is over, the spirits sink as much below their usual tone, as they had before been raised above it, thus making the remedy worse than the disease. No man is more dejected than the drunkard, when the fumes of intoxication have subsided; and if, by repeating the dose, he becomes a slave to the bottle, and at length falls a sacrifice to what at first was only taken as medicine, he not only destroys his health, but likewise the faculties of his mind; and, eventually ruins both body and soul.

Considering that so much has been written on this demoralizing vice, by persons more able than myself, and that most of their writings are so easy of access, I shall conclude these plain remarks by wishing, that TEMPERANCE SOCIETIES may be crowned with abundant success; fully believing, that intoxicating liquors are the ruin of many sound constitutions, who linger away the remainder of their lives in poverty, sickness, and distress.

Preston Brook, April, 1832. S. S.

DR. JOHNSON AND THE QUAKER LADY.

THE following dialogue has been many times before the public, but no one can doubt that it is still worthy of being reprinted. The young lady had been sent from the East Indies to England for education, and was for some time high in the esteem of Dr. Johnson, whose friendship she greatly valued; but having formed an acquaintance with Mrs. Knowles, a quaker lady, she became a proselyte to her religious sentiments, and was discarded by her former friend. To appease his anger, if not to regain his favour, Mrs. Knowles sought an interview with him; and what follows, is the substance and result of their conversation. There are few occurrences in Dr. Johnson's life, in which he appears to greater disadvantage, than on the present occasion.

Quaker.-I am to ask thy indulgence, Doctor, towards a gentle female, to whom thou usedst to be kind, and who is uneasy in the loss of that kindness; Jenny Harry weeps that thou wilt not speak to her.

Doctor.-Madam, I hate the odious wench, and desire you will not talk to me about her.

Quaker. Yet what is her crime, Doctor? Doctor.-Apostacy, madam, apostacy from the community in which she was educated.

Quaker. Surely the quitting of one community for another cannot be a crime, if it is done from motives of conscience.

Hadst thou been educated in the Romish

church, I must suppose that thou wouldst have abjured its errors, and that there would have been merit in the abjuration.

Doctor.-Madam, if I had been educated in the Roman Catholic faith, I believe I should have questioned my right to quit the religion of my fathers; therefore, well may I hate the arrogance of a young wench, who sets herself up for a judge on theological points, and deserts the religion in whose bosom she was nurtured.

Quaker. She has not done so; the name and the faith of Christians are not denied to sectaries.

Doctor.-If the name is not, the common sense is.

Quaker.-I will not dispute this point with thee, Doctor, at least at present, it would carry us too far. Suppose it granted, that in the mind of a young girl, the weaker arguments appeared the stronger, her want of better judgment should excite thy pity, not thy resentment.

Doctor.-Madam, it has my anger and contempt, and always will have them.

Quaker. Consider, Doctor, she must be sincere; consider what a noble fortune she has sacrificed.

Doctor.-Madam, madam, I have never taught myself to consider that the association of folly can extenuate guilt.

Quaker. Ah, Doctor, we cannot rationally think that the Deity will not pardon a defect in judgment, (supposing it should prove one), in that breast where the consideration of serving him, according to its idea, in spirit and truth, has been a preferable inducement to that of worldly interest.

Doctor.-I pretend not, madam, to set bounds to the mercy of the Deity; but I hate the wench, and shall ever hate her. I hate all impudence; but the impudence of a chit's apostacy I nauseate.

Quaker.-If thou choosest to suppose her ridiculous, thou canst not deny that she has been religious, sincere, and disinterested. Canst thou believe that the gate of heaven will be shut to the tender and pious mind, whose first consideration has been that of apprehending its duty?

Doctor.-Pugh, pugh, madam, who says it will?

Quaker.-Then if heaven shuts not his gate, shall man shut his heart? If the Deity accepts the homage of all such as sincerely serve him, under whatever form of worship they may do it; Dr. Johnson and this humble girl, will, it is to be hoped, meet in a blessed eternity, whither human animosity must not be carried.

