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©urbusiness, resign their clothing to replenish our wardrobe, and surrender their very lives to provide for our tables.—In short, every element is a store-house of conveniences; evpry season brings us the choicest productions; all ntture is our caterer.— And, which is a most endearipg recommendation of these favours, they are all as lovely as they are useful. You observe nothing mean or inelegant. All is clad in beauty s fairest robe, and regulated by proportion's nicest rule. The whole scene exhibits a fund of pleasures to the imagination, at the same time that it mow than supplies all our wants.

GAMESTER.

UyHAPPt is that mortal that has imbibed a love for play ; so powerful is that seductive passion, that every consideration of propriety, affection, consanguinity, friendship, and virtue, falls before this all-destroying leviathan, the offspring of sordid Avarice, which, swallowing all the nobler sensations of the soul, robs justice of her bal ince, Valor of her sword, and Pity of her tear. The professed gamester feels no commisserating pangs for the wide spreading ruin his favorite vice occasions. He views with hardened callossity and freezing.apathy, the wretched man he has despoiled, writhing under the tortures of self-condemnation, agonized by the stings of remorse, that goad him on to desperation, as he reflects on returning to the wife he loves, whom he has made a beggar; and how he shall receive the innocent caresses of her children, by his pernicious vices, deprived of the inheritance of their forefathers.

BICKERSTAFF'S JOURNEY TO THE LANTVS-F.ND. Some years since I was engaged with a coach full of friends, to take a journey as far as the Land's-end. We were very well pleased with one another the first day, every one endeavouring to recommend himself, by his good humour and complaisance, to the rest of the company, This good correspondence did not last long; one of our party was soured the very first evening by a plate of butter which had not been melted to his mind, and which spoiled his temper to such a degree, that he continued upon the fret to the end of our journey. A second fell off from his good humour the next morning, for no other reason that I could imagine, but because I chanced to step into the coach before him, and place myself on the shady side. This, however, was but my own private guess, for he did not mention a word of it, nor indeed of any thing else, for three days following. The rest of our company held out very near half the way, when^of a sudden Mr. Sprightly fell asleep; and, instead of endeavouring to divert and oblige us, as he had hitherto done, carried himself with an unconcerned, careless, drowsy behaviour, till we came to our last stage. There were three of us who still held up our heads, and did all we could to make our journey agreeable; but, to my shame be it spoken, about three miles on this side Exeter, I was taken with an unaccountable fit of sullenness, that hung upon me for above threescore miles; whether it were for want of respect, or from an accidental tread upon my foot, or from a foolish maid's calling me The old Gentleman, I cannot tell. In short, there was but one who kept his good humour to the Land's-end.

There was another coach that went along with us, in which I likewise observed, that there were many secret jealousies, heartburnings, and animosities. For when we joined companies at night, I could not but take notice, that the passengers neglected their own company, and studied how to make themselves esteemed by us, who were altogether strangers to them; till at length they grew so well acquainted with us, that they liked us as little as they did one another. When I reflect upon this journey, I often fancy it to be a picture of human life, in respect to the several friendships, contracts and alliances, that are made and dissolved in the several periods of it. The most delightful and most lasting engagements are generally those which pass between man and woman; and yet upon what trifles are they weakened or entirely broken! Sometimes the parties fly asunder, even in the midst of courtship, and sometimes grow cool in the very honey-month. Some separate before the first child, and some after the fifth; others continue good till thirty, others till forty; while some few, whose souls are of an happier make, and better fitted to one another, travel on together to the end of their journey, in a continual intercourse of kind offices and mutual endearments.

When we, therefore, choose our companions for life, if we hope to keep both them and ourselves in good humour to the last stage of it, we must be extremely careful in the choice we make, as well as in the conduct on our own part. W hen the persons to whom we join ourselves can stand an examination, and bear the scrutiny, when they mend upon our acquaintance with them, and discover new beauties the more we search into their characters, our love wil\ naturally rise in proportion to their perfections.

