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SEPTEMBER -56 TO 63.
This is the season of rest and recreation, of feasting and reveling; when the harvest is over, and the husbandman ceases to labour. Man now begins to seek refuge from oppressive cares, and gloomy apprehensions, in convivial hilarity-cheerful indulgence at the social board. He has gathered his harvest of knowledge ; his toil is at an end, and he proudly exults in his vast acquisition, without reflecting how soon he may be called upon to render up a just account, and see his boasted stores transferred to others.
OCTOBER-63 to 70.
The fields now appear dreary, the hedges are bare ; no melody fills the grove, but rude howling winds sweep the earth, and scatter the straggling leaves in every direction. Thus also is man by this time despoiled of all external graces; he beeomes morose and sullen, his presence no longer diffuses cheerfulness, he neither pleases nor is pleased. The storms of calamity break on his devoted head, scattering his dearest connexions ; friend after friend drops off, and is swept away: he remains disconsolate, forlorn, and blighted.
NOVEMBER-70 TO 79.
Gloom and desolation now extend their depressing influence : every vestige of cultivation is perhaps buried beneath the deep incrusting snow; the meandering stream is bound in icy fetters, and murky clouds obscure the face of heaven, wrapping all in impenetrable darkness. Even thus are the faculties of man beclouded at this advanced period! The hoary frost of age
settles on his head; the warm current of life freezes in his veins ; his senses become torpid. No ray of intelligence illumines the gloom which surrounds him, no genial warmth re-animates his palsied frame.
DECEMBER- To 84.
Behold now the life of man, with the year, drawing to its close. No material change has taken place in the aspect of things since the last month, yet even this last epoch is more tolerable than the preceding, for the pains and privations of mortality seem nearer their termination. In some years, as in some lives, irregularities, in regard to their seasons, will be found : procrastinated summers, 'or antedated winters, may occur, changing the regular order of nature ; but to all a new spring will appear, and vegetation flourish anew. And shall not the just man, the pious christian, rejoice, that his earthly course is run, and that he is about to repose secure from the evils of mortality ?-Yes ; he too shall enjoy a new spring, the flowers of which will never fade.
The elder Cibber had a daughter, named Charlotte, who also took to the stage : her subsequent life was one continued series of misfortune, afflictions, and distress, which she sometimes contrived a little to alleviate by the productions of her pen. About the year 1755, she had worked up a novel for the press, which the writer, (Mr. White) accompanied his friend the bookseller to hear read : she was at that time a widow, having been married to one Charke, a musician, long since dead. Her habitation was a wretched thatched hovel, situated on the way to Islington, in the purlieus of Clerkenwell bridewell, not very distant from the New-river head, where at that time it was usual for the scavengers to leave the cleansings of the streets, and the nightmen to deposit the contents of the privies of the metropolis. The night preceding, a heavy rain had fallen, which rendered this extraordinary seat of the muses almost inaccessible, so that in our approach we got our white stockings inveloped with mud, up to the very calves, which furnished an appearance much in the present fashionable style of half-boots. We knocked at the door (not attempting to pull the latch-string) which was opened by a tall meagre, ragged figure, with a blue apron, indicating, what else we might have doubted, the feminine gender, A perfect model for the copper-captain's tattered landlady; that deplorable exhibition of the fair sex, in the comedy of Rule a Wife. She, with a torpid voice and hungry smile, desired us to walk in. The first objeet that presented itself was a dresser, clean, it must be confessed, and furnished with three or four coarse delft-plates, two brown platters, and underneath an earthen pipkin, and a black pitcher, with a snip out of it. To the right we perceived and bowed to the mistress of the mansion, sitting under the mantle-piece, by a fire, merely sufficient to put us in mind of starving. On one hob sate a monkey, which by way of welcome chattered at our going in ; on the other a tabby cat, of melancholy aspect ! and at our author's feet, on the flounce of her dingy petticoai, reclined a dog, almost a skeleton ! he raised his shagged head and eagerly staring with his bleared eyes, saluted us with a snarl. “Have done, Fidele! these are friends." The tone of her voice was not harsh ; it had something in it humbled and disconsolate ; à mingled effort of authority and pleasure. Poor soul ! few were her visiters of that description-no wonder the creature barked! A magpie perched on the top round of her chair, not an uncomely ornament! and on her lap was placed a mutilated pair of bellows; the pipe was gone, an advantage in their present office; they served as a succedaneum for å writing desk, on which lay, displayed her hopes and třeásnres, the inanuscript of her novel. Her ink-stand was a broken tea-cup, the pen worn to a stump; she had but one! A rough deal board with three hobbling supporters was brought for our covenience, on which, without further ceremony, we contrived to sit down, and entered upon business. The work was read, remarks made, and alterations agreed to, and thirty guineas demanded for the copy. The squallid hand-maiden, who had been an attentive listener, stretched forward her tawny length of neck with an eye of anxious expectation ! The bookseller offered five! Our authoress did not appear hurt : disappointments had rendered her mind callous; however, some altercation ensued. This was the writer's first initiation into the mysteries of bibliopolism and the state of authorcraft. He, seeing both sides pertinacious, at length interposed, and at his instance the wary haberdasher of literature doubled his first proposal, with this saving proviso, that his friend present would pay a moiety, and run one half of the risk; which was agreed to. Thus matters were accommodated, seemingly to the satisfaction of all parties; the lady's original stipulation of fifty copies for herself being previously acceded to. Such is the story of the once-admired daughter of Colly Cibber, poet laureate and patentee of Drury-lane, who was born in affluence and educated with tenderness, her servants in livery and a splendid equipage at her command, with swarıns of time-serving sycophants officiously buzzing in her train ; yet, unmindful of her advantages, and improvident in her pursuits, she finished the career of her miserable existence on a dunghill!
