one of the prettiest women that had ever stepped on Scottish ground. Being instructed, as most daughters are, that to obtain a rich husband is to obtain everything, she consented to become the wife of Mr. Fairly; and he, with corresponding folly, imagining that the sweet notes of love may, at any time, be sung by a golden bird, and that congenial happiness may be bargained for, and bought, by the mammon of unrighteousness, throw his long-saved gains into the lap of beauty, and dissipated his fortune without a day's satisfaction. Domestic dispeace, evil report, and jealousy, complete the tale-family ruin, broken-down feelings, and premature death, complete the tragedy.

But the family were to be renovated and raised up by the energy and abilities of young Henry. At least, so said many-and I said it too, in the simplicity of my heart, until I began to bethink me of what materials the world was made-although I could not deny, but that blocks may be cut with razors, by that long perseverance which blunts away the instruments, until its original character is lost and gone. And so I heard with joy that Henry had come home, and was already, with his orphan sisters, in the old-fashioned borough of Netherton. With haste and pleasure I arose, and went forth to see him after all his adventures; for the message I had received was mysterious and unsatisfactory.

When I arrived at the door of the solitary house in which his father now dwelt, my admission within was not less invested with a silent and ominous mystery. At length I was permitted entrance into a dark back apartment, where sat Henry's father, having a small stoup of liquor before him, and apparently tippling by himself, with the maudlin enjoyment of that imbecile sort of misery, which, too far gone for common energy, seeks with infantile eagerness this wretched relief from its own thoughts. The smile of pleasure as if insensible of its own degradation-with which this ruin of a man recognized me, was to me more shocking than the most intense expression of despair; as I contrasted it with the way look of frigid melancholy, which sat upon the countenance of the tallest of the growing girls, who cowered by themselves in a corner near the window.

"Where is Henry?" I inquired, in anxious disappointment.

No answer was given me for a moment; and the father looked at the daughter, as if each wished the other to answer the questionwhile I now heard distinctly a foot go tramp tramp, on the floor over our heads.

"Take a glass with me," said Mr. Fairly-pushing with a silly expression, a glass towards me; "and we will talk of Henry afterwards."

66

Is he not here? Where is he?"-said I, refusing the liquor. "My father does not like to speak of poor Henry”—said the eldest girl-and silence again allowed the same tramp, tramp to sound with painful monotony over our heads.

"No-there are many things that your father does not like to

speak of, my poor child," said the old man, his look of joyous excitement subsiding into pathetic sadness, as he looked upon his daughter, and was reminded of his wife.

"For God's sake, inform me," said I, "who that is, that keeps walking about above us in this strange manner.'

The eldest girl now arose, and, with a look of heart-broken melancholy, led the way up stairs. Heavens! what I felt, when the door was opened, and Henry Fairly, my clever and handsome former pupil stood before me. He fixed his hollow death-like eyes upon me for a moment, and, without uttering a word, threw himself into my arms.

"What is this-Henry ?" said I. "Why that changed, that ominous look! Why remain by yourself in this solitary apartment? Why this appearance of affecting desolation?

"Desolation, indeed! my dear, my more than father," said the youth. "Little did I think, when I went a hopeful boy to sea, that my career was so soon to terminate. But yet I am resignedI am almost happy-if I could only hope that when I was gone, God would provide a protector for my poor, my orphan sisters.

I soon learned the whole truth-that, in the cold damps of the French prison, where my spirited Henry had lain a whole winter, he had caught a terrible and inward disease, that had been slowly eating into his frame: that the only relief he had from his pain was by keeping on his feet, as long as his strength sustained him; and that, in short, in a desolate home, and with all his early hopes blasted, the poor youth was fast walking to his death. I do not remember ever meeting with a severer trial to my feelings, than what was presented to me at this painful moment. The very sense and manliness with which the youth spoke of the unfortunate end of all his hopes for the renovating of his family, of the state in which he should be forced to leave his sisters, and of his sad, sad feelings, on his return home, on finding his father, not only reduced to poverty, but his mind so perfectly broken up, as to be unable to protect his own children-while I looked upon it with pride, as evidencing, that the good seed I had sown in his mind was not sown to the winds, affected me the more deeply for his melancholy situation.

"And why do you not go below, Henry," I said, "instead of wearying out your solitary hours in this naked apartment?

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'My father cannot bear to see me, Sir!" he said, "for I remind him so much of my mother that is gone; and I would not vex my unhappy parent, for the few days I have to live-and so I just walk here in this lonely room-and sometimes I almost think that my own sisters almost neglect me. But grief, you know, Sir, is indolent, and I will bear up as I can-for the girls will have enough to suffer when I am dead."

There was something awful in the manliness of his resignation, as well as in the terrible expression of mortality contending with warm-blooded youth, that appeared in the sunken face of my dying

pupil; and as he ever and anon pressed my hand and thanked me for my former instruction, which, as he said, placed earth and heaven in its true light before him. But when I came to say something of his deceased mother, he grasped my arm almost to pain, and said "My friend! my more than father!-if ever you would do that good in your generation which I shall never live to do-raise your voice wherever you can, concerning the miseries that are caused by unequal marriages for filthy lucre's sake. My mother was fitted to adorn the world-my father was a wise and a worthy man with his class. You know what has happened-yet, you know but in part, for the world will never know, as it ought, what miseries the folly of parents entails upon their children!"

Why need I tell what followed between myself and Henry-or with what distress we parted, never to meet in life—or how I prayed over his still beautiful remains, when, on coming next to Netherton, I found him a stretched corpse-or how his father was hardly able to attend him to the grave?-What shall I add more? The old man is dead, and the orphans beautiful as their mother, are little minded by any, except myself-for it is not the way of the world to care for the unfortunate. $.

