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benefit of society and the kingdom at large, is mair than I can foresee. It's a black look forrit at the best.

Our Janet (that's my wife's name), a real good hearted creature as needs to be, kenning my trim, and sensible till the last, that it is ayont the power of woman or the face of clay to mak me John Tamson's man, or to be less than a Magistrate holding authority in my ain house, make it always a point of her duty to straik me with the hair, asweel as to give me timeous warning and premonition whenever ony of the stramashes to the whilk I have alluded, are about to tak place. Of course, when I receive warning of a washing, a lum soopin, or a regular cleaning in our domestic establishment, I just make up my noble mind to tak a day's play, and to refresh body and speech with a bit stravaig into the country, and then to tak my chance of pat luck with some freend that disna stand on ceremony, and kens like mysell a hawk frae a handsaw. If the day be uncommon fine, and the sun a wee thocht our het, instead of walking, I prefer taking a sail down to the water neb, and there one can get aboard a steamer, or else they may tak their foot in their hand, and bundle owerby to Kilpatrick, or up the gate to Arinthrow, where ane is aye sure of getting a cauld chack of meat, a bit cauler salmon, or something comfortable. In thir excursions, I aye ettle to be hame about gloamin, or afore the ten hours' bell at the very fardest, for there is an absolute necessity for a paurent like me, in thir sliddery times, to set a pattern and example of good manners and early hours till a young and nurabersome family as mine by the blessing of providence happens to be.

Aweel, as I was saying, the worthy partner of my bed and bosom, ae nicht, in the year 1828, when we were sitting thegither by the ingle cheek, in the parlour, after the weans were put to bed, says to me, in her ain couthy way, "Baillie, ye maun trintle aff to the country the morn, for I hae an unco big washing, and me and the twa servants, as weel as an extra hand, will be busy as bumbees amang blankets and washing boyns. Aiblins ye can gang doun and see the provost of Arinthrow, the auld toun clark, or some ither respectable freend and acquaintance." "What maun be maun be, quo' I, my bonny doo; but really ye should have let me ken o' this hurry afore the now, for the fack is, I dinna weel ken where to show my neb. Arinthrow is out of the question; for ye ken the last time I was there, I got mair drink than was good for me, and there is nae need for a man just to throw himsell in the way of temptation and mischief. "Atweel, Baillie, and that is true," said my wife, honest woman; "but maybe ye can fax your shanks up the length o' the Parish,* or tak a sail to the Brig o' Johnstone in the canal boat." " We shall see," rejoined I, " the morn's morning; for, if I maun be an alien and a wanderer frae my ain bein house and clean fireside, I maun mak the best I can of my lot. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof;" and, afore I settle where I will gang the morn, I'll tak counsel of my pillow, like a considerate man.

The morning, as a matter of course, came round; and, after swallowing my breakfast, consisting of tea, eggs and ham, two penny pan-soled baps, forbye a farl of cake-bread and a thimbleful of brandy in the last cup, by way of a racer, I sallied furth, staff in hand, to "pass" my fortune, as the fairy tale says. First and foremost, I gade up to the Bowling Green, and took a turn round it, just to make up my mind anent the airt I should direck my steps. It was a particular fine halesome simmer morning, and the Kilpatrick Braes, and, indeed, the hail country round looked beautiful, and I thocht to mysell that it was scarcely possible to see a finer landscape in nature. The Cart was skinkling like silver in the sun, and the woods drum about Blackstoun, Erskine, and Renfield, were looking so fresh and green that I could almost make mysell be

* We believe this to be the parish of Neilston; but this is not the only obscurity that occurs in the Baillie's autobiography.—Er.

lieve that I heard the blackbirds and linties whistling in them; and, with perfect fairness, I coudna weel contain my feelings, and was just on the point of uttering some haver or anither anent the beautifulness of the day, when I got a lunch on the elbuck frae an auld freend, who asked me if I would take a hand at the bools, or pree a glassW herb ale in Sandy Sandy's; but no being inclined for either the ane or the ither, I slipped my ways doun the Hie Kirk Brae, then intil the New Street, to get a new shod on my stick at Mr. Findlay's chop, and to speir what clavers he had got either about shooting, or fishing, or tulip beds; but he not being at hame, I then proceeded to the Causeyside, to hear what was doing in the manufacturing line, and if any good stroke of business had been done in the Spring, or any thing worth mentioning expeckit at the Fall.

