would only remonstrate against drawing harsh and unjust inferences from what is often a mere difference of custom. We should recollect, too, that every thing which does not involve essential principle, is in a great measure arbitrary and conventional, and not be too prompt to subject the conduct of others to our own standard of habits and education. I am but pleading for charity in our judgments of others, for I repeat, both reason and feeling induce me to prefer the cautious reserve and watchful scrupulousness which prevail with us. It has been observed, with equal truth and point, that in France nothing is Salic but the throne. In fact, women there perform duties, and are entrusted with functions, which in other countries are appropriated exclusively to the stronger sex. They not only wait upon customers in the shops, they preside at the cafés and the restaurants, they book passengers for the diligences, they are the box-keepers at the theatres, they write in the office of the notary, they are the prominent and active managers of numerous establishments, and finally their names appear as principals or partners in commercial firms. The participation of females in so many masculine employments, may be in some degree owing to the sanguinary wars of the republic and the empire, which diminished the natural proportion of active men in the resident population. But this is a cause of but partial and temporary influence. In shops and other establishments, female charms are resorted to systematically, and with great success, to attract custom. pretty woman will make the fortune of a café or a fancy store. The pleasure of being waited upon by a fair damsel, is often dearly purchased by needless expenditures and exorbitant prices, which it would not be gallant to begrudge. There is no city where this system is carried to so great an extent as in Paris. Some of the greatest establishments owe their vogue chiefly to the attraction of the presiding beauty, who, arrayed in all the splendor of costume, sits enthroned beneath a gorgeous canopy. A But I must break off this gossipping paper abruptly, lest the attraction of the subject draw me insensibly into a tedious prolixity. Washington, D. C. J. L. M. A MENTAL RETROSPECT. I. I once could see, but now am blind- But, oh! 'tis fresh within my mind, I can recall the break of day The first faint streak of light- The last dim stars which 'gan to fade, I knew not which did please me best, That flood of morning light, Or that refulgent plunge to rest, II. I recollect the opening Spring, To my dear mother's room; The Red Bud stood, with blushes deep, And made my heart exulting leap, Returning warmth to hail. Methinks I now can see the wheat, Spread like a carpet green, With peach and cherry blossoms sweet, Embroid'ring all the scene. III. That wheat, in Summer, changed in hueWav'd like a sea of gold And as the soft winds o'er it flew, 'Twas beauteous to behold; Oft sink into the tomb? But, oh! their place was quick supplied And for the loss of those who died, There was no heart for grief; For there was fruit, and there were leaves- The shady veils which Mercy weaves IV. Autumnal days! ah, they were soft- And those were sad; but then they oft And then the wood-the waving wood— With some trees dyed as red as blood, And some with golden leaf; Deep orange tints, and purple too, Were mix'd with evergreen, And ev'ry shade and ev'ry hue Within the rainbow seen; In color'd map, those trees were group'd, All over hill and dale And such the groves, where fairies troop'd, In some Arabian tale. V. But Winter came to blast that scene, And lay it bleak and bare; And nothing save the Evergreen Was left of all so fair. How was it, glorious Evergreen! That thou wert smiling on, When other trees around, were seen So sad and woe-begone? Yet, still there was in Winter's face A might-a majesty and grace, The storm and tempest sweeping past, The torrents too of rain, The flaky snows descending fast, And burying all the plain. VI. And there were moonbeams cold and bright, "The floor of Heaven was thick inlaid Yes, Winter, lock'd in "thick-ribb'd ice," And dark my path on earth, *"Sit Jessica: look how the floor of Heaven Is thick inlaid with patinest of bright gold. Merchant of Venice. all through the town. It is said too, they have brought news that the Home Ministry continue, and almost all the same Parliament, and that they are determined to carry things to the utmost extremity. I don't know how they could know this, for I suppose they were not all chosen when she sailed; though I think the letters some have received, of later date than your's to me, imply almost as much. May God defend and preserve us. December 15. I wrote the above in order to send by the first opportunity; since which cousin Williams has received one from you and from their son, whose sentiments and the spirit he writes with, are very pleasing to us all here. The anxiety we feel for each other, you for us and we for ourselves, and for what we know you suffer on our account, is not among the least of our afflictions. Since I saw one of your letters to the Speaker, mentioning your anxiety for us, I have blamed myself