Job, as an example of patience and heroic self enduring. The next day I was invited to dine with him, in order that we might have some wholsome conversation on the virtue of self-denial. At the hour of dinner, the cook came in with an apology for spoiling the turbot. The minister was perfectly indignant: he foamed at the mouth with passion, and licked his lips in the agony of disappointed epicurism. I immediately endeavoured to console him: I drew up a catalogue of all those who had lost their dinners, dwelt much on the advantages of resignation; and quoted Job as an example of patience and heroic self-enduring. "Job, sir, he vociferated, when I had concluded, "lost only his wife; he never lost so fine a turbot as I have." I thought this a tolerably fair specimen of a Methodist preacher. I was by this time tolerably well versed in disappointments. Religion, or rather let me say, the abuse of it, I found to be the grand obstacle to every species of intellectual improvement. A friend was not to be expected in one who was bigotted to his own peculiar notions of the Deity, and at the same time a total abandonment of all religious persuasion, gave a most appalling license to human gratifications. What then was I to do? I could never meet with a friend either in bigotry or atheism. Could I look for him in the mean between both opinions? Undoubtedly not. There I discovered an indifference, an apathy to all things, that was truly grating to a foreigner of even common sensibility. I was at last informed, that as literature had the effect of enlightening the understanding, and improving the qualities of the heart, I might meet with friendship among the votaries of science. I was introduced accordingly to what was technically called a knot of literary men. But the selfishness I found among them perfectly disgusted me. In conversation they were each trying for the mastery; and in their accredited publications they were always vilifying the talents of their intimate friends. This abuse went by the name of impartial criticism. If one author succeeded with the public, a hundred of his dearest friends wrote long books to prove that the approbation was unmerited. There was a terrible cry of" the abuse of the press," though I observed that those who joined loudest in the cry, were the foremost to cause the abuse. At the time I was connected with the gang, the literary world was divided in its opinion respecting the poems of the unfortunate Chatterton. One party extolled them as originals; and some musty antiquaries averred that, they were the genuine remnants of antiquity. In the midst of this wordy controversy, while all the world joined in applauding the talents of the young poet, there was none found who would rescue him from the bitter gripe of poverty. Touch a man's pocket, and you touch his lifeblood. The poor boy felt the force of this acutely, and put an end to his life by poison. On the intelligence of his decease, thousands of elegies were inflicted on his memory; and quartos after quartos issued from the teeming press, to prove that he was the most extraordinary genius that had ever existed. Such, however, will always be the case with writers of genuine merit; for as intellect is on the march, so men of talent are, as it were, the pioneers that are greatly in advance of the main body, and must consequently wait for the applause due to their abilities until the majority of their companions have reached them. I had now seen sufficient of the different religions of mankind, to enable me to form a pretty correct estimate of the powers of the mind, and the qualities of the heart. I discovered that a friend was a phenomenon rarely to be met with, for that the climate was too cold for the growth of so heavenly an exotic. Wearied with anxieties, and apprehensive of my future transmigrations, I resolved to end my days on the peaceful banks of the Ganges, and left England with an intention of never again returning. On the coast of Africa we encountered a most tremendous storm. The billows ran mountain high, and threatened at every return to engulph us in the wide ocean. The sailors were paralyzed with fear. Some got drunk from pure consternation; and others sank on their knees with promises of immediate amendment. One passenger I shall never fergot. He was young; and but lately married to a beautiful Spanish girl. He saw her agitation, and as he pressed her to his heart with fondness, supported her drooping spirits by the hope of a speedy cessation of the tempest. She replied not to his words, but pressed her pale form still closer to his bosom. At this instant a wave separated them from each other, and precipitated the young girl into the foaming ocean. We saw her rise for an instant on the summit of the billow, and recognize her lover at a glance; she then waved a last fare well to us all, and sunk for ever in the watery abyss. The young man said nothing; he stood, with folded arms, the mute spectre of despair, and merely whispered, "the will of