THE DESOLATION OF ST. MINVER. BY JOHN LUSCOMBE.

Ir was one of those evenings when the heavens are so serene, and the ocean so tranquil, that men wonder how clouds can ever darken the one, or storms agitate the other. Many of the inhabitants of the little hamlet that was situated on the verge of the parish of St. Minver, were sitting at their doors, or else preparing their fishing-nets for the morrow; before them stretched the sea, unruffled, and glowing with the thousand varied hues of sunset; but the view at the back of the village was dreary and cheerless, a long, narrow valley of sand gradually ascended, until it joined a chain of barren hills, on which the eye in vain looked for verdure. Here and there among the sand. banks rose the fragment of a wall, or a pointed gable, which evidently showed that buildings once occupied the spot. Indeed the tales of their forefathers, which had descended from one generation or another, described the place as the site of a populous town, which, in the course of time, had been overwhelmed with light sand, accumulated by the tempests of the sea, and borne inland by the winter storms. Affection for their birth-place, or some other feeling which prompts us to cling to our homes, even amid their desolation and decay, still prevented the inhabitants of the hamlet from quitting it; yet within their recollection the sand had visibly increased,—many a little patch of garden was now rendered unfit for cultivation, and where the ground before their doors had been smooth and level, sand-heaps had formed, which often required much labour

to remove.

"Grandmother," said Agnes Heath, to an old woman who sat, with her distaff in her hand, in the porch of her cottage, "Grandmother, why do you not go away from this place, and live in some pleasanter spot; the neighbours say that there is danger here, and that we may be buried, like those who have dwelt here before us, during one of the winter storms?" That will not happen in my time," replied the old woman; "when I am dead, Agnes, you may go away, and live where there is no danger. I shall never quit St. Minver, for I love it. Here were my parents born, here I first drew my breath; at yon church," she continued, pointing in the direction of a grey tower, at the extremity of the plain, was I married, there was my husband buried, and when I am laid by his side, Agnes, you may choose a pleasanter home."

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The heart of the child was like that of the young bird when first it quits its nest, and like it she longed to flee away, and seek for brighter spots and distant climes, for the sombre aspect of the country around depressed her spirit; and the frightful stories, which the neighbours told of those who had found a grave beneath the sand-banks, she daily played on, rendered her timid and fearful. She had, until the death of her parents, lived in a pleasant valley, far away from the sea and its wild coast; and the change which had taken place robbed her of her former glee, and made her early known to care and anxiety. But it had not robbed her heart of its tenderness and affection, for she presently twined her arms round her grandmother's neck, and whispered, "You are not angry with me, mother? If you wish it, I will never leave thee, not even when you are dead."

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"Angry with thee, my child!" replied the old woman, " angry with thee, my pretty dove! alas! I must have a hard heart if I were angry with thee. No, Agnes, I blame thee not for speaking as you did, you cannot look on this spot as look on it, for the feelings of childhood are far different from those of age;-but ⚫see, there are your companions," and she pointed to a party of children who were playing at the edge of the water, "you may join them," and the little girl kissed her, and ran towards

them.

In vain do we endeavour to account for those

fears which seem engrafted in our nature, or attempt to analyze those presentiments of evil, which assail us during our lives; even in childhood, when the mind is too unformed for reflection, dark forebodings come over us, and destroy our mirth, and make us wonder why, or what we dread; and in after years, when reason asserts her sway, we are often agitated by terrors, the cause of which we uselessly seek to discover.

The childhood of Agnes hath passed away in sunshine, mingled with those slight tempests which we have all experienced and can now smile at; she was taller than many of her age, and vanity justly whispered that she was prettier than any; but her grandmother had instructed her too well to allow self-esteem to find a resting-place in her heart,-her lessons being in direct opposition; they were lessons of true piety and virtue, drawn from that book, whose doctrine ean alone subdue our natural passions and inclinations, and render us fit for heaven. But this was not so easy a task as it ought to be in the present day, the instruction being only given on the Sabbath; for at the time to which our story alludes, none of the peasantry of England could read, therefore it required a retentive memory to allow of that benefit arising from the Sunday's worship, which ought to attend it now. Maud Heath was, however, a devout hearer of the divine truths, and though not in the exact words of scripture, she planted in the heart of her grandchild its substance, in the shape of conversations, during the week, when fresh draughts of living water were vouchsafed to her.

Agnes had in vain sought to banish from her mind the recollection of her foriner home; but in spite of her caution, she would involuntarily in the summer, contrast the valley of her birth, its soft turf, and the shade of its lofty trees, with the hot, wearisome sand, and intense heat of her present residence;-in winter the roar of the sea would remind her of the troubled stream that rushed through it, yet it was lovelier far to see the waters dash from rock to rock, forming pools and eddies beneath the aged alders that fringed its banks. Vain too were her efforts to subdue the fears, which the increase of the sand made in her heart; though the danger came slowly and noiselessly, nevertheless it did come, and it was with dread unfeigned, that she beheld, during every storm, the minute particles of gravel carried forwards and deposited around the houses. Many smiled at her terror, though they had planted it in her breast by the stories they had told her; but they were aged persons, who having passed the greater part of their lives without experiencing any calamity, saw no cause for apprehension.

