counts of public amusements given in the news-papers, being addressed to the hoping world, have lost their effect upon me: I go to the most favourite and the most unpopular entertainment with equal expectations. The consequence is, that I am seldom disappointed, and my satisfactions are sensibly heightened by coming suddenly upon me. This, among

other advantages, produces the happiest effect on the temper: I have exchanged the ebullitions of boisterous mirth, and the peevishness of loud impatience, for calm serenity and philosophic indifference -by no means, however, of the misanthropic texture; but on the contrary, I look upon mankind with an eye of more kind benevolence than I used to do, when I subjected myself to disappointments, which perhaps it was not in their power to prevent. I have likewise given up the anticipation of future blessings, and leave it in no man's power to deprive me of the happiness of the present moment. True it is, some little inconvenience may seem to attach to my system: He who follows it must very much abridge his catalogue of friends, and cease to boast of sitting down with a dozen at one time; but, on the other hand, he may still reckon them among his acquaintance, and has in fact done them no other injury than depriving them of the power of making him unhappy. I beg leave to conclude with a few lines from a poet whom I can rank among the favourers of this sy

stem.

"Where then shall hope and fear their objects find? Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,

Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?

Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,
No cries invoke the mercy of the skies?
Inquirer, cease: petitions yet remain,

Which Heaven may hear; nor deem religion vain:
Still raise for good the supplicating voice,

But leave to Heav'n the measure and the choice;
Safe in His pow'r, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a secret pray'r.
Implore his aid, in his decisions rest,
Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best *.

N° 89. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 1.

Ipsi pauca velim, facilem si præbeat aurem:
Nemo petit, modicis que mittebantur amicis
A Seneca; que Piso bonus, que Catta solebat
Largiri.

One word to Virro now, if he can bear,
And 'tis a truth which he's not us'd to hear:
No man expects (for who so much a sot?
Who has the times he lives in so forgot?)
What Seneca, what Piso us'd to send
To raise or to support a sinking friend.

JUVENAL.

BOWLES.

WHAT suggested to me the subject of this paper was a truly interesting conversation which took place a few days ago at the Society of Ladies, on the present state of female friendship in Great Britain. As I can patiently allow the fair sex to be deficient in none of the qualities which sweeten the commerce of life, I was beyond measure disappointed and chagrined at seeing a report laid before the board, which held out a very unfavourable representation of the friendship of the female world. As my natural cheerfulness of character makes me no inconsiderable favourite among the young ladies, I am not unfrequently taken into their confidence, and am so eminently indulged, as to be permitted sometimes to peruse the letters which pass between them in that celestial intercourse which succeeds to the confinement of a boarding-school. I was so struck with one of these, which was put into my hands about

half a year ago, that I could not forbear transcribing it, to preserve so sacred a memorial of disinterested affection; and, having been permitted to insert it in my paper, whenever the honour of the sex might appear to require it, I think I cannot choose a fitter moment for its introduction than when it may serve to counterbalance what I shall afterwards with pain produce on the other side.

Isabella Clara Matilda to Sophia Saccarissa Myrtilla.

"Alas! and could then Myrtilla for a moment imagine that her Matilda could forget her Myrtilla's last injunctions? or am I only dreaming? No, never, while memory holds a seat in this distracted brain.' No, never, while I move in this interested scene of selfish contest. But no more-why fatigue you with a repetition of what you have so long been convinced of? Matilda forget her Myrtilla! perish the thought! No, that sacred lock I will carry with me inviolate to my cold grave, to revive the never-perishing remembrance of the But why mention her? Yes, my Myrtilla knows whom I should have said, without the formality of names. True friendship has occasion neither for names for persons, or appellations for things. Even after the cold hand of Death shall put his icy seal upon my lips, my heart shall still vibrate to the chord of friendship. Blessed idea, and only known to hearts where sensibility takes up her melting abode! Dear sensibility! balm to my spirits, and solace to my cares! Alas! But no more of that. I will touch a livelier key. All hearts are not alike framed for the pleasures of melancholy. You are a wicked jade, I vow, Myrtilla, for deserting me at the moment you did. As soon

as you were gone, my old persecutor, sir Harry, pushed himself into that place, which was still full of your tender idea. You may imagine, my dear, my situation: it is better felt than described. All my train of reflection were put to flight, by that tiresome tale of his unconquerable passion. Never, never shall my heart acknowledge any other sentiments than those which friendship inspires. Thy precious lock, dearest girl, is part consigned to the sacred custody of my bracelet, and part interwoven in my own hair, an emblem of our inseparable loves. The top drawer of my conscious bureau is the sacred repository of those relics which you left your expiring Matilda at the dear agonizing moment of your departure. These are, indeed, my beloved friend, the only consolation that remains and what words can paint the ecstasy with which I run from that sir Harry (why do I name him?) to imprint a hallowed kiss on the trifle from Tunbridge, as the urn in which the sacred ashes of my dear friend's memory repose.

;

"Two o'clock. That insufferable man, sir Harry (do I live to name him?) has made me eternally his enemy. He insisted upon it, that I must have some little deity that I adored in my chamber, and swore that he would kneel to the same shrine. Do you know, the audacious wretch followed me up stairs, and ravished from me that kiss which I had consecrated to the dear tortoise-shell toothpick-case, one of thy sacred remembrances! Since this greatest of my misfortunes, I have considered my lips as too profane to touch any relic of thine.

"Four o'clock. Tuesday.-Would you believe it, my dear girl? Sir Harry is the most truly wretched penitent that ever the world saw. He swears and vows he looks upon himself as the vilest of creatures,