Nor is social happiness less injured by that semblance of sensibility which it has become of late but too common to assume, for if we trust to the assertions of all those, who think proper to claim its possession, bow common, how widely diffused among the sons of men, must this best and sweetest of the gifts of nature and education be; and yet, alas! when' he whose heart hath ever melted at the sufferings of distress, whose liberality hath ever been poured out upon the children of penury, whose friendship and whose love hath been permanent and pure, when he shall step forward in the world, solicitous to extend the sphere of his benevolence, solicitous to claim kindred with those of a congenial temper, with those whose conversation or compositions had impressed him in their favour, how will he stand aghast, how will his heart sink within him, when, instead of sympathy and of charity, of social and of domestic feeling, he shall find apathy and avarice, find extortion and cruelty,

That this is not an overcharged picture, I am well convinced. There are many, whose writings breathe the very soul of sensibility, with whom the slightest impulse of pity and

distress ought to operate, and yet, unhappily for virtue, their compositions and their lives, their sentiments and their actions, correspond not. There are many, also, from whom the delineations of elegant distress, the struggles of disastrous love, or the plaintive sorrows of deluded innocence, will not fail to elicit the tear of sympathy; but when objects of real distress, when sickness and when poverty, when pain and when decrepitude present themselves, they shudder at the sight, they pass on, they fly the wretched mourner.

It should, therefore, be a principle early inculcated into the minds of our youth, that to be happy, is to be beloved, and that our enjoyment will be commensurate to our efforts in relieving the distress and the misery of others. Were this the case, how much of that wanton and pernicious cruelty would be avoided, as frequently the disgrace of manhood as of boyish years. Were our children taught to

nourish sentiments of love and of esteem for those around them, to elicit their affection by each amiable exertion in their power, to visit and give succour to the sick and the afflicted, how often would the tear of rapture fill their

eyes, how would the sweet sensation dwell upon their hearts, and grow with their increasing years.

Oh, Charity! our helpless nature's pride,

Thou friend to him who knows no friend beside,
Is there a morning's breath, or the sweet gate
That steals o'er the tir'd pilgrim of the vale,
Cheering with fragrance fresh his weary frame,
Aught like the incense of thy holy flame?
Is aught in all the beauties that adorn
The azure Heaven, or purple light of morn?
Is aught so fair in evening's ling'ring gleam
As from thine eye the meek and pensive beam,
That falls, like saddest moonlight on the hill
And distant grove, when the wide world is still?
Bowles.

Society has been aptly compared to a heap of embers, which, when separated, soon languish, darken, and expire, but, if placed together, glow with a ruddy and intense heat, a just emblem of the strength, the happiness, and the security derived from the union of mankind. The savage, who never knew the blessings of combination, and he, who quits society from apathy or inisanthropic spleen, are like the separated ember, dark, dead and

useless, they neither give nor receive heat, neither love or are beloved. To what acts of heroism and virtue, in every age and nation, has not the impetus of affection given rise? To what gloomy misery, despair, and even suicide, has not the desertion of society led? How often in the busy haunts of men, are all our noblest, and gentlest virtues called forth? And how, in the bosom of the recluse, do all the soft emotions languish, and grow faint? Not that the author of these Sketches is a foe to retirement, he has elsewhere confessed himself its friend, he speaks but of him, who, dead to feeling, sinks into the lap of cheerless solitude. That' many individuals, from a peculiar turn of mind, are calculated to be of more extensive utility in retirement, than on the active stage of life, he is well convinced. He is also perfectly aware that reiterated misfor tune and perfidy, operating upon a warm and sanguine constitution, will often hurry the most amiable character into unmitigated seclusion; but even in this case, as a proof that our affections to support life must, however small in degree, be engaged, let it be observed that the most recluse have generally had some object for their tenderness, some creature

whose attention they strove to obtain, whose interest in their welfare they hoped to secure, and, as a corroborating instance of what has been advanced throughout this paper, it shall be illustrated with the following anecdote:

A respectable character, after having long figured away in the gay world at Paris, was at length compelled to live in an obscure retreat in that city, the victim of severe and unforeseen misfortunes. He was so indigent, that he subsisted only on an allowance from the parish. Every week a quantity of bread was sent to him sufficient for his support, and yet at length, he demanded more. On this the curate sent for him. He went: "Do you live alone?" said the curate: With whom, sir,' answered the unfortunate man, is it possible I should live? I am wretched, you see that I am, since I thus solicit charity, and am abandoned by all the world.' "But sir," continued the curate, "if you live alone, why do you ask for more bread than is sufficient for yourself?" The other was quite disconcerted, and at last, with great reluctance, confessed that he had a dog. The curate did not drop the subject. He