But the terrors of Agnes were not unfounded; she had observed during the days of her childhood, that the mimic houses, she had assisted her companions to build many yards in the rear of the hamlet, were, in the space of a few weeks buried beneath the sand;-she even fancied that she could discover an addition to the size of the banks that filled the distant parts of the valley; and the dread that ere the work of desolation was complete, she should be a victim, rendered her a prey to anxiety and dark forebodings.

Time passed away unmarked by any peculiar event, until Agnes attained her eighteenth year; but it was with sorrow she observed that the health of her venerated parent became impaired, and her form slowly wasted, as the months rolled on. Summer brought no return of strength, and with difficulty, assisted by her grandchild, she could move to the bench in the porch. It was a mournful sight to behold the changed appearance of Maud Heath;-formerly she sat listening to the pleasant ripple of the sea, with her distaff in her hand, either conversing with Agnes, or singing those old ballads which commemorated the valiant deeds of King Arthur and his knights, a smile ever upon her lips and a kind glance in her eye; now, her long shrivelled arms rested idly on

her knees, and her gaze wandered over the ocean, as if she sought in vain for the wonted satisfaction its music gave her;-yet she lacked not pleasant feelings altogether, for when her firm and blooming grandchild would smooth the pillows that supported her, or adjust the folds of the cloak that was wrapped around her, her dim and sunken eyes would rest fondly on her, and her withered lip murmur blessings. But Agnes felt even in this affliction, that she had cause for thankfulness, as her parent's sufferings were slight, and proceeded more from a gradual decay of nature than disease:-thus it is that the true believer sees the hand of mercy in every dispensation.

Persons resident in an inland county can have little idea of the horrors of a storm on the sea coast; even those who are accustomed to them, can never experience a south-west gale, during the continuance of which more devastation is committed than when blowing from any other quarter, without dread.

As the winter advanced, the weakness of Maud Heath rapidly increased, until she became unable to quit her bed; but the assiduous attentions of Agnes rendered her hours, which would otherwise have been dreary indeed, periods of joy and happiness. Then it was that she felt the truth of scripture, which says "cast your bread upon the waters, and you shall find it after many days;" for, when memory failed her, Agnes would repeat the hymns and prayers she had learnt in childhood, and thus pour balm into her drooping spirit.

There were, however, times when the heart of Agnes felt desolate and heavy; during the long, dreary hours of the night, as she watched beside the bed of her grandmother, whose feeble pulse and faintly-drawn breath scarcely intimated that she existed, tears of sorrow would involuntarily burst from the eyes of the forlorn girl;-the solitary lamp, whose sickly light flickered on the walls of the room, and the ceaseless roar of the waves on the shore, conspired to increase her agitation,-for, spite of our reason, we are not proof against these weaknesses. The recollection too of the frightful legends, which, in her childhood, she had heard when lingering around the hearth of the fisherman, of the villagers who had perished during one of the winter storms, and experienced a death at which human nature shudders, would add to her dismay; and every gust of wind that whirled the sand against the casement, would cause her to start and tremble, till, like a frightened bird, she would crouch beside the bed, and bend her ear to her grandmother's head to listen if she were blessed with the companionship of a living creature. November, with its attendant storms, arrived. The hamlet being situated on the beach was exposed to the full force of the tempests; and many of the cottages being composed of mudwalls, with beams of oak crossed to support them, were often either damaged or totally unroofed. That occupied by Agnes and her grandmother experienced a temporary protection during the period of the south-west winds; a high rock rising beside it, which served in some measure to screen it from the violence of the hurricane.

Fearful were the sounds that assailed the ears of Agnes during the watches of the night; -her cheek would pale as the booming gun was fired at intervals, and the last despairing shriek of the sinking mariner was borne on the wind. To many, alas! these indications of a wreck would bring feelings of satisfaction, and various are the tales that are told of the revolting acts committed by the Cornish fishermen, when a ship would unhappily be cast upon their coast. At the termination of the storm, the united exertions of the villagers were required to move aside the ridges of sand that had been thrown by the wind and sea against their cottages; around Maud Heath's residence it was readily cleared, for all loved the aged woman, yet many whispered that the youths of the hamlet laboured more for the esteem of the grandchild than her parent. Perhaps this was

The day had been immensely tempestuous; -as far as the eye could reach, the ocean was crested with foam, and the wild surge that was thrown high upon the shore, threatened to destroy every thing that opposed its rage. Many times during the flow of the tide the waves would rush to the threshold of the cottage doors, and after depositing the sand and gravel which was borne before them, retire with a sullen growl, as if they mourned that their power was circumscribed.

The sun had shone pleasantly during the morning, but towards evening, dark clouds obscured the sky, and seemed ominous of increasing violence; at times a faint flash of lightning would dart from the heavy masses, and play over the seene, but in the roar of the sea, the mutterings of the thunder were unheard. For many months the faculties of her grandmother had not been so clear, or unimpaired, as during the progress of the storm, and the heart of Agnes proportionately lightened, as she listened to the mild conversation of the old woman. On one subject alone she dwelt, the near approach of eternity, and the firm reliance she placed on the merits of the Saviour, enabled her to reflect on death without trembling.

As the night advanced, Agnes was summoned from the sick woman's room; she found Philip in the kitchen, he had been employed in securing the fishing boats and other property of the villagers, and had called to know if he could render her any assistance. His dress was soaked with wet, and the salt water dropped in pools from his hair on the floor. "Shall I send my mother to you," he said, "she will take your place in watching during the night. You require rest Agnes,-your cheek is pale, and your eyes have lost their lustre;" but the voice of her grandmother was that moment heard calling her, and thanking him for his kindness, which she declined, she again mounted the stairs. The strength of Mud Heath seemed to have returned with he reason, and after sitting erect in the bed for nearly an hour, without the supporting arm of Agnes, she sunk into a calm slumber.