Here, of course, I forgathered with an uncommon number of Corks, for they were all standing at their warehouse doors, watching for the Glasgow customers, for it was the market day, and every one was glegger nor his neibour in looking after the main chance. Not being in business, I was perfectly easy in my mind, and sticking my twa thoombs in my waistcoat, at the oxter, chatted with this one or the other, just as it might happen, while taking a turn on the sunny side of the street, frae the head of Plunkin till the Water Wynd. Me, and some six mair had made a sort of pause opposite the Cumberland Well, when lo and behold a figure turns the corner of the Wynd, and makes straucht up the Causeyside, casting a blink, now and then, up till the sign brods on every hand. He is a merchant, says one, I'm no thinking that says anither. He is a perfect stranger, says a third; and in a jiffey, the hail tot left me, and, to my astonishment, they, one by one accosted the stranger, but he seemed to be desperate short with them, for every man and mother's son of them bundled aif into their warehouses, as if they had touched a nettle. Losh preserve us a', says I to mysell, this maun be a queer shaver that ventures up the Causeyside on a market day, and neither means to buy, nor sell, nor pick, nor dab with our manufacturers. It's a desperate tempting of providence to say the least of it; howsumever, we shall see the upshot of sic B reckless course. But, having come till the boddam of my page, here I shall pause for the present; my next chapter shall detail the curious passages that happened between me and this strange-looking niebour, and how we grew as thick thegither as horses' heads.

LITERARY CRITICISM.

The OrERA, a Novel, by the Author of " Mothers and Daughters." London; Henry Colburn and Richard Bentley, 1832!.

The reader, no doubt, supposes, that this is a history of adventures connected with the stage. So it is, in some degree, but the reason why it is called The Opera is not of the same kind as that which has given name to Almack's, or The Bravo. The Opera is not the subject of the story, but is only connected with it as the place where some of the most remarkable incidents occur. To this circumstance the novel owes its title; but we may be pardoned for remarking, that it has suggested to us another association relating to the theatre. This book is, in fact, a deep tragedy, which, by means of a succession of shifting scenes, strives to conduct the mind through a series of melancholy feelings. In order to succeed completely in this, it would have been necessary for the author to connect his materials, so that each succeeding part of the story should recall another, and thus impart to the mind the emotion of sympathy by means of an uninterrupted train of ideas. We fear, however, that most readers will confess, that the interest which these volumes possess, is not due to the charms of any particular character, or to the developement of one principal feature in the plot. It is, rather, by

particular passages, that the book pleases, and hence the impressions which it conveys to the mind are not one, but various. It appears to us, that certain defects, very easily discovered, have hindered those events which lead to the catastrophe, from being so connected as to produce a combined effect. The truth is, this is not one story, but two, as it comprises the fortunes of two generations—those of the second, being in many things, it transcript of the first. Besides this, we have serious faults to find with the arrangement. The introductory chapter describes a scene which took place after the events recorded in the story, and, without any explanation, brings into the reader's presence, persons with whom he is not in the least acquainted, till he has perused the book. The narrative then commences at a period long before the date of the proper story, and records from the lips of a certain Count Maldyn, and Viscount of Abbotscourt, (an Englishman residing in Germany) the misfortunes which had marked his career in life. In this manner the greater part of the first volume is occupied. The second begins after the arrival of Adrian, the Count's son, in London, and it is here, for the first time, that most of the individuals are introduced, who form the dramatis personae of the novel. But, if they have been hitherto detained from the reader's knowledge, they are now thrust upon him with a rapidity which baffles all his endeavours to recognize them. Lords, ladies, Englishmen and foreigners, are all crowded upon the stage at once, as if the author, like some dramatists, had intended to make an attractive spectacle by a show of numbers. To make amends for this, we must admit, that as we proceed in the story, the characters assume a good deal of individuality, and some of them turn out very pleasing acquaintances.