for writing you an account of a fray that happened in this neighborhood; but it is gone and I cannot recall it; but I have seen nothing of the like nature since; and I really think that part of General Gage's letter to Peyton Randolph, Esq. is a truth, (however some contest about some other + Patines were small flat dishes used in the administration of parts of it) that never was more pains taken to keep an the Eucharist. army in peace with the inhabitants than there is among these. There is a number of officers in this street, almost every other house between the Orange Tree and King's Lane. They are all very peaceable, but the LETTER FROM MRS. JANE MECOM, neighbors do not associate with them. I really pity TO HER BROTHER, BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. *** them sometimes *** touching book of music; having [time] hanging on their hands and no This has [The various editions of Franklin's works contain numerous been our Thanksgiving Day. Our God has told us letters from him to his youngest and favorite sister, Jane, mar- that all our sueing for a reconciliation will prove aborried to Mr. Mecom of Boston. The following from her to him, tive without a regeneration of morals among us; and I although a fragment, will, it is believed, be interesting. It is co-am in hopes we have that token, for *** several within pied from the original and has been hitherto unpublished.] DEAR BROTHER: Boston, Dec. 5, 1774. Since I wrote last, which was by Capt. Calahan, I received your's of September 28. Your affectionate concern for my satisfaction, excites my sincerest gratitude and warmest affections. I am pleased, beyond expression, to find you are not discouraged under all you and our dear country suffer. I myself am not much discouraged, but I feared I was only fool-hardy, for many of our people are alarmed at the news of more ships and more soldiers coming; but the only way, as you have observed, is to keep on in the way of duty, and put our trust in God. The slander you mention, (for I also look on it as such,) was told me before I saw the papers; but it took no hold on me, for I immediately told them it was false. I knew you would scorn to accept any favors from them. I hope God will* [prosper your] advice and endea vors for our good. Our case requires all the strength and wisdom that can be collected. I hear the Scarborough came in yesterday; but if she did, it was very silently; not a gun fired; and we know it was not in regard to the day, for we had drumming and whistling There are a few words illegible here in the fold of the letter. The words supplied in brackets were probably those written. my observation appearing to be of that number. I have sincerely pitied poor Mrs. H- for her loss of so amiable a husband as I have heard he was, in so dismal a manner. The father of her dear babe *** is much missed in their education, if the means [be not] supplied another way; but I know by what I have heard of her and seen of her writings, that she is seized of a zeal of philosophy, and, I hope, of christianity, which will enable her to bear the affliction and acquit herself. Present my respects to Mrs. Stevenson and to Jonathan. Tell him I wrote to him in the vessel Mr. Hislop and Mr. Quincy went in, and so I did to my dear brother; but not being under cover, I fear they may not get to you. SONNET-THE RECALL. BY PARK BENJAMIN. Oh truant heart! come back to thine own home- They break in showers-and sudden tempest hurls 'Tis life's sweet star, dimmed by the moon of Time; Come to the fountain, heart, that never fails, Fountain of hallowed genius, thoughts sublime, That flows through dream-land, pure, and bright, and freeThere is thy home, my heart: the fount is Poesy. THE POET'S DESTINY. BY A YOUNG LADY, A NATIVE OF VIRGINIA. CHAPTER I. A cloud swept o'er the lover's face, A shadow on his brow. Two years of exile passed away, and Ernest Gordon was again in England. Time and change had wrought their usual work, and calmed the tumult of feelings which nothing could entirely subdue. Though his brow wore no longer its deep sadness, yet it was shaded still; and it may be, that the memory of some early sorrow urged him to flee from the gaieties of the metropolis, and seek the solitude of his childhood's home. There, he could be alone with his own thoughts. Society no longer charmed him; and steadfastly scrutinizing the frivolities of the world, he had learned to shun and pity those who loved them. Books were now his companions; and sometimes, in his bitterness of soul, he deemed them the only friends who never altered or betrayed. It is a sad period in life, when such feelings crowd upon us; when the beauty seems taken from our future, and the light gone from our path-way. Gloom like this was on Ernest, as he wandered through the old familiar haunts of his boyish days—and he pondered on those days as the only happy period he had ever known; forgetting that many hopes brightened over him still, that no era of existence is without its blessings, and that none can be really unhappy while there is good remaining to be done on earth. How few, in such mournful meditations, perceive that the change is not in