much of a French air to eastern manners and modes of address.

A supplement to the old Arabian Nights was published about fifteen years ago in French, and translated into English by Heron, of which the genuineness has been likewise doubted; but their authenticity is easily established. The originals are well known to be in the king of France's library, as is affirmed by the French editors. However, the great evidence of the authenticity of these, as of the former tales, is internal. The scenery, characters, incidents, manners, customs, allusions, and cast of composition, are all oriental. As a painter may sketch the outline, and hit the lead ing features of a countenance, while he fails in the nicer touches, and cannot communicate that characteristic air which gives unity and resemblance to the whole; so, in all the imitations of the oriental style of writing, which we have yet seen, there has still been somewhat of a European complexion: the prominences and great outlines have been successfully imitated; but the delicate finishing, the due proportion of lights and shades, justly intermingled, have still been wanting to complete the deception. It is indeed from minute and accidental particulars, which to a forger or imitator will not naturally appear of sufficient consequence to be attended to, that the genuineness of any composition is best ascertained. From such particulars have the best proofs of the authority of the gospels been drawn. And the circumstance of an unconnected memorandum having been written across one of the celebrated letters of queen Mary, has ever appeared an irrefragable proof of the authenticity, at least, of that letter.

For the Literary Magazine.

THE SEASONS AT PETERSBURG.

ACCORDING to the calculation of the academician Krafft, St. Pe

tersburg, on an average of ten years, has annually 97 bright days, 104 of rain, 72 of snow, and 93 unsettled. There are every year from twelve to sixty-seven storms; which sometimes, when they proceed from the west, occasion inundations. From an experience of more than sixty years, the ice of the Neva never breaks up before the 25th of March, and never later than the 27th of April; the earliest time of its freezing is the 20th of October, and the latest the 1st of December. Since the year 1741, the great degree of heat has been 27, and the greatest degree of cold 33, by Reaumur's thermometer.

An

We see, from this survey, how few days in the year can be enjoyed out of doors in these climates, and how limited are the pleasures of our summer. The winter is our best season, and possesses great advantages over his wet and foggy brethren in more southern countries. equal permanent cold strengthens and recruits the body. The excellent sledge-roads render travelling commodious and agreeable; a winter journey in a moderate frost on moonlight nights is an enjoyment only to be known in these climes. The Russians, accustomed to hardships, seems to revive at the entrance of winter; and even foreigners are here more insensible to cold than in their native country. However, it must be confessed that none know better how to defend themselves against its effects than the people here. On the approach of winter the double windows are put up in all the houses, having the joints and interstices caulked and neatly pasted with the border of the paper with which the room is hung. This precaution not only protects against cold and wind, but secures a free prospect even in the depth of winter, as the panes of glass are thus never incrusted with ice. The outer doors and frequently the floors under the carpets are covered with felt. Our stoves, which, from their size and construction, consume indeed a great quantity of wood, produce a tem

perature in the most spacious apart ments and public halls which annihilates all thoughts of winter.

On leaving the room we arm our selves still more seriously against the severity of the cold. Caps, furs, boots lined with flannel, and a muff, make up the winter dress. It is diverting to see the colossal cases in the antichamber, out of which in a few minutes the most elegant beaux are unfolded. The common Russian cares only about warm wrappers for his legs and feet. Provided with a plain sheepskin shube, the drivers and itinerant tradesmen frequent the streets all day, with their bare necks and frozen beards. In a frost of five and twenty degrees, it is common to see women standing for hours to gether rincing their linen, through holes in the ice of the canals.

The winter increases the necessaries of life, and they are multiplied by luxury. To these belong the winter clothing, fuel, and candles. That people here run into great expences in the article of furs may be well imagined; and the fashion varies so often, that a man must be in more than moderate circumstances to be able to follow it. The consumption of wood is enormous. In the kitchens, bagnios, and servants' rooms, which are heated like bagnios, there is an incredible waste of this prime necessary of life in our climates. Upon a moderate computation, here are annually consumed upwards of two hundred thousand fathoms, amounting in specie to about half a million of rubles. This formidable consumption, and the rising price of wood, are highly deserving of patriotic attention. The expence in tallow and wax candles is proportionately as large. Throughout the long winter we live in almost everlasting night, as our shortest day is only five hours and a half. In houses conducted on a fashionable style the wax-candles, as in England, are lighted long before dinner.

The spring is so short, that it scarcely need be reckoned among the seasons. March and April are generally pleasant months on ac

count of the number of bright days in them, but the air is still keen, and the Neva frequently still covered with ice. In May the scene suddenly changes: the winter dress entirely vanishes, but cold northerly winds keep off the balmy spring. We are now, by a sudden transition, thrown at once into summer; the existence whereof is likewise of short duration; scarcely come on, scarcely enjoyed, ere it flits away

et mox bruma recurrit iners.

