There were erected, near me, a great many booths, which were filled with people of all ranks and degrees; who were, as I conjectured, assembled for the purpose of beholding something that was to be transacted before them. There suddenly came forth into the view of all (but where he stepped from I could not tell) a hoary-headed and grave-looking sage. He was dressed in a loose blue silk robe, and had a small staff in his right hand,-his white beard flowed down upon his breast, and he lifted his left hand toward the sky and addressed the assembly to the following purport.— "It is declared, in a certain ancient book, that human life is a race-a race after happiness; and that same book sets before us the real goal which we should attempt to reach, in order to gain the prize for which we are seeking. "You are, therefore, assembled here this day, to see this race performed.You are assembled here to behold individuals of different characteristics exhibit the several ways in which they run after the one object of happiness. They will run upon the same principles on which they act; and now they will severally perform, for the instruction and amusement of my audience." There was, therefore, placed at a vast distance from me-so far off that I could not properly distinguish its nature, some bright shining object, that seemed to glitter beneath the rays of a vertical sun. This was descriptive of the happiness which should necessarily be the pursuit of all human beings, and was established as the goal towards which our intended racers should run. There came forward, first, then, a very clownish-looking man, who seemed endued with great natural strength, a broadshouldered brawny fellow. His features were strongly marked, but had a peculiarly vulgar cast, and his appearance was dirty and slovenly to the last degree. I thought surely he was capable of running; but I found, when I became more acquainted with him, that he would never reach the goal. He went very slowly along, and did not, as he proceeded, at all mend his pace, so that I suspected he could not tell his road. And, with all his overstudied carefulness, he stumbled every step he took; ;--once or twice he sat down upon the sand, and, looking all around, gaped in a very uncouth and ungentlemanly manner.-I had looked at him so long, that I was fairly tired, and began insensibly to yawn myself; when, at about the 100th fall, he so hurt his nose as to cause, from himself, a most mellifluous howl, and from all other people a good hearty laugh; which last circumstance so disconcerted him, that he fell upon his hands, and crawled off as fast as he could, amid the shouts of the spectators. The next gentleman who appeared, was of a cast very different, if not directly opposite, to the last. A spruce young dandy, dressed in the height of the fashion, who bowed most respectfully to the company before he set out. If our last acquaintance raised a laugh as he ended his performance, this individual did so as he commenced his; for, instead of running regularly on, as any sensible man would do, he began to jump, and skip, and hop, and dance, with all his might and main. It was no matter to him in what direction his leapings and dancings were directed, for he as often jumped backward, and on each side, as he did forward-and in a few minutes, I found that he was a yard or two farther from his journey's end than when he set out. Sometimes he stood still to adjust his collar, or rub his hair about with his hand, and in a short time he was so wrapped up in his present actions, that he had quite forgotten the object for which he was performing. He fell suddenly down at last, sprained his ancle, and went limping away-backward. The spectators made such a loud murmur of disapprobation, that I was awakened from my dream. this newly-invented instrument, was struck with the similarity of her appearance to the earth. times found, in skies perfectly clear, when even stars of the 6th and 7th magnitude were visible, that, at the Immense ridges of mountains, wide- same altitude of the moon, with the extended valleys, and deep caverns, same elongation from the sun, and led him to conclude that this luminary with the same telescope, the moon was, in all probability, the abode of and her maculæ do not appear equally animated beings, not, perhaps, mate- | lucid, clear, and conspicuous at all rially differing from the inhabitants of times; but are much brighter, and the earth; but it is well known, by more distinct, at some times than at means of our pneumatic experiments, others. And hence it is inferred, that that no living being, known to us, can the cause of this phenomenon is neither exist without the presence of atmo- in our air, in the tube, in the moon, spheric air, the discovery of which nor in the spectator's eye, but must round the lunar orb, seems to have be looked for in