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isms, listen with mute civility: in either case, him, but let him go-and thank God you are

take no note of rid of a' fool. Beware of talking politics with a radical; or, longer than five minutes with any man. You will almost certainly strike fire by concussion, if you differ, or kindle, by smooth attrition, if you agree. Read no more than half a column, at once, in any political newspaper; and wax not indignant, over the capitals and notes of exclamation, either at the writer, or at those he abuses. They probably are used to it; and 'tis for bread that he (poor fellow) sours his heart and dips his daily pen in acids and gall.

Read such books as you like, James so they be good of their kind. If you find a volume full of twaddle and egotism, or tainted with malignity or meanness, let it go at once; and speak of it, if need be, with brief contempt. But, why grow splenetic over a book, merely because it does not hit your personal fancy or taste? Go to. Was it written for you? and may it not edify another? Pass on. The paper world is all before you; and a world, thank Heaven, it is though deformed with barrens and mire yet boasting its skyey heights, its mystic deeps, and thousand living fountains, and Elysian vales.

Then, be not impatient with Mr. Van Artevelde Taylor's preface or poem, or the critiques thereon and if still, haply, you linger, with admiring gratitude, over the volumes of Byron, deeming him neither shallow nor trite, but a very pretty poet,' who often weaves into one rainbow-stanza the gorgeous expression of more newly-combined thought, than is spread over any blank verse page of the said poem. Yet, will you allow the author to have his own opinion; nor, though you find his book pretty hard reading, will you dispute its being very clever for a young clerk ?—'a little heavy — but no less divine.**

If you have not read Charles Lamb's 'Elia' two or three times, (why does not somebody here print a decent edition of those essayst) nay, if you have it not by heart, let me commend you to it, as a perfect pink of summer reading. 'Tis soda; 'tis a glass of hock; 'tis a customary after-dinner nap, with visions, in the garden; 'tis a dewy jessamine, and chat with good girls under it. The last image seduces me to a very oblique transition.

*We disagree with the Summer-Philosopher, entirely, in his opinion of Van Artevelde. Don't believe him, James! Mr. Taylor's dramatic poem is most placid reading, of a warm summer-afternoon, by yourself, recumbent on a sofaif you have not been made stupid by a two-o'clock dinner - or, beneath the soft light of a shaded lamp, in the evening, to one dear enough to be interesting, and intelligent enough to exclaim, beautiful!' as she will, at six passages in a page, if she knows how to appreciate high-souled thought and poetical sentiment. - ED.

A very neat edition of Elia's essays has lately appeared in that best of all cheap re-publications, The Republic of Letters;' and the philosopher, or James, can get them for a York shilling of J. Hancock, 127, Washington street, Boston.

James, beware bad women. Nay, blush not, boy, but understand me. She, who, of a sultry afternoon, exercises you with discussion of fossil-remains, and comparison of German and Italian tragedies; or, in the evening, sultrier still, tempts you to walk on a Turkey carpet, and play the battle of Prague, (you might as well fight it, and have done) on an untuned piano; or makes you go to church with her, and sit in a crowded pew, and then and there filches your handkerchief, and for a while wont lend you her fan; or whispers scandal in your ear, during all the long, nasal, damnatory sermon, and the 'ear-piercing' harmonies of a choir of fifty-three singing-school children, accompanied by violins and clarionets; a woman capable of these enormities, or any of them, is too dangerous and cruel to be encountered at this season. If y you can mollify her, at any cost, but that of heating yourself, do it. Sketch for her, all the morning; submit to carry her billet-doux to your rival, (if he live in the same square ;) let her feed your spaniel with cake; even go with her on a waterparty, and catch her fish, she holding the end of the rod ; — but, if not all your submission and service will bring her to reason, or soften her to compassion; if she persist in enticing and compelling you to violate the first principles of summer philosophyabandon her! She is a naughty woman, James; and were summer long enough, would be the death of you.

But, with the fair sex proper, pass as many of your summer hours as Heaven pleases. I am sure, James, you need not be urged. There is no season when we could spare the precious creatures so ill. How refreshing, how cool, their company! How select their influences! A girl, that loves out-doors, and an ambling palfrey at dawn, and the salt waves; who is so bent on drawing a natural breath, that she wears a girdle almost loose and unfashionable enough to clasp the waist of the Medicean Venus; a girl, who never combines blue and green in a dress, or pink and purple; who walks as well as she dances; who hears you out, says what she means, and then stops; putting 'fit words in fit places,' and speaking them in a voice gentle and low excellent thing in woman'; who likes her mother-tongue better than all others; sings nothing that she can't sing right, and does that without urging; lets you hear every word; plays piano more than forte, and likes good old tunes better than silly new ones; never screams or faints, and is too proud and loving, to be, for a moment, vain, envious or insincere ;-find such a girl, James, and make her the tutelary, fresh-winged angel of your summer life! With a sentiment, delicately cool, however transporting, you may love and worship her, like the crescent-moon, or a Pleiad, or a virgin fountain. Her presence, her voice, her footfall, the thought or dream of her, will come upon you, amid the

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fervid noon, like breath of vernal air from snowy Alp'; and, at night,

'Like the gentle South

That steals along a bank of violets,

Stealing and giving odors !'

Thus, James, may your chaste love fan and freshen you bidding defiance to the dog-star; while every entertainer of wanton and violent passions, pants, glows, and swelters in their heat the mutual inflammation of body and soul.

COSMO.

PARTING.