Agies had never before marked the feeble glimmer of the lamp of life,-she had never watched its flickerings, and its uncertain burnings, ere it expires, or she would have known that the return of vigour was the signal of her parent's dissolution. With feelings of inexpressible gratitude, she trimmed her lamp, and endeavoured to beguile the time in the employment of her needle, vainly seeking to close her ears against the furious sounds without; but amid all the din of the warring elements, the horrible patter of the sand against the window, was distinctly heard, and fell with a mingled feeling of fear and horror upon her heart. She worked for many hours, during which time her grandmother slept soundly, apparent ly undisturbed by the awful war of the wind and sea. At times Agnes started from her chair, for she fancied that the rock against which the cottage rested visibly trembled, again, as at intervals, the gale strengthened, that it would be totally destroyed.

As she stood at the casement, endeavouring to pierce the thick blackness before her, her grandmother suddenly awoke. "Is it morning, Agnes?" she asked; "methinks it has been a long night. It must be morning," she added presently after; "open the casement my child, and see if there be not lights in some of the fishermen's cottages, doubtless there must be some astir."

Agnes did as she was bidden-she drew back the bolts which fastened the window, and endeavoured to push it open; but in vain she used every effort, some hidden cause prevent ed the movement of the hinges, until having exhausted her strength, she receded a few paces, perplexed and amazed:

"At that moment a sudden thought flashed through her mind. "The sand-the sand!" she shrieked; "too surely we are buried beneath the sand!" She rushed wildly to the chimney, before which was placed a broad and rudely carved plank, to prevent the draught of air, and tore it desperately aside. As if to confirm her fears, a flood of light passed through the opening, which showed that the roof of the cottage still remained uncovered, though the sand had, indeed, been thrown in such vast particles around it during the night, that nothing was visible on the shore but its tiles and chimneys. "My fears are not groundless," muttered Agnes slowly, as she staggered back and sunk on a chair; "I foreboded this, yet I hoped-oh! it is fearful to be encompassed by death in such a hideous form-1 dreaded it from childhood, yet I hoped to have been spared it."

"And hope still, Agnes," said her grandmother; her dim eyes, over which a film appeared to have spread, wandering round the room, as if she scarcely comprehended the extent of the danger; "why should you not hope? you will be saved, I know it. All will come to your assistance, and you will be saved-our friends will not leave you to perish."

But in vain were words of comfort lavished on the horror-stricken girl; the idea of a lingering death by famine rendered her insensible to them. "In what respect does our case differ from that of those who have perished in like manner?" she replied bitterly; " doubtless they too hoped for succour, yet none ever escaped to tell the tale of wo. Oh! I have sinned grievously-my life has been one long continued sin, but I hoped for mercy both here and hereafter."

"And it will not be denied thee," returned the old woman, whose voice faltered at every word, and spoke plainly of the departure of life; "it will not be denied thee my child, for thou hast been faithful over thy few things, and He has promised that all such shall be ruler over many things. He will repay thy filial piety-thy attention to one who has long been a burden to thee. He bids thee not despair, and I—I, Agnes, pray thee to hope still;" as she pronounced the last words, which were nearly inaudible, the spirit of Maud Heath departed.

vain to hope-it were a mockery to think of succour; we perish like those in former ages, who, buried far beneath the light of day, wasted and perished with no eye to mark their sufferings, no ear to hear their cries. No, no, hope is now a mockery."

Again she became silent-a stupor seemed to have chained her faculties, and an observer might have fancied that the hand of death was on her, but for the shudders that agitated her frame and the convulsed motion of her fea

tures; little beauty was discernible in her countenance, so suddenly had it become worn and haggard.

A change presently came over her; the gay feeling of her heart departed, and a burning heat reigned instead. She shrieked wildly and madly, and laughed in the delirium of her despair, as she fled from the room vainly seek. ing to escape. As she unclosed the cottage door, the sand which filled the porch, fell rapidly into the kitchen, and with a frightful yell, she again mounted the stairs, as if her enemy was in pursuit. This paroxysm of agony soon forsook her, but it was succeeded by a fit of despondency and bitterness. She paced to and fro in the chamber, at times pausing beneath the chimney, where she could behold the clear blue sky, and the sea-gull which flew in circles high above her. Then would she again retire, and place her hands before her eyes, endeavouring to prevent their being mocked with a sight of light and freedom.

Many hours she passed in this mannerhours of the most acute misery, when suddenly a sound of many voices smote on her ear; a sensation of joy thrilled through her frame, as she distinctly heard her name called by some one at the top of the chimney; she strove to rise and answer, but her lips uttered nothing save a cry, mingled with a faint hysterical laugh-the struggle of revived hope over despair had overcome her. Though again and again her name was loudly shouted, and a rope was thrown into the room, Agnes remained powerless on her chair, even with the means of escape before her. Faint and trembling she watched the rope again withdrawn, but immediately after she heard the sound as if a heavy body were descending; she was not deceived, for presently Philip himself stood in the room. She could only stretch out her arms towards him with imploring gestures; he beheld her agony with amazement-" And did you quite despair?" he said reproachfully; "were you not assured that I would come to your assistance, even though I perished in my attempt to save you? You have not trusted me as I deserve," he added, as he bore her in his arms to the chimney, and bound the rope around her waist, and called to those above to be careful in drawing it up.