something existing been the peculiar object of astrono- about the moon, that is, a suspected mers in all parts of Europe, soon after lunar atmosphere. the invention of this wonderful instrument. I shall here offer a quotation from Bonnycastle's Astronomy, (8th Edit. p. 367-8.) on this subject. These are, however, solitary proofs of the existence of such a phenomenon; even Herschel, whose powerful telescopes have never been equalled, was not able to solve this grand problem. I shall conclude the foregoing remarks with observing, that it may reasonably be concluded, that the moon has an atmosphere, on account of her analogy, in other respects, to the earth, and from the discovery of volcanoes on her surface; for it is a wellknown fact, that combustion cannot take place without the presence of atmospheric air. I am, Sir, Your's, &c. Old Lane, near Halifax. T. C. SEDUCTION.-A TALE. "Astronomers were formerly of opinion, that the moon had no atmosphere, on account of her never being obscured by clouds or vapours; and because the fixed stars, at the time of an occultation, disappear behind her instantaneously, without any gradual diminution of their light. But if we consider the effects of her days and nights, which are nearly thirty times as long as ours, it may be readily conceived, that the phenomena of vapours and meteors must be very different. And besides, the vaporous or obscure parts of our atmosphere are only about the 1980th part of the earth's diameter, as is evident from observing the clouds, which are seldom above 3 or 4 miles high; and, therefore, as the moon's apparent diameter is only about 31 minutes, or 1890 seconds, the obscure part of her atmosphere, supposing it to resemble our own when viewed from the earth, must subtend an angle of one second; which is so small a space, that observations must be ex-"FLEE youthful lusts which war against tremely accurate to determine whether the soul," was the language of One the supposed obscuration takes place "who spake as he was moved by the Holy Ghost." The admonition is, indeed, of paramount importance, both as concerns individual happiness, and the community in general; let this be disregarded, and the one will be disordered, while the other will be destroyed. When we consider again the demoralizing effects that the loss of feminine modesty is calculated to produce upon those whose imaginations are heated by their youth, and whose passions need no excitation, or not. "Notwithstanding what is here advanced, however, Schroeter, an eminent German astronomer, is said to have ascertained that such obscuration really takes place; from which he not only infers the existence of an atmosphere, but has also estimated the height of it, which, according to him, does not exceed four or five miles." Hevelius asserts, that he has several Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child, Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?" BURNS. not only the loss of health, but their -The rural lass Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, Some, indeed, may palliate this love of dress as innocent in itself, and leading to no destructive consequences; but from them I most cordially differ. Not only does it diminish the respect they wish to create,-not only does it reveal the most consummate ignorance beneath this heap of trumpery,-not only does it create a spirit of pride, and make them dissatisfied with the situation in which Providence has placed them ;--but it attracts the attention, and exposes them to the snares, of licentious youths, who are ever on the alert to allure the thoughtless and unwary to their ruin, and rob them of that inestimable jewel, deprived of which, they but resemble the rose when all is blasted but its thorns;-and to such characters, these lovers of finery, these mimics of gentility, present too easy a conquest. But what are the effects of their triumph? Alas! the most melancholy. When once the narrow path of virtue is overstepped,-when once the unguarded female is enticed into "the lewd and lavish act of sin," every finer feeling becomes blunted, and modesty leaves the guilty bosom a prey to anguish, and the subject of disgrace. Hence it is, that our streets are crowded with so many victims of seduction, with so many slaves to sensual gratification; for too often is it the case, that "Woman falls to rise no more." When first I became acquainted with Mary B―, she was universally beloved for the amiableness of her disposition, and the modesty of her demeanour; but as she grew up, she imbibed a passion for dress, and became (if I may so speak) the belle of the village. She was endowed with no extraordinary personal charms; but, flattered by a few admirers, as thoughtless and as volatile as herself, she began to think herself in reality what they represented her to be, and consequently, became fond of