Short, however, as our summer is, it is not without its pleasures; and perhaps it is here the more satisfactorily enjoyed for the very reason of its being so short. On meeting the first smiles of the returning sun, all hie to the adjacent villas, where the genial season glides away too soon in hospitality and social amusements. Among the peculiar charms of the summer here are to be reckoned the bright and generally warm nights. The faint rays of the scarcely setting sun tinge the horizon with a ruddy hue, and beautify the surrounding objects; the noisy bustle of the streets is departed, though not into a death-like silence, but converted into that idle occupation, which is even more voluptuous than repose; walking parties are met every where, frequently attended by music: on the smooth surface of the Neva, and on all the canals, boats are gliding, from which resounds the simple melody of the popular ballads, as sung by the watermen: beguiled by the novelty and delightfulness of the scene and in the expectation of the coming night, by an agreeable surprise we find ourselves cheated of our sleep, when the first beams of the sun are gilding the tops of the houses. I have never yet known a single foreigner, who was insensible to the first enjoyment of these summer nights.

But, ah! to what scenes do these voluptuous moments lead! to the short summer succeeds an autumn, which by its numberless unpleasant concomitants effaces all remem

brance of its few fine days. About this season of the year Petersburg becomes one of the most hideous corners of the earth. The horizon for several weeks is over spread with dark heavy clouds, impervious to the solar rays, reducing the already shortened days to a mere dismal twilight; while the incessant rains, in spite of the newly constructed sewers, render the streets so dirty, that it is impossible for well-dressed persons to walk them comfortably; and, to complete the picture of an autumnal evening, storms and tempests frequently come on.

For the Literary Magazine.

THE VALUE OF GENERAL RULES,

A Fragment.

SO far my father had proceeded in his narrative, when he was interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Bisset, the friend and physician of our house; who, having inquired after my father's health, and felt his pulse; having added something to his regimen, and deducted something from it, took a seat, and began to chat with

us.

My father made inquiries about several of his patients; among the rest, concerning an old rogue of a steward of Mr. Mesanger, formerly mayor of the town, who had much perplexed and hurt his master's affairs, forged bills in his name, destroyed writings of importance, embezzled considerable sums, and in short committed a number of rogueries; of which the greatest part having been proved on him, he was then upon the eve of losing at least his reputation and property, and perhaps his life too. This affair at that time engaged the whole province. The doctor said the fellow was very ill; yet he was not without hopes of curing him.

That will be doing him a bad piece of service, said my father.

And, into the bargain, doing a very bad action, said I.

A bad action! I should be glad to

hear your reasons for that opinion, if you please, says the doctor.

My reasons, said I, are, that I think there are villains enough in the world, and that there is no need to detain such as are about to leave it.

My business is to cure, not to judge him, said the doctor. I will cure him, because that is my trade; the magistrates may afterwards have him hanged, because that is theirs.

But, doctor, said I, there is a calling common to every good citizen, to you as well as me; and that is, to exert ourselves to the utmost in the service of the public. Now, I can never conceive what good can be done to the public by preserving the life of a criminal, from whom the laws would have freed us in a short time. But pray who is to pronounce him a criminal? Am I?

No. But his actions.

And who is to judge of the nature of his actions? Am I?

No, doctor: but permit me to alter the case a little. Let us suppose a criminal, whose crimes are notorious, to be taken ill. You are called. You go in a hurry. The curtains are undrawn, and you discover a Cartouche, or Nivet. Would you cure either of them?

The doctor, after hesitating a moment, answered resolutely, that he would. He would forget the name of his patient, and only concern himself about his disease; it being that alone upon which he had any right to decide: for, if he were to go one step farther, there was no knowing where to stop. If it were necessary that an examination into the conduct and morals of a patient should precede a physician's prescription, men's lives would soon become the victims of ignorance, passion, and prejudice. What you apply to Nivet, a Molinist would apply to a Jansenist, and a papist to a protestant. If you keep me from Cartouche's bed, a fanatic will drive me from that of an atheist. It gives us trouble enough to fix the dose of our medicine, without submitting to the drudgery of determining whether the measure of our patient's sins allow us to employ our remedies or not.

But, doctor, replied I, suppose, after the completion of your cure, the first use he should make of his recovery were to murder your friend: what would you say to that? Lay your hand upon your heart, and tell me, would you not repent your having cured him? Would you not exclaim with indignation, why did I give him my assistance? why did I not leave him to die? And would not that reflection be sufficient to embitter the remainder of your life? My grief certainly would be excessive, said he; but still I should have no remorse of conscience.

And what remorse of conscience could you have for-I will not say killing a mad dog, that is not the case here; but only for suffering such an animal to die? Come, doctor, I have a lite more courage than you, and am no. to be led astray by sophistry. Suppose me for once a physician. On looking at the patient to whom I am called, I discover a villain. I address him as follows: Execrable wretch! die, I entreat you, as soon as possible; you can do no better, either for yourself or others. I know very well what would remove the pleurisy that now tor. ments you; but I shall be very careful not to meddle with it. I am not such an enemy to my country, as to restore you to it, and to prepare for myself a source of endless sorrow in the fresh crimes which you would commit. I will not be a partaker of your wickedness. Were a man to conceal you in his house, he would be punished for it; and can I consider as innocent the man that preserves your life? Impossible. All that I am sorry for is, that, by leaving you to die, I prevent you from suffering all the rigour of capital punishment. Dream not, then, that I shall take any pains to save the life of a wretch, whom I am bound to prosecute, both in common equity, and from a regard to the good of society, and the safety of my fellow creatures. No! you may die for me! and none shall have it to say, that, by my skill and endeavours, there is one monster more in the world!