In after years, when Agnes Heath was com fortably settled on a less dangerous part of the coast, and become the mother of happy children, she would relate to her group of anxious listeners the account of her escape from peril; concluding her simple narrative by cautioning them not to give way to fears and dark forebodings as she had done. "For the arm of the Almighty is stretched out to save all those who put their trust in Him," she said; "I was sunk in the lowest pit of despair, yet His merciful eye was on me. In my agony I cried that there was no hope left, yet did not he forsake me; and though I provoked Him to anger by my want of faith, yet he delivered me from danger, and has shown me the sin of not relying solely on him in the hour of calamity and danger."

Note. The incident on which this tale is founded, is mentioned in "Gilbert's Historical Survey of Cornwall;" in speaking of it, he says "This part of the parish of St. Minver, according to a common tradition among the inhabitants, has undergone a change of an extraordinary nature, solely occasioned by the vast increase of sea-sand, which has blown over the country for the space of several miles. Under the principal sand hills, they inform you, a town, formerly stood, which reached from Porthilly Church to that of St. Enedor, a distance of rather more than a mile. This account, which has been handed down from remote times, was in some measure confirmed in 1778, when, in consequence of the drifting of the sands, a chapel and burial ground were discovered and exposed to view. There were also found a number of human bones, spoons, rings, and utensils. Also a quantity of coins of various reigns, particularly from Henry I.

to Elizabeth. St. Enedor Chapel is a solitary object within this sandy desert, and of which little is perceived more than its venerable spire. The sands rise on every side above the level of its roof, and a pathway is formed around it annually, in order that the minister may perform the accustomed service, and thus preserve its rights and fees."

THE TINGE WHICH TEMPER GIVES TO CHARAC-
TER, ILLUSTRATED BY EXAMPLE.
To the Editor.

As you wish your work, like a faithful mirror, to reflect the spirit and manners of the age, I presume you are candid enough to receive communications from all classes of society. There is a proverb, "that by others faults wise men will correct their own." If this old adage is duly applied, the following account may be of some use; and with that object in view, you are at full liberty to publish it. For about ten years I have been employed, as a clerk, in the counting-house of Mr. Crab, a wholesale dealer in the metropolis. My master is a native of the north of England, who coming up to London when a young man, without either property or friends, had the good fortune to rise, step by step, from a porter's place, to the lot of affluence which he now holds. I have heard him repeatedly detail the hardships and difficulties he had to encounter at his entrance into life, for he is not, like some, ashamed of his humble origin. He is a man of sound sense and discriminative judgment, of frugal and temperate habits, of plain and unpolished manners. His knowledge has been gathered more from observation than books, and his opinions on every subject are always given with an ingenuous and manly freedom. He has many other solid, good qualities, which, in making an impartial estimate, ought neither to be overlooked nor undervalued. Some of these I shall specify, though only in a brief and passing manner. In the first place, he is rigidly just and honest in all his dealings. I believe no one had ever any ground to lay to his charge a single deviation from truth and integrity. Even in transactions where his own interests might be advanced at the expense of government, he has been firm in resisting temptation to all the petty arts of defrauding the revenue; and this is the more remarkable, as such practices are known to be very prevalent in the trade which he carries on; and his views and political opinions are not usually in accordance with the measures of state. I may also confidently affirm, that my master is a generous and benevolent man. It is true, indeed, that as he rose to wealth and consequence partly by diligence in business, and partly by economy in some minor matters, his habit of saving would seem to indicate a narrow and covetous mind. Dur