But because there are very few possessed of such accomplishments of body and mind, we ought to look after those qualifications both in ourselves and others, which are indispensably necessary towards this happy union, and which are in the power of every one to acquire, or at least to cultivate and improve. , These, in my opinion, are cheerfulness and constancy. A cheerful temper joined with innocence, will make beauty attractive, knowledge delightful, and wit good-natured. It will lighten sickness, poverty, and affliction; convert ignorance into an amiable simplicity, and render deformity itself agreeable.

Constancy is natural to persons of even tempers and uniform dispositions, and may be acquired by those of the greatest fickleness, violence and passion, who consider seriously the terms of union upon which they come together, the mutual interest in which they are engaged, with all the motives that ought to incite their tenderness and compassion towards those who have their dependence upon them, and are embarked with them for life in the same state of happiness or misery. Constancy, when it grows in the mind upon considerations of this nature, becomes a moral virtue, and a kind of good nature, that is not subject to any change of health, age, fortune, or any of those accidents which are apt to unsettle the best dispositions that are found rather in constitution than in reason. Where such a constancy as this is wanting, the most enflamed passions may fall away into coldness and indifference, and the most melting tenderness degenerate into hatred and aversion. I shall conclude this essay with a story that is very well known in the North of England.

About thirty years ago, a packet-boat, that had several passengers on board, was cast away upon a rock, and in so great danger of sinking, that all who were in it endeavoured to save themselves as well as they could, though only those who could swim well had a bare possibility of doing it. Among the passengers there were two women of fashion, who seeing themselves in such a disconsolate condition, begged of(their husbands not to leave them. One of them chose rather to die with his wife, than to forsake her: the other, though he was moved with the utmost compassion for his wife, told her, that, for the good of her children, it was better one of them should live, than both perish. By a great piece of good luck, next to a miracle, when one of our good men had taken the last and long farewell, in order to save himself, and the other held in his arms the person that wag dearer to him than life, the ship was preserved. It is with a secret sorrow and vexation of mind that I must tell the sequel of the story, and let my reader know, that this faithful pair, who were ready to have died in each other's arms, about three years after their escape, upon some trifling disgust, grew to a coldness at first, and at length fell out to such a degree, that they left one another, and parted forever. The other couple lived together in an uninterrupted friendship and felicity; and what was remarkable, the husband whom the shipwreck had like to have separated from his wife, died a few months after her, not being able to survive the .loss of her. i,

I must confess there is something in the changeableness and inconstancy of human nature, that very often both dejects and terrifies me. Whatever I am at present, I tremble to think what I may be. While I find this principle in me, how can I assure myself, that I shall be a:way, t;'U3 to my God, my friend, or myself? In short, without constancy, there is neither love, friendship, or virtue in the world.

AMUSEMENT,

A DIALOGUE. a

The following dialogue between an uncle, and his nephew wai overheard in St. James's Park, in consequence of the party talking very loud.

Nephew. My dear uncle, I have the pleasure to inform you, that I am just returned from Perryvale, one of the sweetest villages imaginable. The sun was shining with brilliant lustre, the trees were clothed with the richest foliage, the birds were warbling on every spray, and a silvery stream meandered through the valley:

'" There every bush with nature's music rings,
"There every breeze bears health upon its wings."

To complete my feelings of delight in this new arcadia, I called at the manor-house upon the old squire, and he introduced me to his daughter as she was walking in the garden! It seemed a little paradise, with an Eve beautiful as innocent in it Her eyes sparkled with living lustre, her cheeks glowed with health; and she gave me a new blown rose, and smiled so sweetly at the same time, that all the arrows of Cupid's quiver could not have made a deeper wound in my poor heart. O what a delicious village ! O what an enchanting girl!

