soul, deprived of those ventilations of passion, which arise from social intercourse, is reduced to a state of stagnation; and if she is not of a very pure consistence indeed, will be apt to breed within herself many "monstrous and many prodigious things," of which she will find it no easy matter to rid herself, even when she is become sensible of their noxious nature."

I have no room here to enter into a disquisition upon the very interesting subject of solitude. The objections to it thus urged by Beattie deserve, no doubt, very serious consideration. But they do not convince me, expressed, as they are, in general terms. Nay, I confess I could have wished they had never appeared under this poet's authority; because they take something from the pleasure we feel in some of the finest passages of his best poems. For my part, it appears to me,that as long as God endows individuals with more energetick capacities, with more tender sensibilities, with higher hopes, and sublimer sentiments than the mass of mankind, so long must solitude be the proper sphere of their human existence. If it do tend to "make us unfit for the

business of life," it fits us for something much better: for that intellectual eminence and purity of heart, which exalt our nature, and almost lift us into an higher order of beings; for those mental exertions, by which the heads and hearts of thousands have, century after century, been ameliorated, and drawn away from the low and selfish ambitions of the world; and by which nations have sometimes been electrified from their siumbers into efforts that have saved them from impending destruction! I am now older than Dr. Beattie was, when he expressed these sentiments, and I do not find that my love of solitude diminishes. I discover no " stagnation of the soul;" the day is not long enough for the enjoyment of my books, and those pure and innocent wanderings of the fancy, in which I delight; and in the deep woods and silent vallies, I find "no monsters" of horrour, which, alas! I too frequently meet in society, but on the contrary,

"Resentment sinks; Disgust within me dies,

And Charity, and meek Forgiveness rise,

And melt my soul, and overflow mine eyes."

HORACE.

No. 21.

strongest passions. In grief the hand is irresistibly drawn to the bosom, and its pressure gives relief. The finger pointed in scorn is the plainest signal of contempt, and the hands clasped and uplifted to heaven is the most solemn of all expressions. I have seen a sweet woman in grief, and there

THE CLASSICK CLUB.

When Horace, Virgil, Varius, and Mecenas, used to meet to drink wine, after they had crowned their foreheads with roses and myrtles, there was a combination of intellect, devoted to revelry, which must have been very pleasant and interesting. Horace recited his charming odes, and entirely forgot his serious satires and gloomy lectures. Virgil chaunted his melodious poetry, and gave to his versification a grace, a tenderness, and harmony, which must have entranced the accordant minds of his poetical friends. What could be more delightful? Here were friendship, and roses, and wine, and poetry; the loveliness of morals, the luxury of the senses, and the enchantments of fancy. If they wanted pathos and deep sentiment, Varius could pour out the whole force of tragedy; critical taste and ingenuity sparkled from Mecanas; and good conversation and refined feelings directed and dignified the intercourse. The health of the emperour was a favourite toast. Homer, Anacreon, and Sophocles were the topicks of talk. Virgil would willingly declare, that if he was not superiour to the father of epick poetry, he might at least bear a comparison with him, to whom he need not be ashamed to be inferiour. Horace might jovially and honestly confess, that Anacreon could drink more wine, but that he was not a better poet than himself; and the noble Varius, while he secretly congratulated himself on an equal-" ity with the Grecian tragedians, could feel no despondency of mind

for the accidents of time and the ravages of barbarians, which, by destroying his plays, have lessened the fame of the author, and obscured the reputation of the Roman stage. As for Mecanas, he was a gentleman, a critick, and a scholar. He was contented with quaffing his wine, or, if he thought of " being often in the mouths of men," his vanity was gratified in the pleasant recollection that Virgil and Horace had consecrated to him the greenest wreaths of friendship and poetry.

CLEANLINESS.

A gentleman once told me, that cleanliness was nearly allied to godliness. This is rather bold; but as it might have originated from a nice sense of physical purity, I would not very harshly condemn it. I believe every one who practises cleanliness, will feel the excellent effects produced by a suitable attention to this minor virtue. The intellect is gratefully affected; the blood courses through the system, and gives vigour and activity. Beauty is also the consequence of purity. Cosmeticks only mar the skin. They destroy the swell of the muscles, and the clear blueness of the veins; they tear to pieces the nice net work of the skin, and reduce to dull uniformity of colour the various tints, which should illuminate the countenance. They also insinuate poison into the body, and soon the fine elasticity of the system gives way to morbid clayiness, and sluggish creeping of the blood succeeds to its former rushing and rapid activity. But look at a French woman, after she has come out of the bath. She is a perfect Venus, risen from the froth of the sea; a celestial light beams from her eyes; her lips breathe the fragrance

f health, and her voice is sweeter than the musick of the Graces at the banquets of the Gods. Such are truly the divine effects of physical purity. The French women are almost amphibious, and this is one great reason why they are so beautiful. I am afraid my country-women are not entitled to high praise for regular at tention to cleanliness. I indeed know some, who use the tepid bath and a clean napkin, instead of discolouring themselves with vile washes, dews, and creams from the perfumer; but are there not too many gentlemen and ladies, who pass many months, without feeling the luxury of complete purification? Were I to pursue the subject to niceness of detail, I should have a plenty of subject for many pages; but I hope that the neglect has rather arisen from forgetfulness and inattention, than from dislike to purity or sympathy with uncleanliness.