little on this important subject, but is evidently in earnest. He hallows the Sabbath, and constantly attends public worship with his family. All these bright excellences in my worthy master are sadly tarnished by an unhappy temper. I wish to tell the truth without fear or disguise. Mr. Crab is irritable, impatient, and suspicious. A small matter kindles his anger, which he betrays by every feature of the countenance, and every accent of the voice. This irascibility often renders him precipitate both in his words and deeds. If an order has not been executed, or an account settled, at the time prescribed and fixed, he at once breaks out into the language of censure and rebuke, without waiting to ascertain whether the failure be attributable to accident or intention. I know the proverb says "An angry man that suppresses his passion, thinks worse than he speaks; and an angry man that chides, speaks worse than he thinks." There is some truth in this, and we need such moderating maxims to prevent things being carried to extremities. Mr. Crab has repeatedly detected, in his servants, those petty instances of selfishness and fraud which are but too common; and now he seems under the painful apprehension, that every one is laying plans and devising means to wrong him. I have often heard him say, that the world rapidly degenerates, and that there is not, at this time, one truly honest man among a hundred. Suspicion in my master's mind is a plant of quick growth; while confidence rarely takes root, and when it does, is soon loosened or withered by some sudden gust. It is not uncommon to meet with persons, whose irascible passions require multiplied and accumulated provocations to rouse them; but when once excited, they burst into a tremendous explosion. Hence it has been observed in reference to individuals of this cast, that a good quarrel clears the air like a thunder storm; the electric fluid being spent, and the clouds dispersed, all is again sunshine and serenity. Mr. Crab's mental temperament is nothing of this kind; his anger never slowly condenses, and, at last, explodes with violence. A sort of fretful anxiety corrodes his mind; he sees the dark and disastrous side of every thing. As respects future events, his fears outnumber and overbalance his hopes. Hence an habitual solicitude almost incessantly agitates the current of thought, and the train of feeling. It is this anxiety, blended with a tendency to anger, which subjects him to so much uneasiness from causes comparatively slight and trivial. I am aware, that whatever elements of irascible passion are in the natural constitution, their excitement and predominance will greatly depend on circumstances. It is proper then here to say, that Mr. Crab, besides carrying on his own business with considerable success, has speculated rather largely in the public funds. Some years ago, he realized about fifteen thousand pounds by a few lucky strokes ing several years he supported his aged parents in this line. But he has of late been generally in plenty and peace, and has been a most mu- on the losing side, so that I have reason to benificent benefactor to all the poor branches of lieve he wishes he had never had any thing to the family. I know that he gives away a great do with Spanish Bonds, or with Peruvian and deal, not only to aid public institutions, but Columbian Stock. Every morning he is imalso to alleviate private distress. With a patient to see the newspaper, for the state of promptitude and liberality which do him cre- the money market regulates the mercury of dit, he has often lent a helping hand to embar- his mind. Even his lowest servants have rassed tradesmen, and though he has incurred learned to calculate the rise and fall of his spifrequent losses by this practice, he has not rits, according to the vicissitudes which elewholly suspended it. He keeps no expensive vate or depress the foreign funds. The irritacompany, and is utterly estranged from the ble temper of my master, to say the least, gay and dissipating amusements of the world. grievously impairs the domestic happiness enSome of his domestic arrangements may exhi-joyed under his roof. His amiable wife and bit an appearance of meanness, but those who are thoroughly acquainted with him, can make every candid allowance. "Men," said Dr. Johnson, "are to be estimated by the mass of character." A block of tin may have a grain of silver, but is still tin; and a block of silver may have an alloy of tin, but still it is silver. The mas of my master's character is benevolence; there is certainly a considerable portion of alloy. As regards the claims and duties of religion he is truly conscientious. He says

sprightly children, find the cup of pleasure dashed with daily drops of bitterness from this source. Those who belong not to the domestic circle, but are engaged in the business department, while ready enough to acknowledge the many bright virtues of their employer, are yet often vexed and chagrined by the treatment they meet from him. In the moment of displeasure he magnifies the least fault to a monetrous size, and paints every thing in the darkest colours. A mistake, or slight omission, is

swelled into a crime; a word or a look is construed as an insult. If any trifling pecuniary loss has been sustained, through the negligence of the porter, or the haste and mismanagement of the warehouseman, Mr. Crab exclaims "you will certainly ruin me." In these fits of irritation he often goes so far as to be placed under the necessity of treading back his steps. Where he has given needless pain a process of healing is to be devised; and those who are without cause offended he has the trouble to conciliate. Some of his most valuable servants have been warned to quit his employ. ment, and before the sun went down requested by him to continue in their place.

Now as I am persuaded that my master is rendered unhappy in himself, and is the cause of much unhappiness to those around him, by the indulgence of a temper compounded of anger, impatience, and suspicion, and as there are doubtless many others subject to the same infirmity, could no counsels be suggested, no means recommended, capable of removing, or, at least, alleviating this source of misery? There is scarcely any inflammatory disorder of body, which skilful physicians have not contrived, by some salutary medicines, or cooling regimen, to allay: can nothing analogous be discovered to allay the feverish heats and perturbations of the soul? Will neither the sage precepts of Seneca nor Epictetus serve this important purpose? Then, with regard to anxiety, I should be glad to see it brought to a correct analysis. If speculating in the stocks be, as some assert, a species of gambling, 1 wish all the stocks were burnt down in one common fire, or swallowed up by an earthquake, or blown into the air like the famous South Sea bubble, rather than they should rob men of their peace and quiet: But in sober seriousness, as you, Mr. Editor, profess to prescribe for the mental maladies of mankind, I do earnestly entreat you to turn your attention to this case. A man of good principle and bad temper; a man who will give with cheerfulness sovereign after sovereign in charity, and fret and fume half a day for the loss of sixpence; a man who wins every one's esteem and no one's affection, seems a strange paral dox. I know not that you have professed yourself of the school of perfectibility, but it is surely possible to find out and employ some means which may prove effectual in calming passion and curing care. I pretend not my self to have any skill of this kind; it is to your judgment and experience that I appeal. Let not all your time and talent be devoted to the culture of intellect and taste; the amelioration of temper is quite as important. I shall now wait with solicitude for the next number of your work, in which I hope to see something adapted to the case which I have here stated."

INFLUENTIAL WRITERS.

THE great disadvantage which attaches to diffuse composition, is its uncertainty and instability of effect. The passions may be momentarily excited, the fancy may be amused, but the judgment is not partially enlightened, and the memory is burdened with an "indigesta moles" of ideas, which occupies the mind like so much dead stock, or mere verbal expressions in the place of original thoughts.