displaying to others the charms she imagined that she possessed. Repeatedly did I warn her of her danger, and the consequences of her folly; repeatedly did I charge her of foolish vanity, and unbecoming pride; but, as she was not conscious of the crime, she could not admit the charge, and all my admonitions and my warnings were only as the idle wind. Thus she went on-every day more extravagant in her dress, more ostentatious in her manner, and more conceited in her person, till at length a Capt. D came on a visit in the neighbourhood. He was a libertine, in the worst sense of the word; and, bent only upon the gratification of his unholy desires, neither the laws of society nor the laws of God could restrain him in his diabolical pursuit. It was not to be expected that Mary could escape the notice of such a character, and to her, accordingly, his attentions were directed. From the first moment that I saw it, I trembled for her safety. I warned her, again and again, to beware of his artful duplicity, but my warnings were considered as unnecessary, and were therefore disregarded. It was, however, too evident, that the Captain had gained the affections of poor Mary. He flattered-be promised he swore; and the infatuated girl believed that his flattery, his promises, and his oaths, proceeded from the sincerity of his affection. But now, reader, see the effects of dress, and its attendant, vanity. In an unguarded moment she resigned to a deceiver, a villain, her honour, her happiness, and her peace, and fell, oh, what a fall?—from virgin rectitude and purity, to shame, neglect, and remorse! "Peccati dolor et maximus et eternus est!" For a considerable time, poor Mary could not divest herself of the belief ....... that he would not forsake her; but, no sooner was his brutal appetite satiated, than he abandoned the victim of his infernal machinations to the torments of a guilty conscience, and the slanders of a pitiless world. These were heaped in abundance upon the defenceless head of poor Mary;-and the burden without, and the anguish within, were too much for a constitution naturally weak, and conspired to sink her into an early tomb. "When last saw her, Oh, how changed! how pale! The rose-bloom from her pallid cheek had With hasty steps she trod the gloomy vale, And all their animated light was gone; Save when they seem'd in briny tears to swim Which made another twinkle in your own. But ab! no sympathetic tear could chase The pangs of wo that in her bosom dwelt, Could wipe the sweaty anguish from her face, Or lull the bitter agonies she felt. Hark! 'tis the language of the dying maid 'Save me-I die,-I feel the fatal stroke, Oh, God! have mercy,-Oh, my head-my head,' These were the last sad words that Mary spoke." Gloucester, Oct. 15th. Φ. Π. THE ABBOT AND THE LEARNED WOMAN. (From ERASMUS.-By LARTHON.) ["An abbot pays a lady a visit; and, finding Latin and Greek books in her chamber, gives his reasons against women's meddling with learning. He professes himself to be a greater lover of Pleasure than Wisdom; and makes the Ignorance of Monks to be the most powerful reason of their Obedience."] Dialogue between Antronius and Magdalia. A. THIS house, methinks, is strangely furnished-M. Why? is it not well? A. I don't know what you call well; but it is not so proper, methinks, for a woman.-M. And why not, I pray you?-A. Why, what should a woman do with so many books?-M. As if you, who are an abbot and a courtier, and have lived so long in the world, had never seen books in a lady's chamber before.-A. Yes, French ones I have; but here are Greek and Latin.M. Is there no wisdom, then, but in French? A. But they are well enough, however, for court ladies, that have nothing else to do to pass away their time withal.-M. So that you would have only your court ladies to be women of understanding and of pleasure?-A. That's your mistake now, to couple understanding with pleasure ; for the one is not for a woman at all, and the other is only for a woman of quality.-M. But, is it not every body's business to live well?-A. Beyond all question.-M. How shall any man live comfortably, that does not live well?-A. Nay, rather, how shall any man live comfortably that does?—M. That is to say, you are for a life that's easy, let it be never so wicked.—A. I am of opinion, I must confess, that a pleasant life is a good life. M. But what is it that makes one's life pleasant? Is it sense or conscience? -A. It is the sense of outward enjoyments.-M. Spoken like a learned abbot, though but a dull philosopher. But tell me now, what are those enjoyments you speak of?-A. Money, honour, eating, drinking, sleeping, and the liberty of doing what a man has a mind to do.-M. But what if God should give you wisdom over and above all the rest, would your life be ever the worse for it?