The circumstance from which The Opera derives its cast of feature is the mysterious fatality supposed to be connected with the family of Maldyn. Afflictions of such a peculiar kind had pursued Lord Abbotscourt and his nearest relations, that he conceives it sufficient for an individual to bear his name in order to be marked out for the victim of misery. With this feeling he also prepossesses Adrian, when he recounts to him his own history, and it so happens, that the young man had begun in early youth to precipitate the accomplishment of the destiny in his own case. The misfortunes of the Maldyns had always been owing to injudicious love ; but Adrian, informed of this too late, had been already engaged in an intrigue with Stephanine Haslinger, a low born peasant, on his father's German estate, and had moreover committed his heart to the keeping of a beautiful English widow, whom he had met in a truant ramble at Paris. Unluckily, when he is sent to England by his father's command, he meets this lady there, and discovers that she is his cousin, and the daughter of a woman who was Lord Abbotscourt's bitter enemy. Their union is therefore regarded as impracticable by both, a circumstance which furnishes great pleasure to the malicious Stephanine, who also appears in England, but under a new character, and with the intention of requiting, by her malice, the inconstancy of her faithless lover. These circumstances, of course, lead to a melancholy catastrophe, which realizes in the last of the Maldyns, the destiny of his house.

In some of the pictures, which occur in the course of this narrative, considerable descriptive power is displayed. These are sufficient to prove that the author is a man of ability, and that whatever defects encumber his work, arise from his having sat down to transmit his thoughts to paper before he had got them fully matured in his mind. The scenes in high life are particularly characteristic, and are so vividly portray- ed to the reader, that he seems to move and act in them himself. We extract a passage which represents the introduction of La Silvestra Sandoni, a celebrated prima donna, just arrived from the Conti

I nent, into the fashionable circles of the English metropolis. A large party is assembled in the accomplished Duke of Cardigan's ball room, and Adrian Maldyn is supporting on his arm the agreeable Constantia Fitzgerald, when the Duke interrupts the haste of his movements to address them.

"Pray, oblige me by beginning the waltz," said he, in a hurried manner, to Miss Fitzgerald; 41 for I cannot quit my post. It would be scarcely courteous to leave the Sandouls to make their entries alone into such a concourse of strangers; so I must not think of dancing until Silvestra makes her appearance." And, with the hasty signal to the orchestra, he quitted the room; leaving Constantia and myself so ostensibly placed, that with all my disinclination for such a measure, I could not avoid offering myself as her partner. Nor could she refuse the proposal In a moment we were both as eagerly engaged in the dance as if neither of us had a care on earth!

After a few rounds, however, she complained of fatigue, and proposed that we should go in search of Mrs. Fitzgerald, whom we had left with Lady Harriet in the gallery.

*•••«•

She now expressed herself anxious that we should hasten towards the gallery; which we entered just as the whole assembly was crowding to its further extremity. There was so great a press, indeed, towards the outer door, that we could not so much as catch a glimpse of Lady Harriet and her companion; but I discerned above the throng, the towering person of the Duke of Cardigan, evidently striving to make way through the mass for some lady leaning on his arm, to whom he occasionally addressed himself with the most gracious assiduity.—It could only be La Silvestra !—

"Let us stand aside," said I listlessly to Constantia; " we shall see this wonder as she passes on to the ball-room." And to my surprise, I noticed that many of the guests, in the eagerness of curiosity, had jumped on the sofas and fauteuils to reward their ill-breeding with a better view of the stranger.

"Who would be a lion !—to become the innocent cause of so much impertinence among the fine ladies of the land !"—exclaimed Miss Fitzgerald. But I was prevented the necessity of reply by the approach of the crowd and its half-fainting object; and the duke chancing to espy my tall ungainly figure, beckoned me to follow him.

"Maldyn !" cried he, over the heads of his importunate guests. "We are going to dance; ask Constantia to be our vis-3-vis."