Doctor.-Madam, I am not fond of meeting fools any where; they are detest

able company; and while it is in my power to avoid conversing with them, I certainly shall exert that power, and so you may tell the odious wench, when you have persuaded her to think herself a saint, and of whom you will, I suppose, make a preacher: but I shall take care she does not preach to me.

THE LOST CHILD.

THE following mysterious story appears in an American paper :

Something more than a year ago, the only child of Mr. Clark, of Hampstead county, territory of Arkansas, a fine boy of four years, disappeared from the house of his parents, and could no where be found. A little negro boy had been playing with him, and related, that two men, on horseback, came upon them, and that one of them alighted, and took the child, and carried him off. The parents were respectable, comparatively affluent. It was a country of dark forest, and immense prai. ries; the wolves, bears, and panthers are common in the woods, and different tribes of Indians hunt in the vicinity. The affec tion of these parents for their only child was such as would be naturally expected; and no effect of the imagination is necessary, to conceive the anxiety and agony of their suspense. The honest-hearted people about them, though not given to eloquent descriptions of their feelings in such cases, expressed a more unquestionable sympathy by turning out en masse, and scouring the forests, prairies, and bayous, in every di rection. The agonizing father followed a man, who preceded him a day or two, as was reported, carrying a child with him on horseback. After a pursuit of three hundred miles, he ascertained, in the bitterness of disappointment, that the child was not his. Every exertion made to find the child was to no purpose. The father rode in different directions thousands of miles. Advertisements, promises of ample reward, the sustained search of hundreds of people, were alike unavailing, to furnish a vestige of the child, or the slightest clue to stimulate to hope and further exertion. After a search of months, the feelings of the parents, from the natural effect of time and disappointment, settled down to the calm of resignation and despair. It will be easy to conceive, that it was not the tranquil mourning of parents who have seen their child buried under the clods of the valley.

Some time last winter, the father received: a letter, mailed at the Netchez post-office, informing him, that if he would enclose

fifty dollars in a letter to the writer, and would send the mother of the child, unaccompanied by any other person, to a cer tain house in Arkansas, which he designated, with two huundred dollars more, the writer engaged that a certain woman in the designated house should deliver up the child to its mother. The letter was written in a gentlemanly hand, and signed Thomas Tutty.

The plan of the distracted parents was settled by advice of many people in Louisiana, who entered warmly into their feelings. A letter, stating all the circumstances of the case, was written to the post-master at Natchez. Another, agreeable to all the requirements of Tutty, and enclosing a bank-note of fifty dollars, was addressed to him. In the letter to the post-master, he was directed to watch the man who should call for the other letter, and have him apprehended. At the proper time, a man of gentlemanly appearance and manners, with the dialect of a foreigner, inquired for the letter. The post-master, by design, made difficulty and delay, and detained the man until an officer was procured, and he was apprehended. He was found to be a man who kept a school for some time in the vicinity of Natchez, whose singular and cautious habits had already excited suspicion. He proved himself shrewd, sulky, and pertinaciously obstinate in his purpose, to confess nothing, and to throw the whole burden of proof on the magistrate, before whom he was tried. He would not admit the identity of the letter with his own, and denied that his name was Thomas Tutty. He was charged with having fabricated the story, that he knew where the child was, and would cause it be delivered to its

parents merely with the base purpose of extorting money from the affection of the parents. He continued to affirm, that he knew where the child was, and proved that he was acquainted with the long way be. tween Natchez and the residence of Mr. Clark, by answering, with the utmost promptness and intelligence, questions about the numerous bayous, swamps, and passes in the distance, put with a particularity intended purposely to perplex him. On the suspicious fact of his having inquired for the letter directed to Thomas Tutty, he was committed to prison.