-A. Let me know, M. Wisdom is a knowledge, that first, what it is that you call wisdom.places the felicity of reasonable nature in the goods of the mind; and tells us, that a man is neither the happier nor the better for the external advantages of blood, honour, or estate.-A. If that be it, pray make the best of your wisdom.-M. But what if I take more delight in a good book, than you do in a fox-chase, fuddling-bout, or in the shaking of your elbow? will you not allow me, then, to have a pleasant life of it? A. Every one as he likes, but it would not be so to me.-M. The question is not what does, but what ought to please you.-A. I should be loath, I do assure you, to have my monks over-bookish.-M. And yet my husband is never better pleased than at his study. Nor do I see any harm in it, if your monks would be so too.A. Marry, hang them up as soon: it teaches them to chop logic, and makes them undutiful. You shall have them expostulating presently, appealing to Peter and Paul, and prating out of the canons and decretals. M. But I hope you would not have them do any thing that clashes with Peter and Paul, tho'?-A. Clash or not clash, I do not much trouble my head about their doctrine; but I do naturally hate a fellow that will have the last word, and reply upon_his M. Put the case, now, that it were in your power to transform yourself, and all your monks, into any other animals; and that a person should desire you to turn yourself into a hunting-nag, and your whole flock into a herd of swine, would you do it?-A. No; not upon any terms.-M. And yet this would secure you from having any of your disciples wiser than yourself.-A. As for my people, I should not much stand upon it what sort of brutes they were, provided that I might still be a man myself.-M. But can you account him a man, that neither is wise, nor has any inclination so to be ? A. But so long as I have wit enough for my own business.-M. Why, so have the hogs.-A. You talk like a philosopher in a petticoat, methinks. M. And you, methinks, like something that is far from it. | But what's your quarrel, all this while, to the furniture of this house !A. A spinning-wheel, or some instru- | ment of good housewifery, were more suitable to your sex.- -M. Is it not the duty then, of a housekeeper, to keep her family in order, and look to the education of her children?-A. It is so.-M. And is this office to be discharged without understanding?A. I suppose not.-M. This understanding do I gather from my books. -A. But yet I have above threescore monks under my care, and not so much as one book in my lodgings.— | M. They are well tutored the mean while.-A. Not but that I could endure books too, provided they be not Latin. 84.-VOL. VII. -M. And why not Latin?-A. It is not a tongue for a woman.-M. Why, what is your exception to it?-A. It is not a language to keep a woman honest.-M. Your French romances, I must confess, are great provocatives to modesty.-A. Well, but there is something else in it too.-M. Out with it then.-A. If the women do not understand Latin, they are in less danger of the priests.-M. But so long as you take care that the priests themselves shall not understand Latin, where is the danger?-A. It is the opinion of the common people, however, because it is so rare a thing for a woman to understand Latin.-M. Why, what do you talk to me of the people, that never did any thing well? or of custom, that gives authority to all wickedness? We should apply ourselves to that which is good, and turn that which was unusual, unpleasant, and perhaps scandalous before, into the contrary.-A. I hear you. M. Is it not a laudable quality for a German lady to speak French?--A. It is so.-M. And to what end?-A. That she may be able to converse with those who speak French.-M. And why may not I as well learn Latin, to fit myself for the company of so many wise and learned authors, so many faithful counsellors and friends?-A. But it is not so well for women to spend their brains upon books, unless they had more to spare.-M. What you have to spare, I know not; but for my small stock, I had much rather employ it upon honest studies, than in the mumbling over of so many prayers, like a parrot, by rote; or the emptying of so many dishes and beerglasses till morning. -- A. But much learning makes a man mad.-M. Your topers, drolls, and buffoons, are an entertainment, no doubt, to make a person sober.-A. They make the time pass merrily away.-M. But why should so pleasant company, as the authors I converse with, make me mad then?-A. It is a common saying.M. But yet, the fact itself tells you otherwise; and that intemperate feasting, drinking, whoring, and inordinate watching, is the ready way to Bedlam. A. For the whole world I would not have a learned wife.-M. Nor I an unlearned husband. Knowledge is such a blessing, that we are both of us the dearer one to another for it.-A. But then there is so much trouble in the 4B |