A diffuse writer leaves so little for his reader to do himself, that his ingenuity and reflective faculties are uncalled for. Every conclusion and deduction from a general principle is so thoroughly bared to his inspection, so ramified and wirespun, that all he has to do is to read on, and give a listless acquiescence, like a schoolboy whose sum is all done for him. In both cases the subject enforced loses one half of its just impression, because the hearer is completely passive. We are naturally more tenacious of that which is self-acquired. Hence it is that we remember more, and derive more permanent instruction, from those writers who abound in pithy sayings, striking remarks, and

general principles. A writer of this description does hunt a thought to its very death; his productions are not composed merely of ramified illustrations, or rather springs of thought, com some one leading idea-they consist of a that Tination of expansive thoughts, each of ail coach often supply an inferior, less comprehensive mind, with material for an essay, or an intellectual reader with food for reflection, which will owe its most exquisite flavour, to its being, in some measure, the produce of his own exertions. The productions of such a writer are, like those of Lord Bacon, "full of he seeds of things."

John Foster (why should I add "the essayist,")-for whose memory does not associate a thousand ideas with the bare name; Mrs. Hannah More, and Miss Edgeworth,* are eminent for this influential talent. I much question whether three others can be found, whose works have produced so powerful and, at the same time, so useful a reaction on the public mind. They have given the first awakening touch to the slumbering faculties, and formed or influenced the character of an incalculable number, whose minds are, at the present time, daily rising in intelligence and strength, and asserting their kindred to the skies by the loftiness of their aims, and the unceasing expansive activity of their immortal spirits.

Now this has been effected, not by the fleeting impressions of a declamatory and diffusive eloquence, but by the united influence of the causes to which we have already alluded-a copious supply of germinating thought and striking remarks in connexion with, or in due relation to, radical principles, all of a practical tendency, and enforced by a nervous and spiritstirring eloquence.

The mind was first awakened to an agreeable perception of its capability of expansion, by its admiring reception and easy comprehension of truths, which it found itself able to ramify and extend to innumerable cases, by its own individual effort, and thus acquired a taste for exertion, which will always increase with indulgence, and is the primum mobile of all that is great and good both in the intellectual and moral worlds.

The value of a didactic composition can be best estimated by its efficiency in exciting thought; and only in proportion as it does this, does it exercise a permanent influence on the mental or moral character. The tale, however full of incident and picturesque description-the sermon, however impassioned or elaborate, has done little, if it has not led to individual and prolonged reflection. It is to be lamented that so few of the numerous tales

ing writers and preachers, that they involve so little intellectual exercise. Their thoughts might have been interesting and highly pro-. fitable even to their own minds, because they were their own-but give their readers or hearers those radical or subordinate principles from which those thoughts originated, and they would originate themselves with incalculably superior advantage to their own understandings and hearts. How small is the number of those who are warranted by their preeminence of intellect to write much for the instruction of others.

On the contrary, it is impossible for any one to read such authors as Foster, Mrs. Hannah More, Miss Edgeworth, Miss Jane Taylor, &c., without a conscious enlargement of the intellect, to say nothing of the force with which their arguments to the understanding are seconded by their appeals to the heart.

It does not by any means follow from what has been advanced, that a composition of an influential character must necessarily be full of general principles-they require to be illustrated, and amplification is essential to eloquence. But, there is this essential difference between the detail of an intellectual, and that of a diffuse writer. In the former case, if the remarks are not professedly connected with general principles, they are exhibited in their just relation to them, and exercise not only an individual but a collective influence from their perceptible alliance with these grand generalities of truth, whilst in the latter they are insolated propositions-"minute fractions cut out from the body of general truth," which are deprived of their legitimate influence by "the arbitrariness with which they are dissociated from truths of equal interest and equal importance."

THE CHANGE.

CANTAB.

BY THE REV. HENRY STEBBING, M. A. It was a still and solemn hour,

Serene and motionless and deepAll sterner forms, and things of power,

The sun had sunk and left no trace Were fled, or wrapped in quiet sleep; Of all his bright and glorious race.

There was no varying tinge of light Around the calm clear breadth of sky, And yet the dark grey hue of night,

Veiled nought in its obscurity; But every fairy form was clear, As the blue circle of the sphere.

* I am far from wishing to insinuate that only these, or writers of equal ability, can be read with intellectual advantage. There are many others who exhibit in their productions the superiority of principle to mere sentiment

of our popular writers have a practical bearing on the intellect. The highest aim of the generality seems to be, to intoxicate the imagination and passions by splendid imagery, romantic incident, and high wrought sentiment; or, at best, by an exaggerated exhibition of the more salient points of character; but very seldom is the imagery the mirror of judgment, writers who, in short, set us thinking. Nor the incident illustrative of habitual character, need we travel far in quest of them. In the or the sentiment the growth of principle; and March Number of the Miscellany, in which I the reader rises froin the perusal with an in- now have the honour of writing, there are, at tense excitement of indefinable feeling, which, least, two papers of no common merit in this happily for the duties of life, gradually melts respect. I refer to the Rev. R. Philip's beauaway, and leaves behind only a vague remem- tiful paper, entitled the "Evangelical Talmubrance of the impression once experienced. dist," and Mrs. Hall's Irish Sketch on "IndeOn the other hand, his power of understand-pendence." In the former of these, we have ing and of generalizing, has not only not been an exquisite combination of the products of the augmented, but not even exercised-that fa- intellect and the fancy. In this unique sketch culty which constitutes the glory of a rational of a Hebrew damsel, we have general observabeing, has been the only source of enjoyment tions that will assist a thoughtful mind in formwhich has not been resorted to. ing a discriminative estimate of much poetical devotion and female morality of the present day. In the latter we have a tale-but not a tale of mere incident or romantic sentiment. It is a faithful portraiture of Nature, exhibited not to gratify the fancy or the passions, but to illustrate, by a most striking contrast, the value of that principle of independence, which involves so many secular and religious considerations, which is the basis of all individual and national honour and integrity..