The parents, who repaired to Natchez, and various people who took a deep interest in this strange and terrible affair, exhausted their ingenuity to no purpose, in efforts to get something out of the prisoner, that might furnish a clue by which to find the child. He told the father, that in a place where it

was supposed he would pass in search of the child, he would find the clothes which the child wore when it disappeared, and bones, having the appearance of those of a child of his years, that had been devoured by beasts. But he assured him, that the bones were not those of the child, but of an animal placed there to produce that impression. Such was found to be the fact. Yet, strange to tell, nothing could extort from the man the slightest information that had any other tendency, than still more to excite the imagination and harrow up the feelings of the parent.

Meanwhile a number of respectable people of Natchez, stimulated by their intense interest, the warm blood of the south, and their impatient fondness for summary justice, and thinking probably that a little chiding could do this man no possible harm, took him by night from the prison, and gave him a pretty severe drubing, intimating, between intervals of discipline, that whenever he found the application transcending the bounds of pleasant feeling, any useful information touching the child would save them the trouble of carrying the operation any further. The man shrugged, and seemed for a long time disposed to persevere in his customary close ness. But at a time when the thing was evidently very unpleasant, he seemed to relent, and said, that if they would send to a certain house between forty and fifty miles from Natchez in Mississippi, the people there would tell them where they might find the child. The sheriff, who stated that he disapproved of these proceedings, and was moreover ill at the time, was no sooner apprised of this information, that he started at midnight for the designated house. When he arrived, he found that the people were of good character, and perceived in a moment that he was on a false scent, and that the prisoner had given this information only to get rid of correction.

The parents and the people, having exhausted every effort upon the pertinacious silence and unshrinking obstinacy of the prisoner, to no purpose, became fully impressed that he had indeed been concerned in the stealing of the child, but that he no longer knew any thing about its present condition, and had been induced to what he had done, merely to obtain money by trifling with parental anxiety and affection. They consented to the enlargement of the prisoner, on condition that he should return with the parents, in the hope that threats or promised rewards, or a returning sense of justice and humanity, when he should

arrive where the clothes of the child were laid, might yet induce him to put them on a clue to finding him.

He was accordingly enlarged, and crossed the Mississippi in the same ferry boat with the parents, on their route towards home. It had been purposely intimated to him, that unless he would frankly communicate to Mr. Clark, on the journey, all that he knew about the child, as soon as they should have travelled beyond the settlements, he would be put to death. Having advanced beyond the settlement of Concordia, he asked Mr. Clark how long he intended to let him live. The reply was, if he persisted in withholding information about the child, perhaps thirty-six hours. Mr. Clark carried a pistol in his belt. The man rushed upon him, seizing the pistol, and snapped it at his breast. Although he had primed and loaded it himself, it fortunately missed fire. Failing in his purposes, the man broke away, and made for a bayou to which they were approaching. He plunged in, disappeared, and was drowned, and thus extinguished the only visible hope of a clue to unravel this mysterious affair. This crime of fiends, childstealing, has been often threatened in the region which furnishes such facilities for perpetrating it, as a mean diabolical revenge. An interest yet exists there, in regard to the elucidations of this mystery. Parents, watch your children. Be careful of the presence of suspicious villains, who might in this way sting you to death. The happiest feeling which a good mother can have on earth, is, when she sees her children safely and sweetly sleeping in their own beds, under the united protection of innocence and parents, good angels and God.

ADMONITORY PRECEPTS.

WEAR your learning, like your watch, in a private pocket, and don't pull it out to shew that you have one; but if you are asked what o'clock it is, tell.

Lord Bacon says, "Ethelwold, bishop of Winchester, in a famine, sold all the rich vessels and ornaments of the church, to relieve the poor with bread, and said, "There was no reason that the dead temples of God should be sumptuously furnished, and the living temples suffer penury."

Sins are like circles in the water; when a stone is thrown into it, one produces another. When anger was in Cain's heart, murder was not far off.

puts it on, not to be despised: Pride must be of itself something deformed and shamefnl, since it dares not shew itself naked, and is forced to appear in a mask."

