from the fatigues of their pilgrimage. I am not acquainted with that region, but will guide you to her who is to shew you the way." I saw that multitude divide into two bands, and the more numerous still continue, with the first nymph.

"Have you well considered things, Salah?" said the divine Being to me. "That mountain which you see is the mountain of existence, representing human life. Before mortals come to the knowledge of good and evil, they rove about in flowery paths, under the guidance of innocence: but as age makes to germinate in them the seeds of vice and virtue, education is watchful over their steps, and her restraints prove exceeding uneasy to them. When they have attained the adult state of vigour, labour, and peril, Reason and Religion march at their head to make them pass over the craggy routes of existence. You see how they are continually harrassed in the middle region of life appetites on one side and passions on the other, assail them. The attacks of the former are more impetuous, and the conflicts of the lat

path of reason is better followed when passion attracts on one side and habit on the other.

"You see how great their empire is by the little paths being always crowded, whilst the high roads of reason and religion are almost empty and deserted; you may remark particularly the advantages they have gained over reason. Those they have carried off from religion are soon called back by conscience, its emissary, which constantly places before their eyes the lessons of education; whereas reason, aided only by itself, and often betrayed by pride, which surprises its confidence, soon loses its power, and yields to habit. You see how cruel habit draws a chain behind those whom it has seduced, to shut up from them all hopes of returning."

I saw in fact some of these mortals who had gone astray, resolving to return from whence they came at every cry of conscience, stretching out their hands to Religion, weeping for having deserted her paths, ardent to return into them; yet all their efforts proved vain to break the chains of habit, and by that fatal slave they pitilessly remained tormented.

Habit, proud of its conquests, would often presume to capitulate with Reason, who always sustained some loss in her treaties; for she could only obtain truces and some slight advantages, but never complete victories and an assured peace-the moment she thought of flattering herself with the finest hopes, Habit would rob her of her subjects, and lead them captives in triumph. Religion, more imperious, would treat upon no conditions; she had

chains as well Habit; and, the better to secure her votaries, she kept them exercised in sharp and painful labours. Resolution was necessary for following her, and, by her vigorous and forced marches, she soon could keep habit at a very considerable dis

tance.

،، Turn your eyes, Salah" continued the Spirit, "and behold those who would neither follow Reason nor Religion. Contemplate their wanderings, and be wise.”

Some I saw led astray by Ambition, who continually pointed out to them magnificent palaces situated on rising grounds. They followed her, and Ambition led them from precipice to precipice, into which many sunk and appeared no more. They who had escaped after infinite perils and labours, fell at length under the tyrranny of Avarice, who loaded them with chains of iron, covered with plates of gold. These chains were played with and kissed by them till they fell into the cave of Despair.

Others, led on by intemperence, went in quest of delicious fruits suspended on the rocks, to which they were invited by the fragrancy of the perfumes they exhaled; but most of them had scarce held these delicious apples in their hands, when, the branches they had grappled at breaking, they were swallowed up in gulphs which Death had digged under their feet.

Others turned away from the road of Reason, into the labyrinths of Indolence, yet always looking back at the track they had left behind, which they intended to resume the next day. The debauchee sung and laughed all the way; the ambitious man

triumphed in his heart for the fall of a rival; but the slave of Indolence tasted neither joy nor pleasures. Gloomy and dismal they seemed to creep along to the garden of poppies, where Melancholy shut the door after them, continually disturbing them in their sleep, till they sunk and were buried in the abyss of Despair.

"Remember, Salah, all thou hast seen, and be wise,"

I awoke at the words, and found myself in the midst of the rocks of Lebanon, at the time when the birds, emulous with redoubled notes, saluted the first rays of the sun.

BEAUTY AND PRUDENCE, A TALE FOR THE LADIES.