What was to be done?—Nothing, alas! but to comply,—with the hope of arriving too late, As we entered the ball-roum, Miss Fitzgerald, who seemed vexed by the whole affair, rallied her spirits to observe that the duke was too absolute to be gaiusayed. "I trust, however," said she, " that my uncle may be looking on for Sir Herbert will certainly resent the bad example his grace is pleased to show on this occasion; and which you and I are not particularly pleased to follow. But pray let me hear your verdict on the beauty of La Silvestra?"

I turned towards the dancers,—the ropes were fixed,—the crowd cleared,—and the orchestra immediately struck up a contre danse, selected from an opera of the prima donna's composition; when the graceful woman who had been occupied in conversation with the Duke of Cardigan, turning suddenly towards us, displayed to my amazed observation—the countenance of Stephanine Haslinger!

We shall present our readers to-morrow with an extract of a more serious kind.

MISCELLANEA.

A Law or Kino Edgar The Peaceable—To repress drunkenness, which the Danes had brought in, this Saxon Prince made a law, ordaining a size, by certain pins in the pot; with penalty,

to any that should presume to drink deeper than the mark

Baker's Chronicle.

A Lord Eaten Up With Mice.—In the time of William the First, a great Lord sitting at a feast, was set upon by mice; and though he were removed from land to sea, and from sea again to land, yet the mice still followed him, and at last devoured him. Baker's Chronicle of the Kings of England.

The pleasantest part of a man's life is, generally, that which passes in courtship, provided his passion be sincere, and the party beloved kind with discretion. Love, desire, hope, all the pleasing motions of the soul, rise in the pursuit Addison.

A man cannot possess any thing that is better than a good woman, nor any thing that is worse than a bad one.—Semonides.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

ANSWER TO THE CHARADE FOR THE GENTLEMEN.
O yea ! we love a Miss full well,

Aud love a fortune more;
But, ah! Miss-fortune is a belle
We one and all abhor.

GLASGOW GOSSIP.

Sjxci the establishment of so many Soup Kitchens for the Poor, there has been a good deal of gossiping among our economical Housewives regarding the manufacture of cheap soup. The idea, however, of being able to make a cauldron of broth, tit for the dinners of three or four hundred persons, from nothing else save a "Cow's head," has fairly baffled all their ingenuity to comprehend, and yet it is publicly ramoured that such can be done! Shade of Pepin! This far outshines the economical powers of thy famed Digester!

ABERNETHIANA.

The following graphic anecdotes of this able and singular individual, we extract from the "Annual Obituary," for 1832. The multitude of amusing instances related of Mr. Abernathy's bluntness of manner towards his patients and those who came to consult him; would, in fact, fill a volume. As such whims are characteristic, and in no way derogate from the extraordinary and acknowledged skill, of au individual, whose success as a surgeon, conferred blessings on thousands of his fellow creatures, we will quote one or two of them as specimens :—

A lady consulting Mr. Abernethy on a nervous disorder, entered into a long, frivolous, fantastic detail of her symptoms, unsatisfied with being referred to his "book" for instruction, respecting the treatment of her complaint, she persisted in endeavouring to extract farther information from Mr. Abernethy. After suffering her volubility with considerable patience for a while, he exc'aimed to the repeated, 11 May I eat oysters, Doctor? May I eat supper ?"—" I'll tell you what it is, Ma'am, you may eat anything but the poker and the bellows; for the one is too hard of digestion and the other is full of wind."

On one occasion, Mr. Abernethy was highly amused with the course pursued by a lady who was aware of bis detestation of ignorant loquacity and silly affectation. Abruptly entering his consulting-room, without uttering a word, she thrust towards him her finger, which had received the severe injury. Mr. Abernethy looked first at her face, and then at her finger, which he dressed; and the fair patient instantly and silently withdrew. In a few days she called again, and again protruded the affected part. "Better!" asked Mr. Abernethy;—11 Better," answered the lady: again the finger was dressed, and again the lady left the apartment. After several similar visits, at length she held out her finger free from all bandages, and in fact healed. "Well?" enquired Mr. Abernethy; "Well," echoed the lady.—11 Upon my soul, Madam," exclaimed the delighted surgeon, "you are the most rational woman I ever met with."