St. Bernard says, "That as the detractor carries the devil in his mouth; so he who hearkeneth to him, may be equally said to carry the devil in his ear."

It was a saying of Aristotle's, that "Virtue is necessary to the young, to age comfortable, to the poor serviceable, to the rich an ornament, to the fortunate an honour, to the unfortunate a support, that she ennobles the slave, and exalts nobility itself."

Praises would be of great value, did they but confer upon us the perfections we want. Steele says, "There are four good mothers, of whom are often born four unhappy daughters; truth begets hatred, happiness pride, security danger, and familiarity contempt."

Selden says, "Marriage is a desperate thing. The frogs in Æsop were extremely wise they had a great mind to some water, but they would not leap into the well, because they could not get out again."

Though "the words of the wise be as nails fastened by the masters of assemblies," yet sure their examples are the hammers to drive them in, to take the deeper hold. A father that whipped his son for swearing, and swore himself whilst he whipped him, did more harm by his example, than good by his correction."

To laugh at wise men is the privilege of fools.

Most men judge by what they see; every body sees what you seem to be, but nobody knows what you really are.

If you wish to contract a friendship that will last long, be a long time in contracting it.

Fuller remarks, that "He lives long who lives well, for time mis-spent is not lived, but lost; besides, God is better than his promise, if he takes from him a long lease, and gives him a freehold of a better value." Preston Brook, 1832.

THE BETROTHED.

S. S.

marked the features of the bridegroom, as he glanced over the objects around him. Donna Maria fixed her eyes on the ground, feeling herself the object of that observation she endeavoured to shun. Her long hair, braided with pearls, waved in rich curls over her costly dress;-her lovely countenance was deadly pale, the very image of melancholy despair. On either side stood the noble relations of each house, glittering in jewellery, and decked with all the insignia of high birth. Amidst the whispers and confusion of the whole party, there was one intensely absorbed in the scene-Alphonso the orphan: his eye, that seemed to burn in its socket, rested motionless on the bride, and unravelled to the observer an otherwise mysterious transaction. So often is man the sport of his own feelings, that events of happiness, in themselves, give the keenest point to the shaft of misery; the joyful scenes of festivity rankle in the mind of sorrow, and add to the bitterness of woe.

Donna Maria was the only daughter of Don Juan Padilla, and in her infancy was betrothed to Count Leon, who, early in life, left his country for the Brazils, where his family possessed large estates. The heiress of the noble house of Padilla, educated in all the accomplishments of her sex, as she grew up to maturity, from unaccountable motives conceived an inveterate dislike to her betrothed husband; nothing seemed to inspire her with greater horror, than the anticipation of a union which promised her but little happiness: had not the entreaties and commands of her father prevented her, she had formed the resolution of shutting herself up in a convent, to avoid the detested union. About the time that she planned such determinations, a long esteemed friend of Padilla died, leaving his only son, Alphonso, to his care. This, which he considered as a sacred trust, Don Juan resolved to honour, and, taking Alphonso to his residence, he educated him as his own son. Being of the same age, and of prepossessing manners, Maria and Alphonso, by an uninterrupted intercourse with each other, gradually forgot the peculiarities of their situations;-the respectful attention of the adopted Alphonso receiving a softer shade, Maria soon began to regard him as a legitimate object of her affections. Their attachment gradually increasing, lulled with hope, they closed their eyes to the contracted union with Count Leon. So infatuated is man, that he studiously banishes all the painful anticipations of futurity with the engrossing schemes of the present, madly thinking that the existence of circumstance is

as easily destroyed, as painful ideas are swept from the mind.