Uncle. O what a perfect madcap! O what a tedious rhapsody .' These are first impresions with a vengeance ? Why, boy, while you were ranting at such a rate, you put me in mmd of the puffing style of an auctioneer, and the gaudy colouring of a painter of signs and tea-boards. But, to be serious, I think there i^not a title of real matter of fact in all you have been saying. Why, only a few days ago I passed through this very same place. I shall not soon forget it, for I was almost tired to death wjth walking through it, and so cold that I wished for a great coat. I saw nothing to admire the Tillage; it was like most others, very still and very stupid. You talk of the trees and the birds: as to the trees, there is hardly a stick of good timber in the whole place; if you were to cut them down, they would only sell for fire-wood. The only good birds I saw there, were a few geese in a pond, and I don't think the whole lot would fetch a two-pound note in Leadenhall market. I saw the squire's daughter, but felt none of your raptures, I assure you. Indeed why should 1 ? for I know her father cannot give her a farthing. After all, there may be some mistake. Surely it was not Perryvale you saw, but some other place. I am positive I was there; an 1 that I might examine every thing the better, I hardly took off my spectacles the whole day.

Nephew. My ear uncle, 1 am certain we have been talking of the very same place, and the very same persons. And now, if you will excuse my freedom, I will tell you the reason why you and I viewed these same objects in such different lights. I am no (Edipus, but I solve the enigma thus—I am young, and you are old.

The fashion of dress, is always the subject of criticism : in 1770,

it was thus humour.sly described. A modern fine fellow has a

coat on with sleeves too small for the arms, and buttons too big for the sleeves; a pair of Manchester fine stuff breeches, without money in the pockets, clouded silk stockings, but no legs, a club of hair behind larger than the head that carries it, and a hat of the Size of a sixpence on a block not worth a farthing.

* *

HYMENEAL AND OBITUARY.

JUAURIET) ]— In this town, Mr. Robert Pa: ker, to Vliss Sophia Munroe; Mr Hezekiah Newton, to V iss ELza Lewis; Mr Samuel L. Abbott to Miss Matilda Campbell. In Cambridge, Mr Ebenezer Flagg, to Miss Margaret -TrTlelin, both of Charleston, S C. In Charlestown, Mr. William A. Parker, to Miss Hannah Hooper In 1 lymouth, Capt. Charles Matey, to Miss Charlotte Warren. In Camden, Hon. Erastus King, to Miss Mary E Kaxter. In Amherst, ,lohn Conkney, Esq. to Miss Joanna Dickenson. In Georgetown, Mr. Edward Rumney, to Miss Tabitha Low. *

DIED ]—In this town, Mrs. Elizabeth Dyer, aged 86; Mr. Joseph R Wilder, aged fe7; Mr Gideon Cowing, aged 32; Maria Carlisle, only child of James C. ; John Harris, son of Capt. Thomas H aged 3 years ; Mr. Peter Lew, aged 38; Wm.Orneld, aged 17; Sarah, daughter of Obadiah Stoddard, aged 17"months; /row erf- On Monday last, near Wheeler's Point, two very promising children of the widow Larken—Eliza, aged 6 years, and John aged, 4. They were amusing themselves on a raft, when it is supposed, the boy fell into the water, and his sister shared his tate in endeavouring to save h.m; the corpse of her brother was found in her lifeless ai ms. The father of these un. fortimates was drowned about 18 months s.nce. At sea, (drowned) ( apt. Win. Hewea of Boston, aj.ed 44 At Quarantine, on Sunday, the mate and one seaman of ship Thos. Nelson.- Died in Cambridgeport, Mr. Andrew Hordman, aged 72 In Charleston. Miss Sally, eldest daughter of v'r. William Arnold, aged 15. In Woburn, Mrs. Arethusa, wife of Capt. W. Fox, aged 44. In Haverhill. Hon. William Sawyer. In Salem, the wile of Mr. Samuel Harion. In Tojistield, Mr. George W. l'owne, aged 24. r

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