"Pray Mr. Abernethy, what is a cure for gout?" was the question of an indolent and luxurious citizen. 11 Live upon sixpence a-day, and earn it!" was the pithy answer.

The reported fashion of Mr. Abernathy's courtship and marriage is extremely characteristic. It is told, that while attending a lady for several weeks, he observed those admirable qualifications in her daughter, which he truly esteemed to be calculated to render the married state happy. Accordingly, on a Saturday, when taking leave of his patient, he addressed her to the following purport :—" You are now so well that I need not see you after Monday next, when I shall come and pay you my farewell visit. But, in the meantime, I wish you and your daughter seriously to consider the proposal I am now about to make. It is abrupt and unceremonious, I am aware; but the excessive occupation of my time by my professional duties affords me no leisure to accomplish what I desire by the more ordinary course of attention and solicitation. My annual receipts amount to £ , and I can

settle £ on my wife: my character is generally known to

the public, so that you may readily ascertain what it is. I have seen in your daughter, a tender and affectionate child, an assiduous and careful nurse, and a gentle and ladylike member of a family; such a person must be all that a husband could covet, and I offer my hand and fortune for her acceptance. On Monday, when I call, I shall expect your determination; for I really have not time for the routine of courtship." In this humour, the lady was wooed and won ; and the union proved fortunate in every respect. A happier couple never existed.

Humanity And LiDEaALiTY Of Ma. Abernethy.—Where poverty and disease have prevented individuals from waiting upon him in his own bouse for advice, he has been frequently known not only to visit them constantly, and at inconvenient distances, without fee or reward, but generously to supply them from his own purse with what their wants required. More affecting instances of charity and generosity, seconding the utmost exertions of medical skill, could not be produced from the life of any of his contemporaries (liberal and admirable as the conduct of many of them is) than from that of John Abernethy. The following is

one example: — In the year I Sis, Lieutenant D fell from

his horse on a paved street in London, and fractured his skull and

arm, whilst his horse trod on his thigh, and grievously injured the limb. Mr. Abernethy was the surgeon nearest to the young man's lodgings; he was sent for; he came, and attended daily. After the lapse of months, convalescence took place amidst great weakness, when Abernethy enjoined the adoption of shell-fish diet at Margate. His grateful patient requested information as to the amount of his pecuniary debt for professional aid and care. Abernethy smiled, and said "Who is that young woman ?"—" She is my wife."—" What is your rank in the army ?"—" I am a halfpay Lieutenant."—" Oh! very well; wait till you area General, me and see me, and we'll talk about it."

ODDS AND ENDS.

Interesting Anecdote.—" One day," said at Buezenghen, I perceived a young soldier belonging to the light artillery, whose horse had just been wounded by a lance. The young man, who appeared quite a child, defended himself desperately, as several bodies of the enemy lying around him could testify. I immediately dispatched an officer with some men to his assistance, but they arrived too late. Although this action had taken place on the borders of the wood, and in front of the bridge, this artilleryman had alone withstood the attack of the small troop of Cossacks and Bavarians, whom the officer and men I had despatched immediately put to flight. His body was covered with wounds, inflicted by shots, lances, and swords. There were at least thirty. And do you know, Madame, what this young man was ?" said Massena, turning to me. "A woman! Yes, a woman—and a handsome woman too! although she was so covered with blood, that it was difficult to judge of her beauty. She had followed her lover to the army. The latter was a captain of artillery; she never left him; aud, when he was killed, defended like a lioness the remains of him she had loved. She was a native of Paris; her name was Louise Belletz, and she was the daughter of a fringe-maker in the Rue du Petit Lion," of the Duchess of Abrantes.

I have long entertained an opinion, perhaps fanciful, that i is a certain character applicable in general to the different professions of men in lower life, without distinction of countries. Thus, the gardeners have more genius and knowledge than any other class; next to them, smiths, masons, and carpenters are sagacious and intelligent; weavers and shoemakers are generally shallow fanatics; ploughmen and carters brutal and ignorant; tailors, and their allies, dancing-masters, are formal conceited fops; barbers are all talkative, but have rarely any common sense.— Lord Gardenstone.