A MYSTIC sadness oft I feel

O'er my rapt spirit steal,

When tints Elysian fade from evening skies,
Or an Orphean note, in lingering sweetness dies.
O, 't is a mournful thing,

In a world of sorrowing,

To part with beauty, wheresoe'er it be,
Or break one bond of congeniality!
But deeper, holier is the grief-

Known only to the heart

Of the lone one, who, after commune brief,
Is forced to part

With beings knit to him by spirit-ties

Whose presence is delight,

Shedding a soothing light,

Before whose radiance pure, each phantom sorrow flies!
Methinks there must a deep aim be

In this mysterious destiny,

That, when we seem the gate of Heaven to gain,
And hear the echo of the seraph strain, —

The golden chord is riven,

And baffled love back to its yearnings driven !
Not thus, for aye, shall we aspire ;

This human love,

Instinct with celestial fire,

Borne to its pristine home above,
Shall, in the freedom of the spirit be,
Give and be given through eternity!

H.T. T.

123

CHURCH REMINISCENCES.

IN former numbers of this Magazine, (vol. vi. p. 25 and 105) there are two articles, embracing some account of the first introduction of the organ into our Congregational churches, and of those individuals who commenced the building of organs in this part of the country. The perusal of those sketches induced a highly respectable gentleman, possessing a very extensive personal knowledge of the subject, and of the ecclesiastical occurrences, for nearly half a century past, connected with Boston and its vicinity, to commit to paper a few hasty notes, which he afterwards communicated to the writer of those articles, for his further information. Such corrections, facts, and anecdotes, as are deemed suitable for publication, have been selected, and will be found in the following pages. They will not only be interesting to the antiquary, but some of them may, perhaps, afford amusement to the general reader.

In the Magazine, (vol. vi. p. 36) it is intimated, that the Roman Catholics had no church in New-England till the present Catholic church in Franklin street was built. The writer was well aware, that a few Catholics had previously occupied an old meeting-house in School street, which they hired for some time; but he did not consider this as really having a church.' The remark, however, has given occasion for the relation of an anecdote connected with the old church, and for some account of the early history of the Catholics in Boston, which are here given, in the following extract from the notes that have been mentioned.

There stood formerly, on the spot now occupied, in School street, Boston, by the Universalist church, (Mr. Ballou's) a small chapel, with one gallery in front, and another on the left side of the pulpit, which was semicircular, built by some of the Hugonots, who fled from France at the time of the repeal of the edict of Nantz, with their minister, Mr. La Massa; and by them it was occupied for many years. With some of their descendants, I am personally intimate. One after another died; and their children gave up their worship, and mixed with other societies. The doors were, of course, closed for a long time. At length, Mr. William Croswell, a blind man, (whom I well recollect, and who has, at this moment, a son bearing the same name, and a daughter, likewise, residing in the same house with him, somewhere at the south part of the city) who was called, in those days, a New-light preacher, was there for a long time within my remembrance. At length, there came along the late Mr. John Murray, the Universalist, (Croswell being dead) and he preached there, for a time, to any audience he could collect. He was

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earnestly opposed by all the ministers in and about Boston, amongst whom, the Rev. Mr. Bacon, then minister of the Old South church, distinguished himself. It having been given out, that Murray was to preach one evening, in Father Croswell's meeting-house, Mr. Bacon, in his zeal, went to hear him, in order to answer him after his sermon. As soon as Murray had finished, Bacon stept up two or three stairs of the pulpit, and called out- All that Mr. Murray has said is a delusion. I beg the people to stop, and I will prove it to them.' Among the audience, there were several of Mr. Bacon's parish, who attended in order to hear him put down Murray. Murray instantly stept to the pulpit-door, opened it, and begged him to walk in, which he peremptorily declined; not willing even to stand in the same desk with him. Murray, however, earnestly repeated his request, saying The people can hear you much better, Mr. Bacon, from the pulpit, than they can from that stair.' Bacon, however, still declined. After he had finished, Murray rejoined, and excited great laughter, (for he was a great wit) at Mr. Bacon's expense, who grew angry, and attempted a second reply; to which, Murray instantly rejoined, producing increased laughter at Bacon. Bacon's friends were irritated, and ran to an old woman's huxter-shop-who occupied the next building - bought all her eggs, carried them into the church, and threw them at Murray, as he stood in the pulpit. He humorously replied Well, my dear friends, these are moving arguments; but, I must own, at the same time, I have never been so fully treated with Bacon and eggs before, in all my life' at the same time, retiring from the pulpit. This brought a roar of laughter on Mr. Bacon, who left the church, and never afterwards interfered with Mr. Murray. So went the story in my youthful days.

Soon after this, there came along the Rev. Mr. Rausselett, a chaplain on board a French vessel, who commenced, for the first time, the Catholic worship, in that church. His character, I remember, was not respected. Soon afterwards succeeded to him the Abbé Patterie, another French Catholic; then John Thayer, who was, or pretended to have been, converted to the Catholic faith in Rome. He was formerly a Congregational preacher, but never ordained as such. He has relations now living in Boston. I knew him well; considered a very eccentric man. He was ordained in Rome. After continuing a while in that church, he left it, and went south, where he died. After him, came Dr. Matignon; and in 1794, I think, or 1795, came Mr. (afterwards bishop) Chevereux. Whilst they officiated in the old church, in School street, the Doctor applied to the writer of these notes to sell them a small organ, for their church, which he then had in his possession, and had advertised for sale; and the church were prevented from having it, merely by the

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