MOONLIGHT.

Again thy beauty brightens o'er

The earth beneath, the skies above;
Fair orb! I welcome thee once more,
For still thy pensive hour I love:
And still to thine etherial throne

I turn, my wonted vows to pay,
Yet now I gaze on thee alone,-

The friends I love-oh! where are they?
Perchance they too may gaze, and feel

The tranquil influence of thy power,
Through evening's sacred silence steal

O'er them, and bless thy shadowy hour.
Pass on, pass on, fair evening moon!
The world's untarnish'd diadem;
Thy lovely light will leave me soon,
But leave me to be nearer them.

E'en now thy soften'd rays may gleam
On those I love, for whom I sigh,
And they may hail thy tranquil beam,-
Lone maiden of the cloudless sky!-
Remembering as thou glidest on,
To visit brighter isles than our's,
Thy light, in times gone by, hath shone
O'er happier scenes, in happier hours.

Oh! do their faithful bosoms thrill

With feeling, as perchance they speak
Of him, whose heart is with them still,

Though joy hath ceased to light his cheek?-

Though fancy now no longer gives
Her waking dreams of future bliss;
And the sole hope on which he lives,
Is of a happier world than this.
Still, still he never can forget

How often, when the shadowy hour
Had nature's dusky carpet wet,

With pearls of dew on every flower:
Not lonely thus the breeze of even
Came o'er him, feeling then, thy shade
Had joys as dear as those of heaven,
Except that they will never fade.
Not so with those of earthly thrill,
Or else I had been happy now;
Fair orb, thy tranquil beauties still
Had beam'd upon a tranquil brow:
And o'er a heart as gay, and light

And careless as the zephyr's wing,
That little reck'd of sorrow's blight,

Nor dream'd that winter follow'd spring.

Pale orb farewell! this pensive lay
Is sad, but how can I rejoice?

'Tis sad, but why should I be gay ?

When nature's deep and midnight voice

Heard by unnumber'd echoes borne

When thoughtless, heartless thousands sleep,

Tells me that man was made to mourn,-

Tells me that he was born to weep.

R.

To the Editor of "The Hobart Town Magazine"
SIR,-

It may, perhaps, be deemed presumption in so young a man as myself, to attempt an essay upon a subject of such great importance as "Strength of Mind," for insertion in a public work. But those who thus attempt to repress an endeavour, which has many good objects in view, should recollect that, without a beginning, Steele, Addison, &c. &c., would never have been qualified to compose that most admirable collection of essays, the " Spectator." And, as to the difficulty of the subject, I must confess, that this very circumstance contributed not a little towards inducing me to attempt it, although, undoubtedly, my principal aim was to show the beauty and exceeding importance of this manly virtue. One other reason, I have for my choice, is briefly this-I do not recollect ever to have read an English composition touching, particularly, upon this point, although I have not forgotten the "Fortitude" of my old favorite, Cicero. As it was written, it is now, Sir, submitted to your judgment, although, knowing the value of your pages, I have compressed and curtailed more than I could have wished. Pleading, as an apology for this intrusion, my

anxiety for the advancement of literature, in my adopted country.— I am, Sir, your most obedient servant,

Hobart Town, Oct., 1833.

Strength of mind may be defined-first, as that faculty or innate passive power, which enables a man to resist all instances, whether of his own thoughts, or at the suggestion of any outward agent, when it appears to him, that, if he should comply with such instances, evil, of some kind or other, would be the result; and, secondly, as that active power, which enables a man, under any circumstances, to act with instant decision, and cool judgment.

It would appear, on a first cursory view of the subject, that to resist evil, would be found more practicable, than to do good: because, to resist evil impulses, requires only a negative exertion: whilst, in performing a good action, some positive physical motion is usually required. But, upon a more minute investigation of the subject, the error of this opinion will become apparent: for human nature is so naturally inclined to evil, that where a very slight temptation exists, in addition to nature's impulse, the mind of man, (merging the future consequences, as well as the present difficulty of action, in the overwhelming flood of passion) will generally bend to their united power. By as much, then, as the resisting temptation is found to be the more difficult task, by so much is the undertaking more honourable, and the attainment of the end more worthy of effort: for, if human creatures contented themselves with only endeavouring at easy objects, how much, and in what, would they be superior to the brute that perisheth?

Our Maker originally implanted in the breast of every one of us, a certain portion of each of the senses, proper to intelligent beings, but it remains for ourselves to cultivate the ground, and nourish the plants, which He has placed therein. The germ is not wanting: care and persevering attention cannot fail in bringing it to maturity. Possessing the valuable qualities which have been already mentioned, I should imagine that no person would deny, for one moment, (unless from the pure love of contradiction) that strength of mind is to them who possess it, a most useful, nay, a divine point of character-and to those, who do not possess it, that it would be a most desirable acquirement. If, then, this quality of the mind be of so high a value, why does any man, not possessing, neglect to attempt its gradual acquirement? Some will say, alas! I can see most plainly the beauty and manliness of the virtue you recommend, and much and sincerely do I grieve that it is beyond my reach; I am too far gone in my weakness, and the attempt at amendment would only be followed by stronger confirmation of my evil habits. To these, I answer, try the experiment, it can do no harm-try it, not by a sudden and violent change of all your habitual follies or vices into the extremes of rigid virtue, (for, this would be making too strong a contrast, and attempting much with insufficient means, and destitute of experience) but by a gentle and gradual withdrawing of your mind and body from the broad way