the scenes and objects around them, but in themselves; that the blight has fallen, not on their prospects, but on the withering flowers of their own hearts. The stars are always in Heaven, and the darkness which shuts them from us, is around ourselves. It was early on a summer afternoon that Ernest was seated in the library, whose treasures had so often contributed to the consolation of his loneliest hours. The windows of the room were open, and the soft breeze sighed through the curtained casements; repose rested like a mantle on all, and its influence fell on Ernest also. His eyes were fixed on the page before him, but his thoughts had roamed far away to the records of the past. Throwing aside the learned volume, he took a pamphlet from the table and carelessly opened it. While he glanced at its contents, a change came over his countenance, as if the lava of years had been suddenly removed from the world of his memory. The lines he looked on were addressed to the writer's "only friend," and were these: "I will not forget thee! the links of the past, They are clinging around me yet; And the thoughts which connected my spirit with thine They are lingering near me in tenderness still, And are brighten'd by gloom, as stars shine at night I will not forget thee! too many bright hopes For with accents of kindness thou greetedst me oft, Thy memory comes like the breath of the south, Ernest's conscience smote him for his forgetfulness, as he read the verses addressed to himself and signed with the name of Walter Vere. Since their parting, these friends had heard nothing of each other—for Walter, with that peculiar reserve which generally forms a feature of an imaginative character, had said nothing of his plans or destination; and Ernest, in the selfishness of his individual disappointments, after the lapse of a few months' absence, had rarely thought of his youthful companion. Perhaps he may be forgiven this neglect, by those who feel that the memory of childish friendship is often lost in the engrossment of a deeper passion. But now, when the variety and distraction of travel had passed away, and he was once more enjoying the quiet of home, Gordon's interest in his friend returned with redoubled ardor, and he dwelt with the tenderest affec tion on the proud and sensitive disposition of the gifted poet. Entirely ignorant of Walter's residence, Ernest wrote to Sir Godfrey Kneller inquiring for it; for he had resolved to compensate by future kindness and attention, the past neglect and suspension of their intercourse. A few days brought the wished-for information, and Ernest despatched a note to his friend. "Once more, dear Walter," he said, "my wanderings are ended, and again I am among the tranquil beauties of home. This place recalls the happy hours we have passed here, and in roaming through its familiar scenes, I can scarcely realize that years have fled since we enjoyed them together. Will you not come to me, Walter? The sight of long forgotten things will impart to you a new inspiration—and communion with your earliest friend, will blot out the memory of sorrows we both have known too well. Do not deny me, Walter; I have so much, so very much to tell you, VOL. V.-39 which I cannot write. Moreover, I long to learn your prospects and hopes; they were confided to me so openly once, that I cannot relinquish the pleasure of a renewal of your confidence. I am here alone, and the thought of having you for a companion, has given me a taste of joy I have not felt since we parted." Ernest wrote truly. In solitude, his more youthful feelings had returned, and it was with an interest he had long ceased to cherish for the common events of life, that he looked for Walter's answer. It came at last, and Ernest read as follows: was poor; his sufferings had been increased by silence and loneliness; there was no excitement to draw his thoughts from the hour which had sealed his misery in revealing the hopelessness of his early passion. He had worshipped too long at that forbidden shrine, to kneel before another. The incentive to exertion was gone with the faithless dream in which he had garnered up the hopes of his life. The poet was of too gentle, too loving a nature, to find support in the pride which had proved a solace to Gordon. He could not, like him, repay the scorn of the one, on the many; and while Ernest smiled in haughty bitterness, Walter wept in secret sorrow. CHAPTER II. His sorrows were in secret kept, "Thanks, a thousand thanks, dear Ernest, for your kind invitation; it would indeed bring back the past, to be with you again-but it may not be. The poor have but few of the pleasures of this world, and my destiny shuts me out even from these. I must remain here, and toil in solitude-but do not think me insensible of your goodness because I am forced to decline its offers; believe me, your affection is among my dearest consolations, and you can never know how precious I hold it, till, like me, you have only one or two to love you. You express an interest in my prospects; alas! Ernest, It was a sweet summer night, when the brother and there is little in the future that promises well for sister gazed