The dreadful day at length came; Count Leon arrived, to claim the noble Donna Maria as his wife. The bridal festivities were prepared with that pomp which befitted an alliance of high birth. The Count affected not to notice the painful reserve which dwelt on the lips of his unhappy bride, in defiance of all her resolutions to the contrary, though her very smiles betrayed the anguish of her heart-the gnawings of the worm which preyed upon her mind. This might be owing to the pride which scorned the thought of not possessing the heart of one who was already his own, or the revenge of disappointing a presumptuous rival. Their nuptials were performed with outward pageant and joy, though it could not be concealed from an observing eye, that it was a union of names, but not of love. Alphonso felt the dreadful consequences of aspiring to the affections of one whose heart was no longer her own. Constrained to weep in silence, he presented a mournful spectacle, while doomed to gaze on his beloved Maria when given to another.

The festivities of the evening followed the cold ceremonies of the day: the sorrowful bride soon retired from such painful scenes-painful even to those who surrounded her, as they beheld her pale and melancholy features. That night was to be the last that should be spent in her native country; for, on the next day, Count Leon had appointed to sail with her to the Brazils. On the same night, Alphonso had begged an interview on her father's grounds, to take leave before they parted for ever.

It was a beautiful autumn; the moon shone clearly over the cool expanse; a lovely stillness shed itself over the rich landscape. By the side of a placid fountain, concealed from observation by a fragrant shrubbery, stood Alphonso, absorbed with painful reflections. On one side of the fountain were strewed the broken remains of some marble pillars, wreathed with the twining ivy, and the fragments of an antiquated urn, from which the waters of the fountain formerly rushed to a small lake below. Lost in a melancholy reverie, Alphonso leaned against the shattered pillars -mournful emblems of his dissevered hopes -and cooled his feverish brow on their polished surface; then recovering himself, he paced by the side of the stream with impatient step, cursing the world, his cruel destiny, and hating himself. At length the light tread of a female caught his ear;

checking his feelings, he listened with intensity, till a turning of the walk disclosed the veiled form of Donna Maria. The unhappy lovers embraced in silence, alike conscious of the sad thoughts that crossed each other's mind: then, as the streaming tears gushed over the bride's pale features, Alphonso vainly offered the consolation he himself needed.

"To-morrow's sun, we part to meet no more," sighed Maria. "The grave will restore us," returned Alphonso, "and we shall sleep in peace." "The sleep of the grave will be peace indeed, for unhappy love will not molest us there." "But, even now, Maria, we may cherish thoughts and feelings that may be some consolation; the recollection of the delightful hours and scenes that are past "Will make life, alas! more miserable; retrospection of pleasures that are no more, Alphonso, will never diminish the sorrows that our cruel destinies have heaped upon us." "Yet, when separated, we may often gaze on yonder moon, and reflect that the same peaceful orb is shedding its rays on both, and when seas divide us, this shall re-unite us; our minds shall not be entirely dissevered." "Alas! for me, unhappy. Will not these thoughts, Alphonso, serve to make me more wretched-more completely miserable?" "Endeavour, then, to banish all remembrance of the past from your mind; let Lethe's dull potion quench the rising memory; efface from your recollection whatever may remind you of what no longer exists." "Impossible, Alphonso; can my weak attempts be sufficiently powerful to erase those impressions which are seared with living fire? No; it will burn-it must burn, till the grave closes over me."

Then relapsing into silence, they gazed upon their reflected figures in the placid fountain."To-morrow's sun," said Alphonso, "will leave me desolate. Left to wander over these deserted scenes, my mind, in defiance of every resolution, will call up painful recollections; each object, Maria, will remind me of you, and of days that are gone for ever; often in my melancholy mood shall I visit this fountain, by the side of which we have so often sat, and imagination will picture you by my side; but soon, alas! when I look in the watery mirror, undeceived, I shall see that I am alone." Pausing for a moment, he continued-"Oh that your image was left upon this glassy wave, and then, though the wide ocean divided us, this consolation would make me happy." A step was heard: "Adieu!" whispered Maria, "adieu, scenes beloved from childhood, for I shall visit you no more. Fare