THE FRENCH SOLDIER.
“Having reached Peronne, a well fortified town, beautifully situated about thirty miles beyond Cambray, the diligence stopped to change horses, a business which I had never yet seen the French in any particular hurry to complete. Finding myself rather fatigued, from sitting so many hours cramped up in this vehicle, I einbraced the opportunity now offered for a walk. It was a delightful evening in June, and taking the arm of my friend, we set forward together, admiring the beauties of the scenery which surrounded us, and calling to mind those equally charming scenes we had left in England.
“We had strayed some distance from Peronne, when we were accosted by an old man, who, in a supplicating tone, craved our charity. A more finished figure of penury and wretchedness I had scarcely ever beheld : distress was pourtrayed in every feature of his brown, wrinkled face, where hardships and misfortunes had left indelible marks of their ravages. He wore an old blue jacket, patched and torn in almost every part, and seeming even now as ready to fall from his back. On his head he had an old cocked-hat, where stiil might be perceived the remains of a feather; while a tattered pair of what once were white trowsers, finished the catalogue of his dress ; for alas ! poor fellow, he had neither shoes nor stockings.
Across his shoulder was a a stick, to which hung a small bundle, probably containing all he was worth in the world.
“Such was the object which now appeared before me; and, as I viewed him with a look of pity, I saw a tear tremble on his withered cheek. I could not resist this appeal to my compassion ; and taking a franc from my purse, presented it to the old soldier. The hand which received it fell from its former position, and now hung, as if useless, by his side. Not a word of thanks broke from his lips, for, indeed, he seemed unable to speak the gratitude he felt. A look was all he gave ; but it was a look which spoke the feelings, of his heart. I waited a moment, expecting he would say something ; but, after a short reflection, instead of pouring forth the abundance of common-place thanks we so generally meet with on these occasions, he began to dance and sing, in such a manner as quite astonished me. His old cocked-hat he pulled from his head, and throwing it into the air, played as many antics as a monkey. What an alteration did this trifling gift make in the poor old veteran ! raising him from the worst apparent misery to this extravagance of joy! The diligence had now overtaken us; and, when seated in it, I frequently looked out after him, and perceived him still dancing and waving his hat with every demonstration of gratitude, till distance entirely divided us from the sight of each other.”
MAD MARY-A TRUE STORY.
Mary was the daughter of a worthy father, who served Mr. C. a gentleman of considerable fortune, in the capacity of Steward. Her disposition was amiable, her appearance delicate, and her manner improved by a genteel education.
Mr C. had an only daughter, and as Mary was of her age, they were constant companions. Mr. C. thinking that emulation might incite his daughter to rapid improvements, ordered the masters employed for her to give instruction to Mary, so that her acquired accomplishments became equal to those of her friend.
Mary, as her years increased, became the favourite of all who knew her, but none admired her more, or loved her with so much sincerity, as the amiable young lady with whom she resided.
A gentleman of large estate, named Freeman, had made proposals of marriage to Miss C. which were accepted, and she soon left the house of her father for the mansion of her husband.
Mary grieved with silent sincerity at the departure of her patroness, who, 'soon after her union, set out with her family to take the tour of Europe. The family of Mrs Freeman remained abroad three years, and though Mary loved her father, and failed in no point of her duty or affection, the letters she received from Mrs. Freeman were her principal delight; till at length her friend returned, and Mary received an invitation to pass the winter with her in the metropolis.
She now found herself in a situation she considered the happiest upon earth—but it was her misfortune to be handsome, to