together on the quiet and religious beauty me. My writings are sufficiently profitable to prevent of the far off stars. The poet's brow was pale with our suffering, but I no longer work with the zeal of my deep and troubled thought, and in the uncertain light, past efforts. Now, exertion is painful, and I turn, al- his eyes emitted a strange brightness from their dark, most with loathing from the very lines which are the passionate depths. His smile too, was sad, and beautisole support of my daily existence. Do not deem me un-ful as the moonlight. Lucy looked at him in silence, grateful, Gordon, because I speak often of my sorrows: as, wrapt in the mournful reverie which was now a they have, alas! been more familiar to me than joy. I common mood with him, he gazed on the orbs wanhave but one real pleasure on earth, and that is the con-dering above them. Tears filled the sister's eyes as sciousness of giving comfort to my mother and sister. For she marked the unconscious absorption, and witnessed them I live, and perhaps their affection is the dearer, the gloom which so often cast its shadows over Walter's because, with the exception of yours, I have proved it spirit. to be the only love which changeth not. Do you remember, Ernest, how often in our boyish anticipations, I used to picture a manhood bright with honor and glorious with renown? How confident I once was, in my powers; how soaring was the ambition which urged me to win celebrity! Those hopes have vanished. I find that in trusting to my own intellect, I leaned on a broken reed, and that in sighing for fame, I pined for that which can only be gained by parting with happiness. I am wiser, or at least humbler, than I then was; for nothing produces in us humility so soon, as the sha-gloomy, and I feel doubly desolate in a throng where dowing of our proudest and brightest hopes. But I will not weary you, my friend, by dwelling longer on my misfortunes; their recital can avail nothing. Will you not write to me, Ernest? Let me realize one of my early dreams, in proving the truth of your friendship. Through years of silence and separation, I have never doubted it, and it would be painful indeed to find it vain at last." "Poor Walter!" murmured Ernest, as he finished these mournful lines: "he has indeed known many sorrows, but he has escaped the haughty scorn whose blight is now upon me!" Ernest did not suspect that the disappointment, which had withered some of the better feelings of his heart, was even then clouding the sunshine of his friend, and stealing away the beauty of his life. He dreamed not that his sadness was as nothing, compared to the wild, unmitigated despair of a being like Walter. Ernest had many resources;-wealth gave him power; and change had brought him calmness. But the poet "I have not told you, Lucy, that I shall be obliged soon to go to London," said Walter, at last; speaking as if with an effort. "The publisher says my presence will be necessary in superintending my forthcoming work, and though I dread the very thought, I must go." "I can scarcely regret the necessity, dear Walter," said his sister, "for I think the change of scene and exercise will improve both your health and spirits." "I cannot bear the idea of mingling again in the crowd," he said; "the very air of London makes me so many are happy. I wish Ernest would go with me." "Can you not ask him?" inquired Lucy calmly; but the mention of his name, whose sound to her was now an abiding sorrow, called up a sudden paleness on her cheek. "I will write to him," continued Walter; "he has so many friends in London, it can but be a pleasure for him to go there. It is the wretched only who shun the multitude!" "And why should you be so wretched, Walter?'' asked Lucy, almost reproachfully. "You have blessings even yet—and is it no consolation to remember you are the stay and comfort of our dear mother?" "Yes, Lucy, that consolation is the sole comfort of my life. As for my blessings-where are they? Is it a blessing to toil unrequited and in solitude? Is it a blessing to see you suffering from this harsh climate, without the power to find you a gentler one? If these are blessings, Lucy, I am blessed indeed!" "You must not think of me, dearest," she answered. "Believe me, the suffering of sickness can never give the and placid face, told Gordon she was doomed; and he pain I feel at your repining in bitterness." "Not in bitterness, my sister, but in sorrow and hopelessness," said Walter. "But it is too cold for you here, dearest," he added, after a moment's pause. "Retire to rest, Lucy-and may your dreams be happy!" "Will you not go too, Walter ?" "My dreams are not bright enough to tempt me," he answered, with his strange, sad smile. "I will watch with the stars a little longer,”—and Lucy left him. Walter looked after her sorrowfully, and he thought her slight figure seemed wasted, even since he last observed it. saw, that in anticipating her restoration, his friend was hoping against hope. Walter was writing in his room, and Lucy wandered with Ernest in the soft moonlight. They spoke of her brother, his hopes, his fears, and the quiet days of their carlier intercourse. Gordon