OUR COUNTRY.

A general inactivity is our reigning characteristick. We seem willing to creep along in mechanic al routine, so that we very much resemble Dutchmen. As for chivalrous, generous policy in national councils it is so low, that it can find no" lower deep." In religion I love quietness, peaceableness, humility; and I hate the jarring of sects, and the noisy trampling of christian combatants. But in literature are there no hopes? Surely the descendants of Englishmen in America are not absolutely degenerate. The mother country is proud of her bench of learned bishops, of her retired scholars, and illustrious professors in both universities. But when they ask us, why do you not do something to spread the glory of the English

language, we are silent, like slaves. We may say, that we have spice ships at the Philippines, and that our cannon has echoed among the ice islands, at either pole. This is honourable, and tells our enterprise; but here the story ends, nor will I busily ask, if there are no spots and stains on our flag, which the waters of the oceans we traverse, could not efface. For myself, I think we ought to have produced a few scholars; in this opinion, however, all are not unanimous, but if they agree that poetry is natural to any country, we must be ashamed of our own. boast of no epick, tragedy, comedy, elegies, poems, pastoral or amatory...but this field is all desart, a wide African sand garden, showing brambles, and rushes, and reeds.

BLUE STOCKINC CLUB.

We

I know no lady in this town, and probably there is not one in the United States, to be compared with Mrs. Montague, at whose house in Portman-Square, London, the Blue Stocking Club used to meet. Yet there are ladies here, who might institute and preserve a literary converzazione on agreeable terms.

All mere fashionable women should be excluded, and let beauty and riches alone have no right of admission. Also let no fop saunter in the room, and bar the doors against insignificant animals, called puppies, and those brutes who resemble Yahoos. Thus some approaches might be made to refined conversation, and a pleasantness of intercourse be introduced, far beyond the present system of false courtesy, shameful anecdote, licentious inuendo, poisoned hints, and stabbing whispers, which now riot and rule at many of the vulgar and fashionable parties, which now dignify or disgrace this metropolis.

Women are beings of the highest consequence, and on them depends the healthiness or the contagion of social intercourse, they may be like angels of light, diffusing the influence of purity and goodness, or the active agents of misery and ruin. By a pleasant and refined socialness, between gentlemen and ladies of cultivated minds, the pow. er of all would be communicated to each; manners would be improved; erroneous opinions would be corrected; morals might receive additional strength, and literature might be adorned with new fascinations.

WINTER EVENING.

I like to sit in my study in a winter evening, when the wind blows clear, and the fire burns bright. If I am alone, I sometimes love to muse loosely on a thousand flits of the imagination; to remark the gentle agitations of the flame; to eye the mouse, that listens at his knot hole, and then runs quick a cross the hearth; or dwell long on the singing of the wood, when the heat drives out the sap. I be, lieve that such reverie softens the heart, while it relaxes the body, for thus the senses are gratified in miniature. In the fire I have the softest colours, and the sweetest and most various undulations, and in the gentle musick of the green stick there is melody for fairies. No sense is particularly excited by my silver grey, silken-footed, and crumb-nibbling animal,but perhaps he might teach me a lesson of prudence, not to set out on a journey, till I have inquired the dangers and difficulties of the way. While I am in this state of lonely musing,I sometimes lapse unknowingly into grief; for my guardians are dead, and my friends are far from me, my years are hastening away, "and

evening with its hollow blast murmurs of pleasures never to return." But this state I do not like to indulge, for sorrow grows by musing: I therefore rouse myself from fears that dishearten, to studies that strengthen or exhilirate me; and when I have lighted a çigar, and put on more wood, I track Park to the banks of the Niger, or I mount the walls of Rome with "Bourbon and revenge," and close the evening with an act from Shakespeare, the best of poets and the wisest of writers.

RUINS OF THEBES, OR LUXORE.

In the distant periods of antiquity were founded the palaces and temples of Luxore. They now partly lie on the deserts of Upper Egypt, scattered into fragments and covered with rubbish, and partly they stand erect in the towering heights of solitary columns, the extensive ranges of imposing colonnades, or the unequalled magnitude of their sculptured sides. They attract, when in the horizon, the notice of scientifick travellers, and they serve as land-marks to caravans, and as habitations for the poor and the outcast. Thus have the exertions of architectural science contended against the slow unceasing efforts of time, and thus are the opulence of monarchs and the dignity of priesthood, commemorated in the ruined gran, deur of churches and of courts. A traveller into Egypt for the purposes of science may honourably employ himself in measuring the dimensions of pillars, cielings, and walls, and a painter may communicate knowledge and pleasure by accurate representations of these monuments of decay; but the dig nity of a philosopher is advanced in applying the memorials of art to subserve the moral duties of life,