It is, indeed, the characteristic defect of the literary productions of a numerous class of liv

Although Miss Edgeworth's writings are totally destitute of religious sentiment, and so far lamentably deficient, yet they may be read with great benefit in conjunction with such authors as those specified above, even by the experienced Christian.-See Miss Jane Taylor's Letters.

The hills that were around me rose
Shadowless in the silent air,
But lifeless things had that repose
Which living things in slumber wear,
A seeming consciousness of rest-
A sense of being unexpressed.
And while my eye upon that scene,
Gazed with a fixed intensity,
There seemed a growing light within,
By which the ocean, earth, and sky,
Things of all form and being shown,

As nature had unbound her zone.

I seemed to wander thro' a wide

And spacious storehouse, where were placed All things that were, before the tide

Of earthly being yet had traced
Upon them lines-her hand traced not
Or change had marred the harmonious plot.
I saw each mighty planet roll

Thro' the blue empyrean heaven,
Under a seraph's glad control,

To whom the glorious charge was given,
His voice was blending, sweet, and clear,
With those that ruled the tuned sphere.
I saw the elements ere joined

To form this world, in crystal light
Preserved apart, pure, uncombined,

Their fountain orbs were æthery bright
With the distinct celestial flame,
That gave each one its strength and name.
And on the azure pavement lay,

Like angel tresses, wove not yet,
Those beauteous threads of light that play,

Around us when the sun is set,

Or bind upon the heaven's high brow,
The broad and many tinctured bow.
And there where all those fair bright things,
That seem with quicker life endued,
Waving their small and golden wings,
In air that not a soil embued,
And all those forms of giant mould,
Of whom the wondrous tale is told.

I gazed around-whate'er I knew
On earth was there, but oh, the change!
Earth seemed to work on every hue,

Of varied life's extended range-
How vain the primal beauty sought,
Of that all-glorious world of thought.
But mid the forms that loveliest shown,
In that bright sphere of being rose
One, on whose radiant shape alone,

And forehead high and beaming brows,
The seal of hope divine was set,
And powers' imperial coronet.

'Twas man, as in the eternal mind Conceived, before the worlds were framed, The heir of that void space designed

In which the fallen seraphs flamed, And on his form the eye might trace, Gleams of a pre-existent grace.

I saw him raise his look above,

In praise to the eternal sire,
And o'er him fell that light of love,

Which shines around the heavenly choir,
When every golden harp is strung,
To those high themes by angels sung.
I heard him breathe that hymn of joy,
In words most musical and sweet,
Which was his heart's divine employ,
When its first pulse began to beat,
And voices-soft, deep voices-rose,
Answering from heaven its melting close.
That vision passed from me away-

I looked upon the earth again,
The moon had risen and shed her ray

O'er the small hill-encircled plain,
Making each object round me gleam,
With the mild glory of her beam.
I hailed the bright and balmy night,
Enthroned upon her silver car,
And there was in my heart delight

To see each lucid beaming star,
And earthlier, nearer, things than they,
Scarce changed or witnessing decay.

LONDON NOTICE OF THE SIAMESE BOYS.

THE acquisitions of these lads seem to proceed nearly pari passu;—they have both learned a good deal of English, and speak it very nearly alike. They have also, of late, been taught whist, at which they play tolerably well, and of which they are very fond. And one of the remarkable traits attending this is, that they play the game against each other, and most honourably (we have seen single bodied players not quite so correct) abstain from looking into each other's hands. The other day Chang played dumby against Eng and a partner; and a very interesting contest it was. Recently, when they were indisposed, they took medicine together, and were affected precisely in the same manner; but when medicine was administered to the one and not to the other, no effect was produced on the exempt.

A curious exemplification of their separate state is afforded by the grand mystery of dreaming. Not long since, the individual who sleeps in the room with them observed one extremely disturbed in his sleep, and the other so violently agitated that he screamed out. He hastened to awake them, and on inquiring what was the matter, the one that was disturbed told him he had dreamed he met his mother; the other, who was more agitated, that he thought somebody was cutting off his hair. The hair, by the way, is a cherished ornament. In sleeping they lie on their back, with their heads, generally, as far apart as possible or convenient.

While asleep, if you touch one, you also awake the other. But it appears that though a sensation is communicated, it is not the same sensation. For example, if one is tickled to cause laughter, the other knows you are tickling his brother, but he does not feel it. This is the case whether he sees what is done or not.

They are smart in their remarks, and very excellent mimics and imitators. The other day Sir A. Carlisle was enforcing the expediency of their being taught to read; and, by way of demonstrating the thing, he marked a big A on a card to show them. This he did, pronouncing in a sound pedagogue style A a a. The boys immediately sounded the letter so like their instructor as to create considerable merriment. He then went to B and C; but while doing so, they had got a little impatient, (as schoolboys will do with their teachers,) and one of them interrupted him: upon which he exclaimed," Pshaw, pshaw, attend to me." So the lesson continued, till Chang took the pencil to make the letters, and held it in his hand in the most awkward way; upon which Şir Anthony interfered to set him right; but the scholar was close in all, and in his turn exclaimed the very same "Pshaw, pshaw, attend to me!" He nevertheless drew the A capitally in his own mode.