vaguely alluded to his own disappointments; but flying from the past, he lingered over the present. At length all was forgotten and lost but the holy enchantment of that joyous moment-and in the low tone of intense feeling, he uttered the sweetest words that ever fell on Lucy's ear. "I am changed, Lucy," he continued, "from the en Lucy sat long at her window, wrapt in silent, cheer-thusiastic being you and Walter once knew; and perless meditation; and when at length she retired, she perceived through the dimness of the night, that her brother was still at his station. haps I have lost all claim to your forgiveness and generosity; but, trust me, you will find none, even among the happiest and most devoted of your suitors, who can The next morning Walter wrote to Ernest, asking hold you dearer in his heart of hearts, than I do! him to accompany him to the metropolis. Speak to me, my beloved-tell me, Lucy! that you can love me, even yet!" "I dread the prospect," he said, "but my going is necessary, and I would not neglect any thing which Lucy was silent, but Gordon watched her varying may add to the comfort of those dependant on me. color, and he required no other answer. In that hour Now, more than ever, I am bound to make every exerwas centered the blessedness of all her life, and even tion-for a new affliction is approaching, and death is Ernest thought not of her danger as he gazed on the written on the brow of one, nearest and dearest. It is dark lustre of her lambent eyes, which, like her faithnot yet too late to save her, and if my next work prove ful heart, reflected back his image. Alas! why is popular and profitable, I shall seek her health in ait, that love and death so often meet on earth? foreign land. Poor Lucy! she is sensible of her danger, even while she attempts to conceal it; but her confession is not needed to reveal the decay I can trace so surely on the cheek and in the eye!" Ernest readily consented to accompany his friend, but he little suspected their mutual dislike to London arose from the same cause. Walter's letter awoke new feelings in Ernest, and as he read of Lucy's danger, her sweet face came back to him, as from a dream. He remembered, and without vanity, the one short interview, which had betrayed to him her heart's secret, and he asked himself if he had done wisely in coldly passing by such love. Ernest's first love was very like most men's-it was more a memory than a reality-for, it was not proof against neglect and new associations. His devotion to Lady Alice had been so scorned and repulsed, that it had given place to a feeling of dislike; and pride, more than affection, induced him to avoid the possibility of meeting her. With much true and deep feeling, he mingled a vein of worldliness, which perhaps did more than any thing else towards healing the wounds of his bosom. "Can I not aid Walter in restoring his sister?" he thought. "I have wealth, and it is all he needs. She, perhaps, can love me, even now; and I would willingly show the world, that there are others as worthy of adoration as the Countess of Lysle !" "We shall return in a few days," said Walter, as they separated at night, "and Ernest will come back with me, unless the attractions of London prove too strong for him." "That were scarcely possible now," said Gordon, with a glance at Lucy, which sent the eloquent flush to her very forehead, and made her visions of the night happier than they had ever been, CHAPTER III. That moment's passing blessedness, And broke the chain of silent grief, Which bound her brightest years! It was morning in the city, and the hum of human voices floated on the air. But the sounds broke gently through the rich curtains which adorned a small, yet splendidly ornamented boudoir, in one of the noblest mansions of the capital. Rare paintings and Italian statues graced the room, and on a low, luxurious couch, rested one, fairer even than the fairest vision of the artist's dreams. The mood of the lady was an uncommon one; for tears were in her eyes, which had long been strangers to the Countess of Lysle! On the table beside her lay an open letter, and in her hand she held a miniature, on which How different the emotion that prompted the proud, she gazed with more than admiration. Its features were yet humble adoration of Walter! With a devo- those of a young and handsome man, and the original tedness, which for years had been his blessing, he must have been deeply beloved indeed, when the resemstill treasured up one lovely face; and Alice knew not blance Alice deemed so precious. Again and again she the heart she trampled on, when she so haughtily re-pressed the effigy to her lips; and then resting her head jected the poet's love! on her arm, while the long ringlets swept unheeded over it, she wept wildly and bitterly. The letter caused her grief; and it was this: Scarce a week had passed, cre another was added to the circle of the poet's home. The next day the friends were to journey to the city-and now Ernest and Lucy were again together. A single glance at her altered "I do not upbraid you, Alice; the time is past when confidence in your tenderness gave me a right to re |