and Jerry (et sue generi), works which are dramatised at our principal theatres; thus personifying vice and infusing poison and bad taste in the breasts of youth. What is applauded is too often imitated. The antidote should be administered by moral writers, as it appears the laws of the land cannot interdict such effusions of the press, although pregnant with danger and damage to the rising generations. Some individual is (I suspect) preparing for the press an improved edition of the "Newgate Calendar," illustrated with engravings of such worthies whose exploits, life, parentage, and education should be suffered to rest, or rust, in oblivion, entombed with themselves and the pity of less erring fellow-men. We observe books announced for publication which should be denounced, or prohibited, by the censorship of authority. "Vice is a monster of such frightful mien, As to be hated needs but to be seen, But grown too oft familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace." It has been ascribed to pedantry to introduce foreign words or idioms into our language, which have terms of legitimate English origin fully and elaborately expressing all that these exotics convey, and intelligible to every one; in this particular I fear I shall offend, hoping the custom of my cotemporaries will exculpate me, and for which I must plead the general issue. I dare not say, as we read in some author, if any reader be not pleased, let them please themselves with their own displeasure. The man and his ass pleased nobody. Some readers may consider the work in perusal unenlightened and obscure in its contexture; it is easy to throw a light on the subject by deflagration, which will give it a vivid lively character, and form a rapid funeral pile to the memory of the untoward genius who prompted its pages, to such who vainly aspire and write for fame and earn oblivion such printed papyrus are duly consigned to the winds, or various ignoble appliances, by lining bandboxes, travelling trunks, and papering the mud walls of paupers' cottages. To such indignation ephemeral labors are oft degraded. Michael de Cervantes, the genius of Spain, author of the famed "Don Quixotte," a captive in Barbary, at Algiers, wanted food. Virgil, died on the birth-day of Shakspeare. Lewis Camoens, the solitary pride of Portugal, perished in an hospital at Lisbon, author of the Lasiadas. Tasso, the Prince of Italian poets, borrowed a crown for subsistence, he apostrophised with his cat, intreated her to assist him with the lustre of her eyes, in the absence of a candle which he could not procure to write his verses. He died in want and imprisonment. Peter Corneille died in poverty; so did our Spencer. John Dryden sold ten thousand verses for £250 as per agreement. Some authors have been rewarded or consecrated by the renown of posthumous monuments, to whom the worth of the marble and sculpture, might have contributed sustenance during their lives. Witness poor Burns, whose memory has been honored with tributes and ovations in his fatherland, his sons have received public demonstrations of respect and homage, to the merits of the deceased parent. Hayden, a talented artist, terminated his active unfortunate career by suicide in the domicile of his afflicted wife and bereaved children. His embarrassments deranged his intellect, and I recollect him as excitable and eccentric in manner and converse. Sir Robert Peel sent him £50 in his latter days, and forwarded to his widow since his death £200 with a condoling letter promising further aid when required. In the melee of his political disquietude and antagonistic partizans, Sir Robert can soothe the anguish of the frantic suicide and his bereaved survivor. Honour and praise are due to such benevolence, it has conferred an imperishable name amidst the list of his countrys worthy members, imprest on the hearts of grateful recipients of his bounty. Many authors sit down to make up a book purely from interested motives, and why not? Who is enamoured with gratuitous labors? My pretext for scribbling is to fill up a hiatus in my leisure hours, and to exercise a very humble attempt to amuse, where I cannot presume to instruct, being fully aware that "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." There is very little unknown land in literature, any propositions which are true and possess some scintilla of novelty may be admitted to view. The present age is conspicuous for good reasoning and bad practice, for sound rules and arguments and corrupt manners. Virtue is in our heads, vice too generally occupies the heart. It is difficult to improve such an age, it is hazardous to offer instruction or be didactic, yet always allowable to furnish amusement of an innocent tendency in which may be blended instruction. Neither the turmoils of an active life, nor the compiling this little opus, have abridged any portion of my sleep. Its perusal may have a contrary tendency, may have a narcotic effect on my readers. To such as may not feel merciful towards its imperfections let me add, " To err is human, to forgive divine." I anticipate neither fame nor profit, merely the reimbursement of outlay, unless the public are more liberal than I claim to be entitled to, I may be included in the category of beatitudes with those who expect nothing, and shall therefore not be disappointed. The sweeping scythe of time has consigned to the tomb numerous relatives and friends who kindly patronized my professional pursuits. The recollection will not be effaced from the tablet of memory. It emboldens me to venture once more to present myself to such as remain, and to an indulgent public. The chains in social conventional intercourse are continually severed. The silver cord will be loosened, and the golden bowl soon be broken; also the wheels at the cistern of life. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, and the spirit return unto God who gave it. They and thee, my good readers, yet may flourish! We may meet again in eternal bloom, in "The storms of wintry time will quickly pass, The late Dr. Hawksworth has the following record on his monument in Bromley Church: "Let not this be perused as only relating to myself. For a few years only will divide the eye that is now reading from the hand that has written." During life's summer, the second period, while hope is ever buoyant, the heart springs with vigour, the vital flame burns brightly unvexed, untired with its toils and recreations. In the seer and yellow leaf of our autumn experience dissipates many fond illusions which early hope had painted in our imagination. We become cautious and apprehensive, and feel more acutely any sinister personal. "The law's delay, the proud man's contumely, That patient merit of the unworthy takes." The ruling passion is strong in this third period of life, ambition, avarice. The loss of our first friends and parents, regrets for past, anxiety for the future. hinder the enjoyment of the present, occasions disappointment and ennui, bringing in its train perhaps palsy and gout. The grand climacteric, 63, if attained with health, should be enjoyed with fervent gratitude, and an endeavour to convert every irritating circumstance into comfort and consolation. The writer hereof is now at sixes and sevens, beyond the sexagenerian period, the notitia of mortal decadency. Having attained the patriarchal period of seventy summers, nearly the termination of nature's long lease granted to us, the remainder of life then becɔmes a B |