On another occasion a visiter, impressed with the idea that their religious instruction ought to be attended to, spoke to them on this subject, In his investigation of their condition, he asked, "Do you know where you would go if you were to die?" "To which they replied quickly, pointing up with their fingers, "Yes, yes, up dere." Their saintly friend, unluckily for himself, persevered in catechising; and

|

questioned them, "Do you know where I should go, if I were to die?" to which they as promptly answered, pointing downwards," Yes, yes, down dere." We are afraid that the laugh which followed was likely to efface the memory of the well-meant attempt to imbue their minds with Christian knowledge.

With regard to their speaking to each other, though they do not do so often, yet they occasionally converse. It has, also, a singular effect to witness the two speaking together at the same time on different topics to different persons. This they will do if two beautiful females happen to address them together; for they have taste enough to be very partial to beauty in the other sex. They are much attached to the wife of Mr. -, one of the individuals who brought them to Europe.

They almost always eat alone, and, we understand, have a dislike to being looked at while they take their meals.

Of their strange formation, an accurate cast has been taken by Mr. Sievier, and admirably copied in wax by a pupil of Mr. B. Bolton, the medical gentleman who has attended them since their arrival.

The infrequency of junctions of this nature renders every particular that relates to such beings curious; and we wish we could learn even more trifling anecdotes than we have here related, of similar phenomena in former times. But we know little or nothing of them, except that they were somehow joined. There was, according to tradition, a union of this kind in Scotland, in the age of the third James, and they (males) lived to be men. We have also seen an etching of two remarkable Hungarian girls who lived to maturity. They were united by the hips, and died within a few seconds of each other. We have said nothing of abortive specimens, &c. of which every surgical mu seum furnishes painful examples; though there are so few recorded and authenticated cases of such an interesting kind as that which is now daily witnessed in London.

Apropos, we have just received an effusion on the Siamese youths from a poetical correspondent; and though we have not room for it all, we shall insert a few of the lines. If in the page of Holy Writ we find That man should not divide what God hath joined,

O why, with nicest skill should science dare To separate this Heaven-united pair? United by a more than legal band,

A wonder wrought by the Creator's hand! Poor guileless boys! let not the eye of pride That views its perfect self, your form deride! Nor call those "monstrous," who a model

prove

Of hearts conjoined in harmony and love!
And ye were happy in your native soil;
The morning ray awoke you to one toil;
One bark was yours-at once ye climbed one
mast;

One simple couch was yours-and one repast.
And doubtless He who joined you at your birth
Would grant one death-one grave in mother
earth.

ALBERT NEWSAM, THE DEAF AND DUMB ORPHAN

ΒΟΥ.

Soon after the establishment of the Pennsylvania Institution for the Deaf and Dumb, in Philadelphia, in 1820, information was communicated to the gentlemen most active in its concerns, that two mutes had arrived in this city, whose condition entitled them to notice and assistance.

They were accordingly sought for, and found at an obscure inn on the wharf, near Market street; one of these strangers was an adult, the other a boy about ten years old.

Some surprise was excited by the ability of the man to write, but as he represented that he had been taught in the school of the Abbe Sicard at Paris, and as his style of writing was marked by the peculiarities of the deaf and dumb in the earlier stages of their education;

and as, moreover, every attempt to throw him off his guard, by sudden questions or loud and unexpected noises, failed of their object, suspicion was completely lulled. The natural pri vations of his artles companion whom he presented to be his brother, could not fo ment be questioned; and after son under he consented to leave the boy at the insutution until his return from Richmond, in Virginia, where he pretended to be going, in order to recover a sum of money due to the estate of their father. He was furnished with a complete suit of clothes, and with means to defray his travelling expenses, and took his departure for Richmond, leaving the boy kind him; since then nothing, has been heard of his movements, though cicumstances have transpired which leave no doubt of his being an impostor.

The subject of this notice became an object of deeper sympathy and interest when it was discovered that he had been the associate, and probably the dupe of so unprincipled an individual, and every effort was therefore made to trace his real history. It was long, however, before his mind could be reached by questions, or his ideas become so far developed as to enable him satisfactorily to reply. His first communication, as to his former residence, was a rude drawing representing a town on the margin of a river, which after many unsuccessful efforts to determine the original, was recognised by an accidental visiter, to be Steubenville in Ohio. Soon after the discovery a gentleman from that place was taken to the institution, and immediately designated the boy as Albert Newsam, the son of a boatman on the Ohio, who had been drowned. Of his other relations he could give no account, nor has any information been subsequently obtained. From Albert, himself, it has been ascertained that the person in whose company he first appeared, was not a relative, but had enticed him from his home, probably with a view to aid him in imposing on the charitable and benevolent.

Albert passed through a regular course of education at the Pennsylvania institution, and made respectable progress in all the branches of learning to which his attention was directed. The evidences he furnished of natural talent for copying, attracted the notice of Mr. Childs the engraver, who generously offered to receive him as a pupil. For more than two years his time has almost exclusively been devoted to drawing, under Mr. Childs' direction, with a success not merely extraordinary in one so young, and labouring under such serious disadvantages, but which entitle him to high rank in the art. A considerable number of his drawings have been purchased by gentlemen of the greatest taste and judgment both in Europe and in this country.-Balt. Sport. Mag.