A STORM.

I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women,
And pity lovers rather more than seamen.

BYRON.

A CALM.

I Have but one simile, and that's a blunder,
For wordless woman, which is silent thunder.

IBIS.

May never was the month of love.

For May is full of flowers;
But rather April, wet by kind,

For love is full of showers.

SOUTHWELL.

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THE DAY,

A MORNING JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, FINE ARTS, FASHION, &c.

CARPE DIEM.

GLASGOW, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 29, 1832.

ON THE SACRIFICE OF TRUTH TO PARTY SPIRIT.

Party is the madness of many for the gain of a few.

rorx*

Were one to institute a full investigation into the evils which have been entailed upon mankind, by the prejudices resulting from party spirit—he would find the field a wide one—and the variety of objects contained in it almost interminable. The sacrifice of truth and the necessarily consequent obstruction to the progress of science and learning forms one of the most prominent and lamentable effects which spring from the existence of this feeling among men. When two adverse parties exist, whatever be the bone of contention between them, whether political, scientific or literary—each naturally enough strives to obtain a pre-eminence over the other, though too often, and, to their shame be it spoken, neither are very scrupulous as to the nature of the means by which victory may be attainable. It is this which gives rise to those false reports—exaggerated statements—and garbled facts, so plentifully made use of in the contests of party, invariably tending to widen the breach existing between them, and too frequently causing mere differences of opinion to degenerate into feelings of personal rancour and enmity.

But we must not confine our views to the effects resulting from differences of opinion between classes of men; for truth has often been sacrificed, and as much real injury done, by the petty jealousies of individuals. The spirit of party is the same, whether it arises from the contention of rival nations—of rival schools of learning or science—or of rival philosophers or statesmen. It is the same feeling in all which prompts them to disregard truth, in promoting their own advancement, and the downfall of their opponents.

When we glance over the pages of history, either political, scientific or literary, how often do we find them sullied by the recital of the dire effects resulting from party spirit and individual jealousies. To these may be traced those detestable intrigues, those miserable subterfuges, and those wide differences between "causes and pretexts," which stain so broadly and so deeply the character of rival governments, and opposing parties—the many false theories which have found a firm resting place, to the exclusion of rigid and unwelcome truth, among schools and sects noted for their wisdom and their learning—and many of those literary forgeries, which weave such a web of perplexity round the researches of the historian and man of letters. What a sacrifice of truth do we find, what an abundant offering to the shrines of falsehood and prejudice.

It was party spirit which prompted the Jewish Sanhedrim in their miserable attempt to undermine the very foundation of the Christian religion, by the wilful and deliberate propagation of an ungrounded falsehood regarding the resurrection of our Saviour.

It was the same feeling which represented the early disciples of Christianity in the odious light of murderous cannibals, sacrificing and devouring children at their midnight and clandestine assemblies. During the progress of the Revival of Letters, it was party

spirit, heightened by an education-instilled prejudice, which led the adherents of the falsely so styled Aristotelian Philosophy, to denounce as heretics in science, and indeed even in religion, the few bold and uncompromising spirits, who. scouting the established and time, though not truth-honoured, dogmas of the schools, dared to think for themselves. Galileo, for asserting, that the earth moved round its own axis, was immured in the dungeons of the Inquisition, sentenced to repeat once a week the seven penitential psalms for the period of three years, and forced to sign a recantation of those doctrines in which he firmly believed, and which now form part of the established creed in philosophy—rival monasteries and rival sects of monks, vied with each other in the invention of the greatest absurdities in the shape of pretended miracles, tending to raise their fame for sanctity among the credulous and ignorant multitude.

The great Erasmus had the merit of exposing many of the abuses existing in the Roman church, and of proposing many of those doctrines which, under the fiery and unshrinking Luther, and the mild, yet firm Melancthon, wrought the downfall of Papal power— but, when through fear, flattery and self interest, he associated himself with a party, he sacrificed truth to the spirit of faction, by writing, at once, against the reformation and his conscience.

