—Bryant and others have puzzled themselves not a little to give a rational explanation to the story of Ariadne; who, it will be remembered, was abandoned upon the isle of Naxos by her seducer, Theseus: but Bacchus chancing to come that way, fell upon the forlorn damsel, and presently made her his. bride. All this may well puzzle a commentator, for the single reason, that it is perfectly plain and simple. The whole tale is nothing but a delicate and poetic way of stating the fact, that Mrs. Ariadne, being deserted by her lover, sought and found a very common consolation—that is to say, she took to drink.

Maples.—Its population of Lazzaroni appears, after all, to be but the legitimate inheritors of ancestral laziness. They were equally idle in Ovid's time: for he expressly calls that seat of indolence

"in otia natam


Exhibition of Grief.—There is a curious instance of the unbending austerity of Roman manners, in the trait by which Tacitus endeavors to paint the disorder with which the high-souled Agrippina received the news of the death of Gcrmanicus. She was, at the moment, sewing in the midst of her maids; and so totally (says Tacitus) did the intelligence overthrow her self-command, that she broke off her work.

Snoring.—The following story of a death caused by it is entirely authentic. Erythircus relates that when Cardinal Bentivoglio—a scholar equally elegant and laborious—was called to sit in the Conclave, for the election of a successor to Urban VIII, the summons found him much exhausted by the literary vigils to which he was addicted. Immured in the sacred palace, (such is the custom while the Pope is not yet chosen,) his lodging was assigned him along side of a Cardinal, whose snoring was so incessant and so terrible, that poor Bentivoglio ceased to be able to obtain even the little sleep which his studies and his cares usually permitted him. After eleven nights of insomnolence thus produced, he was thrown into a violent fever. They removed him, and he slept—but waked no more.

Human Usefulness.—Wilkes has said, that of all the uses to which a man enn be put, there is none so poor as hanging him. I hope that I may, without offence to any body's taste, add, that of all the purposes to which a send can be put, I know of none less useful than damning it.

Sneezing.—It is the Catholics (see father Feyjoo for the fact) who trace the practice of bidding God bless a man when he sneezes, to a plague in the time of St. Gregory. He, they say, instituted the observance, in order to ward off the death of which this spasm had, till then, been the regular precursor, in the disease. If the story be true, such a plague had already happened, long before the day of St. Gregory. In the Odyssey, Penelope takes the sneezing of Tolcmachus for a good omen; and the army of Xenophon drew a favorable presage, as to one of his propositions, from a like accident: Aristotle speaks of the salutation of one sneezing as the common usage of his time. In Catullus's .tone and Sempronius, Cupid ratifies, by nn approving sneeze, the mutual vows of the lovers. Pliny alludes to the practice, and Petronius in his Gyton. In Apuleius's Golden Jlss, a. husband hears the concealed gallant of his wife sneeze, and blesses her, taking the sternutation to be her own.

If there be a marvel or an absurdity, the Rabbins rarely fail to adorn the fiction or the folly with some trait of their own. Their account of the matter is, that in patriarchal days, men never died except by sneezing, which was then the only disease, and always mortal. Apparently then, the antiquity of the Scotch nation and of rappee cannot be carried back to the time of Jacob. Be this point of chronology as it may, however, it is certain that the same sort of observance, as to sneezing, was found in America at the first discovery.

Aristotle is politely of opinion that the salutation was meant as an acknowledgment to the wind, for choosing an inoffensive mode of escape. But a stronger consideration is necessary to account for the joy with which the people of Monopotama celebrate the fact, when their monarch sneezes. The salutation is spread by loud acclamations, over the whole city. So, too, when he of Sennaar sneezes, his courtiers all turn their backs, and slap loudly their right thighs.

Honor.—Tho source of the following passage in Garth's Dispensary, is so obvious, that it is singular that no one has made the remark.

'In the debate among the Doctors, when war is proposed, one of the Council speaks as follows.

Thus he: "'Tis true, when privilego and right
Are once invaded, Honor bids ua fight:
But ere we yet engage in Honor's cause,
First know what honor is, and whence its laws.

Scorned by the base, 'tis courted by the brave;
The hero's tyrant, yet the coward's slave;
Born in the noisy camp, it feeds on air,
And both exists by hope and by despair;
Anffry whene'er n moment's case we gain,
Anti reconciled at our returns of pain.
It lives when in death's arms the hero lies;
But when his safety he consults, it dies.
Blotted m this idol, wc disclaim
Beat, health and ease, for nothing but a name."

Implicit Faith.—I am delighted with the following excellent contrast of ignorant Orthodoxy with cultivated Doubt. It is from the learned and pious Le Clerc's Preface to his Bibliolheque Choisie, vol. vii, pp. 5, 6.

"II n'y a, comme je crois, personne, qui ne pre>ferat l'etat d'unc nation, ou il y auroit beaucoup de lumieres quoiqu'il y eut quelques libertins, a eclui d'une nation ignorante et qui croiroit tout ce qu'on lui enseigneroit, ou qui au moins ne donneroit aucunes marques de douterdes sentimens recus. Les lumieres produisent infailliblcment beaucoup de vertu dans l'esprit d'une bonne part de ceux qui les recoivent; quoiqu'il y ait des gens qui en abusent. Mais 1' Ignorance ne produil que de la barbaric ct des vices dans tous ccux qui vivent tranquillcment dans leurs ttSnebres. II faudroit <5tre fou, par excmple, pour preTerer ou pour egaler l'etat auquel sont les Moscovites et d'autres nations, i I'dgard de la Religion ct de la vertu, acelui auquel sont les Anglois et les Hollandois, sous prStexte qu'il y a quelques libertins parmi ces deux pcuples, et que les Moscovites et ceux qui lcur ressemblcnt ne doubtenl de rien."

"There is, I think, no one who would prefer the state of a nation, in which there was much intelligence, but some free thinkers, to that of a nation ignorant and ready to believe whatever might be taught it, or which, at least, would show no sign of doubting any of the received opinions. For knowledge never fails to produce much of virtue, in the minds of a large part of those who receive it, even though there be some who make an ill use of it. But Ignorance is never seen t:> give birth to any thing but barbarism and vice, in *3 such as dwell contentedly under her darkness. It would, for example, be nothing less than madness, to prefer or to compare the condition in which the Muscovites and some other nations are, as respects Religion and Virtue, to that of the English or Hollanders; under the pretext that there arc, among the two latter nations, some free thinkers, and that the Muscovites and those who resemble them doubt of nothing."

The whole of this piece, indeed, is excellent, and foil of candor, charity and sense, as to the temper and tie principles of those who are forever striving to send into banishment, or shut up in prisons, or compel into eternal hypocrisy, all such opinions as have the misfortune to differ with their own.

Friendships.—There are people whose friendship ii very like the Santee Canal in South Carolina: that a to say, its repairs cost moro than the fee simple is worth.

Benefits.—There arc many which must ever be their own reward, great or small. Others are positively dangerous. That subtle courtier, Philip de Comine?, declares, that it is exceedingly imprudent to do yocr prince services for which a fit recompense is not east!? found:* and Tacitus avers that obligations too dee? are sure to turn to hatred f Seneca pursues the matter yet further, and insists that he, whom your exeessrrc services have thus driven to ingratitude, presently begins to desire to escape the shame of such favors, by

* u 11 6e fault bien garder de fairc tant de services ft son miis Ire, qu'on l'emposche d'en trouvor la juste recompense."—iffmoirci.

f" Beneficia eo usque lteta sunt, dum videntur exsojvi posw: ubi multum antivenere, pro gratifl odium redditur."'

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