Mr. Editor,

I do not present you the following tale as an original article; but, as it is a fact, which, though it occurred in the middle of the past century, is, by no means, inapplicable to the pursuits and follies of the present day; the insertion of which, in your entertaining publication will, I doubt not, prove interesting to some of your fair readers, and will greatly oblige, Sir,

Yours, &c. R.

A gentleman of a philosophic turn of mind, who chose to reside at Cambridgde, where he had been educated, and when he had distinguished himself in a particular manner, by outshining most of his companions in learning, so entirely devoted himself to study, that all his acquaintance thought him incapable of every other passion. This gentleman

had formed a resolution to live single all his life, but this resolution, like that of Benedick in the play, was counteracted by the wanton god, whose power is sometimes most felt by those who have most called it in question, The beautiful Emilia, whose charms were capable of making an impression upon the heart of a stoic, soon engaged the attention of the philosopher, and for a time took him off from the investigation of speculative truths. He was assiduous in his courtship, and his passion was so far from being diminished by repeated visits, that every day he saw her appeared to him to be the first. His happiness was soon rendered complete by marriage, and the raptures of the lover, instead of being extinguised, received new force from enjoyment. In a word, the continuance of his passion fully refuted the remark of the poet, that

Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense. Philosophers are as liable to make false steps as other men. Wentworth himself formed a design which proved totally destructive of his happiness. He resolved to go to London with his bride, as retirement had no longer any charms for a man who had lost all relish for study, and she had frequently discovered an inclination to see the capital. Our married philosopher had not been long in London, when he found an alteration in the behaviour of his wife, which gave him great uneasiness; it happened with her, as it dose with many other ladies who quit the conntry for the town, instead of acquiring new accomplishments, she contracted a variety of foibles, which she

had before been free from, and instead of improving in politeness, her deportment, which had been unexceptionable, was spoiled and rendered ridiculous by affectation. Her beauty did not indeed lose its lustre, but the folly and levity of her behaviour made it entirely lose its effect. She no more appeared to him to be the same Emilia, whom he never be held without rapture; nor could her eyes, by affectation rolled into a squint, make any longer an impression upon his heart. He every day neglected her more and more, and this was to her a matter of perfect indifference, for she could not help conceiving a secret contempt for her husband, when she compared him to the smarts and men of fashion of the town. The coldness between them became mutual, and they were soon agreed in the article of separate beds. Thus were they living in the same house as if they had been perfect strangers to each other. Wentworth thought his eyes had been under the power of fascination, when Emilia appeared beautiful to him; and Emilia could not conceive how she could ever have a liking for so awkward and unbred a man as Wentworth.

To such a pitch did the indifference of the latter rise, that he was not even susceptible of jealousy at seeing the encouragement given by his wife to some young fellows, who were her declared admirers, and who discovered their passion for her, in a manner that would have alarmed a husband who had any remaining affection for his wife. Jealousy, as Rochefaucault justly observes, is always born with love; but Wentworth's love for Emilia had been long since dead, and jealousy could

not apprehend that her virtue was in danger and he was entirely regardless who had possession of of her heart. While thus this couple lived, as it where, in a state of celibacy, and seemed to have made a tacit consent to consider each other as perfect stran gers, Mrs. Wentworth fell dangerously ill of the small-pox; and the little concern discovered by her husband upon that occasion, though there was great reato think her life in danger, was a complete demonstation, that his affections were entirely alienated from a wife to whom he had once vowed eternal love. She escaped with life, but the consequence of her disease was to her more dreadful than death itself; she was deprived of what has been thought by many to be dearer to a woman than life— she was deprived of her beauty, and this was to her a source of affliction unutterable. So great was her regret at losing that beauty, which was her pride and distinguishing perfection. that it seemed almost to justify the observation of St. Evremond, that the last sighs of a beautiful woman are less for her life than her beauty.