The slanders which were heaped upon the head of the unfortunate and ill-used, though not altogether guiltless Mary of Scotland, proceeded from the evil passions of a party ; and the suppression of truth, and the concealment of crime in the mock trial of Bothwell for the murder of Oarnly, are clearly traceable to the same source.

But it is needless to revert to times long gone past, for the examples of the injury done to truth from the existence of party spirit: we have but to cast a glance, and a cursory one will suffice, on the proceedings of our own times, to be furnished with many instances perfectly pertinent to the subject. How disgusting is it to observe, the wilful misrepresentation of motives which are so plentifully dealt in by both of the political parties at present existing in the state! How many groundless reports have been fabricated and sent into circulation by each party, tending to lessen the power and stain the reputation of the other. A sondid love of money and power is universally held forth as the motives of all who, wishing to adhere to the "ancien regime," oppose the march of reform, while, on the other hand, the members of the opposite party are branded with tho opprobious epithets of demagogues and revolutionists, their motives of action being represented to be selfish envy, a love of anarchy and confusion, and a base desire of pandering to the tastes of the mob. Truth lies between them, but both parties, it would seem, strive to get as far away from her as they possibly can, and, muffling themselves up in the dark mantle of prejudice and party spirit, effectually shut out her bright effulgence from their minds. This is the case now, and this will always be the case, till brotherly kindness and charity" form one of the ruling features in men's minds, and party spirit, in all its bearings, be banished from the earth. God grant the happy day may soon arrive!

CtELEBS AGAIN!!

After the well-earned chastisement which our correspondent Crelebs received from the fair hand of Clarissa, we did not expect that he would have found sufficient confidence to have enabled him, so soon, to have ventured out in "The Day." We imagined, that he had been sent to roost among the dark fraternity of the owls and the bats, and that, if he left his lurking place at all, it would only be for the penitential purpose of crying peccavi, burning his faggot and kissing the hem of the garment of the fair one, who drilled him into a more correct way of thinking. He appears, however, to be one of those obdurate Benedicts, who hold the doctrine of a certain Scottish Poet, of the old school, who says,

"Blows frae ladies, tho' they're teasing,
I eithlie can allow are pleasing."

Proceeding upon this maxim, the gentleman seems to court infliction from the fair, and we trust he shall receive it to his heart's content. We shall, however, let the provoking wretch speak for himself.

To the Editor of Tns Dai:

Sir,—That "vanity" of which Miss Clarissa accuses me, was, I must say, a little flattered, in seeing that my complaint to you had attracted some share of notice from so many fair correspondents. One always feels where the shoe pinches, and, if I had not hit the mark, why need there have been arrayed against me such a phalanx of hostility? There is Miss Agnes—the lamb—the pure—but how could she be severe ?—there is Miss Amelia of novel notoriety—Miss Julia, with her fascinating lisp; and there is Miss Clarissa with her beautiful penmanship—the paragon—the toast— what a galaxy of interesting authoresses—and there, too, is Mamma (without doubt Papa was consulted in this important affair) laying on the taxes pretty smartly—certes she was prodigiously wroth, and all upon a poor nincompoop of a bachelor. What a mercy is it, Mr. Editor, that you did not let the whole out upon me at one coup de main, or I would have been plunged over head and ears in a "peck of troubles?"

Blessings upon your pate, and thanks to your "Day"—may it be a day never followed by a night —" may you live all the days of your life," and then a thousand years, for you to publish, and me to purchase, which I shall do while I have a penny in my purse. Before you printed my former letter, I was similarly situated, as the poor poet who owed the "Guili tre" to his merciless creditor, and who was persecuted by him at home and abroad, by land and by water. Now all is changed, and I really think it my duty to inform you of the improvement, that others, placed in difficult and trying dilemmas, may find repose through the medium of your columns. If my case has not excited much sympathy in the quarter where it is usually expected to reside, and where it is esteemed R favourite attribute, it has, at least been attended with individual advantage, and, though Miss Clarissa thinks that I "perform my part but very indifferently," that is a mere matter of opinion ; for there is a groupe of my celebrated friends, fine old fellows, who pronounce, what I have done, as "monstrously clever," and who say that there is subject in my letter for an excellent farce or comedy. Well, to tell you something now of my state. It so happened, that all those against whom I had reason to complain, were readers of your " Day," and on its perusal they caught fire immediately. "Now, that must be you who has written that letter signing yourself Ccelebs, you have drawn several well executed portraits, but it was too bad to shew us up in print." "What!" said Miss Letitia, in good humoured earnest, "did you ever hear the like of that; this cannot be tolerated, I shall give him no more advice;" while an old lady, a little dull in hearing, had to get the letter three times read to her before she you'd be convinced that it was not