Good night, sir, replied the doc

tor. But-drink less coffee in the evening, do you hear?

O, but consider, said my father, how fond I am of coffee.

Well, then, at least take a good deal of sugar with it.

But, doctor, sugar will heat him. Nonsense! Your servant, Mr. Philosopher.

One word more, doctor! During the late plague at Marseilles, a set of villains dispersed themselves in the houses, plundering, murdering, and taking advantage of the universal consternation, to enrich themselves by various iniquitous practices. One of the gang was seized with the plague. A grave digger belonging to those appointed by the police to remove the dead bodies, found and knew him. These people were accustomed to throw the corpses out of the houses into the street. As soon as the grave digger saw the villain, Rascal, says he, is it you? and instantly laying hold of his legs dragged him to the window. O! cries the fellow, I am not dead! You are dead enough, replied the other; and in a moment threw him down from the third story. Now, doctor, I assure you, this same grave digger, who got rid of the infected robber with so good a grace, was, in my opinion, far less to blame than an expert physician like yourself would have been, had he cured him. And now you may go if you please.

My good Mr. Philosopher, says the doctor, I am willing to admire both your wit and your zeal, as much as you please; but your morality shall never be mine. I will never set up my private judgment in opposition to the laws. I will never deviate from my proper trade of curing the diseases of men, into that of judging of their crimes and follies, and dispensing recompenses according to their merit. I will never lay down the doctor and take up the judge and executioner, for many reasons: first, because I have neither the leisure nor capacity for scrutinizing the past conduct, or guessing at the future actions of my patient; and secondly, if I exercised this province, I could not refuse the exer

tise of it to another; the consequence of which would be, that human society would become a scene of total anarchy and ruin.

For the Literary Magazine.

MARIGNY.

there was not sufficient money to defray the expence of a coronation. "Where then," said Lewis, one day in full council, "are the tenths which were levied on the clergy? What has become of the numerous subsidies exacted from the people? Where are the riches that must have been derived from the debasement of the coin?" "Sire," said the count of Valois, "Marigny was entrusted

century.

ENGUERRAND was descended from an ancient and noble family in Normandy; the name of which was originally Le Portier, but his grandfather Hugh, lord of Rosey and Lions, having married the heiress of the count of Marigny, gave her name to his children. The moment young Marigny made his appearance at court he was universally admired for the graces of his person, the elegance of his wit, and the strength of his talents. The late king, finding him possessed of much political knowledge, appointed him a member of his council, gave him the post of chamberlain, created him count of Longueville, made him governor of the Louvre, master of the household, superintendant of the finances, and prime minister. This accumulation of favours naturally excited the envy of the great, whose enmity increased in proportion to his merit. The imprudence of Philip, in the multiplication of imposts, rendered his minister an object of public indignation. But of all his enemies the count of Valois was the most violent and implacable; during the life of his brother, however, he was under the necessity of confining his animosity to his own bosom. A change of government, attended by a general insurrection, appeared to him a proper season for revenge. He therefore laid his plan of persecution, and veiled it under the specious mask of public good.

Notwithstanding the immense sums which had been levied during the late reign, on the king's decease the treasury was so far exhausted, that

VOL. VI. NO. XXXV.

give an account of it." Enguerrand protested that he was ready so to do, whenever he should receive the king's orders for that purpose. "Let it be done then immediately," exclaimed the count. "With all my heart," replied the minister. "I gave you, sir, a great part of it; the rest was employed in defraying the expences of the state, and in carrying on the war against the Flemings." "You lie !" said Charles, in a rage. "It is yourself, who are the liar, sir," returned the minister, with more spirit than prudence. The count immediately drew his sword; Marigny put himself in a posture of defence, and the consequences must have been serious but for the interference of the council, who hastened to separate them. The prince no longer placed any bounds to his resentment. All his credit was exerted for the infliction of vengeance; and his friends, the count of St. Paul, and the vidame of Amiens, were, in the mean time, ordered to intimate to the young monarch, that the superintendant of his finances was the only victim capable of assuaging the rage of the people.

Some days after this incident, Marigny, relying too much on his own innocence, attended the council as usual; but he was arrested as he entered the king's apartment, and conveyed to the prison of the Louvre, of which he was governor: from thence, at the intercession of the count of Valois, he was transferred to the temple, and thrown into a dungeon. Ralph de Preles, a celebrated advocate, the intimate friend of Marigny, was also arrested, through fear that he might farnish

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