Whilst the females whom Mrs. Wentworth surpassed in personal attractions, were rejoiced to see her vanity thus humbled, and the men, who admired her before, looked upon her as an object of compassion, her husband alone could discover no alteration, so long had her beauty, seen through the medium of affection, appeared deformity in his eye. Her grief was for some time excessive; but as her understanding was naturally good, she drew the highest advantage from an event,

which she at first considered as the worst that could have befallen her. She opened her eyes to her folly and affectation, and her person was, as it were, a glass in which she beheld the defects of her mind. Then her former levity of behaviour appeared to her in the most odious light; she became discreet and reserved in her conversation, and the pleasures of the town having no longer any charm capable of engaging her attention, she dedicated all her leisure hours to study, so that her natural good sense was in a short time greatly improved by an acquaintance with books. Her acquired knowledge soon made her shine in conversation; her superior understanding was soon acknowledged by the men, though they thought it but a poor compensation for the loss of her external charms; and the women who envied her as a beauty, at last dreaded her as a wit. The conciousness of her want of personal attractions prevented her from yielding to the suggestions of pride; and as improvement in moral virtues was what she had chiefly in view, her increase of knowledge was not attended with ostentation; but prudence restrained her from indulging in those sallies of wit, which rendered her formidable to all her female acquaintance. Wentworth was the last to perceive that improvement in his wife which was visible to every other eye; he thought she had lost her beauty, long before she had lost it in effect, and so much was he prepossessed against her, that her mental acquisitions for a time escaped his notice. He could not, however, continue long insensible to her merit; he

was struck with her improvement in understanding, and took pleasure in conversing with her as a companion, when he could not but behold her with seeming return of affection; but, her consciousness of loss of beauty, made her despair of ever recovering the place she formerly held in his heart. This made her modest and diffident, and her modesty rendered her conversation still more engaging to him. His serious and philosophical turn of mind was perfectly satisfied by the company of one who could reason with strength and solidity, and had notwithstanding so much respect for his judgment, that she never differed from him in opinion. His former passion seemed to revive imperceptibly, and so strong was the power of delusion, that he at last came to think her as beautiful as ever. Folly and affliction had before made him blind to her real charms, and her internal alteration produced an equal effect; he saw in her beauties, which had no longer any existence, except in his imagination. In a word, Wentworth became again the passionate lover, and his acquaintance almost thought his wife had recovered all her charms, and that her beauty was restored in all its former lustre. Nothing could equal the joy of Emilia at seeing herself again possessed of the affections of her husband, at a time when she thought herself entirely deprived of the power of pleasing; and Wentworth, whose satisfaction was complete, resolved to retire with her again to the country, where she had first captivated his heart. This design was immediately put into execution, and our lovers lived happily for the

rest of their days; he, completely blessed in the possession of fancied beauty, and she, by the reco→ very of a heart once lost by her folly and affectation.

THE CONVICT.

To the south of Fort Cumberland, on the Hampshire coast, rises a little knoll of ground, from which the adjacent landscape assumes the most piet resque appearance. On one side, a gloomy morass deeply blackens the distant horizon; but to the right of the fort, the gently swelling hills that stretch along the sea-coast assume fainter tints as they recede from the view, till at last they terminate in the deep blue ocean; beyond, at the very verge of distance, stands the gibbet on which the unhappy convicts were executed. It is situated on a bleak desolate moor; and as the mouldering remnants of the victims of justice swing loosely in the gale, or drop piecemeal on the earth, the sea-birds scream around the spot, anxious for their prey, and presenting an image of unrelieved horror. When the day is stormy, the waves dash against the hills, the sea-fog rolls down their sides, and the artificial knoll of earth is wet with the spray that foams around it with resistless energy. The eye of the passing stranger is then perhaps attracted to the spot; for when the lowlands are partially inundated, it rears its blue summits from the surrounding ocean. It is interesting to his feelings, from its utter desolation; but be

comes

sacred to his memory while he listens to the tale of sorrow connected with it, which we have often heard in our infan