altogether a joke, and I do not know if she is yet convinced—as for the widow, she did not care a whit about it, and, with the exception of her, (though she is a little more tolerable) I am now "left alone in my glory," to crow on my own housetop without molestation, let, or envy. Jenny, my servant, who knew nothing ahout this secret writing to you, is most uncommonly surprised at the sudden alteration. She wonders "what can be the meaning of it, how nane o' the leddies are callin' now," and supposes, that the present valetudinarian aspect of the times has a great hand in it. How sweet to a nearly half confirmed bachelor are ye, chaste delights of domestic solitude I Sweeter than ever poet sung of the broken heads and sore hearts of matrimonial love and affection—all is so full of beautiful tranquillity and sublime quiet, like the unruffled bosom of the mighty ocean whereupon the sportive sea-fowl may kiss her own shadow, that the very mice, which before never durst further intrude than to rattle in the lath and plaster of the wall, now fearlessly trip upon the carpet, to the exquisite and unparalleled delight of my tom cat, which at the fire-side, eyeing them keenly, seizes upon his innocent prey, so that for these ten days past every day has been to him a most enchanting field day. The only thing I have sincerely to regret is, that the silence has nearly struck dumb my mule canary, which, amid the strife of tongues, generally tried to be uppermost with his melodious note, waxing doubly louder in proportion to the din. This, however, is an accident triply made up by other more agreeable circumstances.

I was once of the opinion, that I would have allowed Miss Clarissa to have retired from the field covered with the laurels she had supposed to have won in hewing down Ccelebs, as she had expressed herself. "I have done with old Ccelebs," so thought I—I hare done with Miss Clarissa—taking for my maxim, the sentiment of Pope, (who by the bye was rather a satirical writer on the ladies, but Miss Clarissa being herself a poetess, will excuse the quotation) :— "One of us two must rule, and one obey, And since in man right reason bears the sway, Let that frail thing, weak woman, have her way;"

but much finer in the words of our Scots ballad,

"Nocht's to be won at woman's han,
Unless ye gie them a' the plea;"

and, not wishing either, to enter into a controversy
with, or be severe upon her; for I am persuaded were
I setting about it in right earnest, (but oh, how on-
gallant), I could pick more holes in the petticoat, than
she could in my surtout. She has run into a very wild
theory, in the interpretation of much of my meaning
and, sans ceremonie, she loads me with a variety of
epithets, not certainly highly calculated to ensure for
me much respect, such as these, of being vain, natu-
rally credulous, believing all manner of impossibilities,
distempered fancy, vain imagination, 8$c. all of which
she could not legitimately draw out of my complaint,
and particularly as she might have observed, that it
was my uniform practice, to treat the sex with all
manner of attention, kindness and respect. It is how-
ever, some relief to me, to see her so honest hearted,
as to allow it to be possible, notwithstanding the "all
conquering charms," and perfections of the sex, that
there are among them, flirts and coquettes, who by
their "little harmless flirtations," may annoy a man
very much, and I would advise Miss Clarissa never
to be guilty of indulging in these foolish indiscretions
—they are not amiable—they are not pretty, and
seldom succeed but with a coxcomb, with whom, I am
sure, she never could wish to form an alliance. But,
"who made me a judge?"—For the long libel she has
conjured up against me, out of her own "distempered
fancy" and "vain imagination"—for all her sweet
irony, and hard hits, I do most frankly pardon her,
and submit to them. There is however one sentence,
of which she makes use, that would take the patience

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