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regarded as foils to set off the real character of a to

seaman. It is not from them we should take our portraits of a British sailor. But did not the devout character of ADMIRAL DUN CAN shine forth with great lustre, when, after the tremendous scene of battle had closed off Camperdown, this commander with his gallant crew raised the grateful tear of thanksgiving unto the Being who had covered their heads in the day of battle! .... It has often been remarked, as a reproach, that the officers of the British navy display on shipboard a character entirely different from that which appears so amiable on shore; the last is all courtesy and frankness, the first all sternness and reserve. Certainly, nothing unfolds the real character of a man more than his being intrusted with power. No individual possesses a more illimited authority than that which is given to the admiral of a fleet, or to the captain of a man of war. It requires, therefore, a very strong head, and a mind well disciplined by sorrow or by reflection, to withstand, in such a situation, the suggestions of pride or the ebullitions of vanity; emptiness will soon be puffed up, and folly will strut like a turkey-cock at the waving of a piece of red bunting. Alas! these defects are natural infirmities of mankind; they will appear only in proportion to the incapacity of him who displays them. Many, great many, however, exist in the British navy, whose heads and hearts, whether at sea or on shore, have always preserved a uniformity of disposition. . . . . The epithet of tremulous is, with justice, given to the seaman: his life is one continued scene of anxi

tty and peril. What can be more deceitful and uncertain than the element on which he lives? That night, -which, to all the rest of the world is a season of repose, is to the captain of a ship often a horrid inter\al of suspense. How many lives are intrusted to hit diligence? How often is he called from broken and unquiet slumber;, emaciated with fatigue, and relaxed from want of air, to decide in an instant on the only measure by which the raging tempest may be bail led? Is it then surprising, that the naval character should be generally highly irritable?

.... Let us conclude these remarks on the manners and characters of our seamen, by the following candid and unprejudiced sketch. Their friendship is lasting and sincere; to the simplicity of a child they unite the most daring and determined courage; they are charitable without ostentation, affectionate without any protestation of being so, and, when they do good, their right hand never knows what their left hand dozth. These are the men to whom their country may, with confidence, look up for protection; these are the men for whom France may envy us, but will never possess; whom Buonaparte may threaten, but will never overcome.

Bieder; Or, The Honest Servant.
"Servants like these are seldom seen." Drvdsn.

... .one word or two of this Bieder. He is by birth

a German, but has forgotten bis mother-tongue. He

live* at the same hotel with me, in a garret room, and


i* as poor as Irus, and as honest as Socrates; every thing he bays for me is as cheap as possible, and he always Irowns when I pay for any thing too dear. One day I dropped, on the staircase, a paper with five louis d'ors in it; Bieder, who followed me, picked it up, and honestly brought it to me. "Thou art honesty itself^ Bieder," said I to him.—" // faut bien, Monsieur, que je le sois,po!fr nepas demaitir man nom," answered be. Once, I do not remember on what occasion, I spoke to him somewhat harshly. "Monsieur," said he •*det choses pureilles ne se disent point en ban Francois. Je suis trap sensible pour le soujfrir."—I laughed.—" Ries, Monsieur," continued he, "Je rirai avec vous; mail point de grossirretes, je vous prie." On another occasion, he entered with tears in his eyes, and handed me a newspaper; I took it, and read as follows: "To day, 28th of May, at five o'clock in the morning, the servant of Mr. N. in the street of St. Mary, shot himself. On hearing the report of a pistol, the door was broken open, and the unfortunate man was found weltering in his blood; beside him lay the pistol, and on the wall were written these words;

"Quand on n'est rien, et qu'on est sans espoir,
La Tie est un opprobrc, et la mor-t un devoir."

On the door,
"Aujourdhui mon tour, demain te tien."

On the table lay verses, philosophical thoughts, and his testament. By the former it appeared, that this youth had almost learned by heart the dangerous writings of the aew philosophers. Instead of comfort, every thought was a poison to a mind unprepared for the reading of such books, and thus he fell a victim to his philosophical delusion. He was discontented with his lowly station; and indeed he was far above it, with regard to his mind and his heart. He pored all night over his" books, for which purpose he bought candle with his own money, as his strict honesty would not allow him to spend his master's candle for his own use. la his testament he says, that he is a child of love, and describes, in an affecting strain, his affection for His second mother, his good nurse. He bequeaths to her one hundred and fifty livres; a hundred to his country, as a patriotic gift; and forty-eight to the poor. To debtors in prison forty-eight livres; one louis d'or to him who buries his body; and three louis d'ors to his friend, the German servant in the Hotel Britanniqtfe. They have found upwards of four hundred livres in his desk. "To me," said Bieder, with emotion, "he has left three louis d'ors. Ah! we were friends from our childhood. He was an uncommon young man; instead of spending his time, like most of his companions, in tippling houses, he passed his hours of leisure in the Cabinets de Lectures, (reading rooms,) and on Sunday he went to the play. Often said he to me, with tears, Henry, let us be virtuous, let us deserve our own esteem. Oh! I cannot repeat to you all the fine things my good Jacques said to me. He spoke like a book, while poor I cannot put two words together with propriety. For some time back he was melancholy; he went about hanging down his head, and liked to talk about death. For the space of six days I have not seen him, and yesterday I learned that Jacques is no more, and that there is one good man less in the world.” Bieder cried as a child, and I myself was deeply af.

fected. Poor Jacques! sad effects of half learning! }

“Drink deep, or taste not,” says Pope. Epictetus was also a servant, but he did not lay violent hands upon himself.

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From the Pen of an English and a Russian Tourist.

- “Shun the close city with assiduous care,
Whose nauseous fumes the breath of heav’n impair.”
T. BATchel08.

PAR1s has long been termed the epitome of the world; but, perhaps, never could this denomination be applied to it with so much propriety as at the present moment, The chances of war have not only rendered it the centre of the fine arts, the museum of the most celebrated master-pieces in existence, the emporium where the luxury of Europe comes to procure its superfluities; but the taste for pleasure has also found means to as: semble here all the enjoyments which nature seemed to have exclusively appropriated to other climates. Every country has its charms and advantages; Paris alone appears to combine them all. Every region, every corner of the globe seems to vie in hastening for. ward hither the tribute of its productions. Are you an epicure? No delicacy of the table but may be eaten in Paris.-Are you a toper? No delicious wine but may be drunk in Paris—Are you fond of frequenting


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