heaven be done." From this time I was unconscious of every occurrence, until I awoke as from a deep trance, on the coast of Angola. Some Indians were passing by the coast, and to them I shouted for assistance. I was recognized with considerable difficulty, and carried many leagues up the country, to afford a feast to these native tribes of cannibals. I was borne in triumph to a village, where I discovered the legs and arms of men hung up, like butcher's meat in the European shambles. Many Indians advanced to bid for me; and even before my death, steaks were purchased from my loins. Two butchers in this inhuman traffic quarrelled about the price to be paid down for my liver; and a nobleman of the country invited a party of friends to a sirloin from my unhappy carcase. At last, after I had been tolerably well fatted with banyans, cocoas, and corn rice, the day approached for my execution. I was forthwith conducted into the midst of a vast plain, where I was to be whipped, like a calf, to death. The executioners approached; they had already commenced the pleasant process of flagellation, when an eclipse of the sun (an omen of ill import to these superstitious barbarians) saved my liver, and deprived the nobleman of his sirloin. In the mean time I managed to effect my escape. The Indians had fled in terror, and I stole away unperceived. After numerous fatigues, which past experience enabled me to sustain, I reached Alexandria in safety. From this place I procured a vessel which was sailing for Calcutta, and hailed once more the prospect of the deep-blue ocean. Never can I forget my transport when the vessel sailed up the majestic Ganges, and I once again came in sight of my native hills and vallies. Every thing I beheld was dear to my childhood. Here was the place where I had so often wandered in the thoughtless hours of infancy, when life was yet new, and innocence lent a charm to its enjoyments. The beautiful sun still came up in his splendour, as when he last shone down upon my father's peaceful cottage; the shrubs still waved their blossoms in the twilight breeze; the streams still whispered gently in their beds, as when a boy, I listened to their echoes; and man, only man, was changed. He had gone to com mune with the spirit of dead ages; and the same flowers that he reared in life, now waved over him in death. On landing, I inquired of my relations, and found that they had, all gone down into the narrow house, and that I was left alone upon earth. There was one friend in particular, to whom, in happier days, I had been warmly attached. I visited his once peaceful abode, it was a ruin, overgrown with trailing weeds. No sound welcomed me as I approached; and the voice that was once so cheerful, was now silent in the grave. I requested to see his tomb, and that I might offer up a prayer to Veshnoo on his sod. It was shown me, and I resolved to pass the remainder of my days on the spot. as I have now lived a long time in solitude, and the hour is fast approaching when my name shall be known no longer. Still I shall not be altogether forgotten, if this brief record of my adventures shall excite the curiosity or commiseration of mankind. I set out in life with sensibility warm in the pursuit of a friend. From my own beautiful religion, as well from the sincerity with which it is reverenced by the Brahmins, I imagined that all religions were equally pure, all votarists equally sincere. But I have been mistaken in my conjectures. I fancied that friendship was only to be found in unison with piety, whereas it is rarely found either with or without it. In prosecuting my search after affection, I was blinded by a misguided enthusiasm. I should have judged mankind by the records of ages, and not foolishly have set up a standard of excellence, suggested only by the warmth of my own feelings. I should then have found a friend in the High Churchman, the Spaniard, the Mahometan, the Methodist, and even the literary waspling; and we might have lived for years together, without once discovering that our principles were diametrically opposite. As it is, I am left alone upon the earth; a wretch in the midst of happiness. I see all around me tranquil, but am unable to enjoy tranquillity myself. The poor Indian goes out in the morning, and sings while he plies his task of labour, to return at night into the bosom of domestic happiness; while I, to whom nature has unfolded her book of knowledge, to whom experience has communicated her treasures, am cursed in the possession of those treasures. In my native country I must never find a friend; my sensibility exacts too much; and where is the man who can brook a superior? >Yet a few days, yet a few brief days, and the transmigrations reserved for me will commence. The mighty Avater will descend in the pomp of thunder and lightning, and demand, in the name of Veshnoo, the completion of his measureless revenge. Perhaps, in animating the soul of another animal, I may know tranquillity that I have never yet experienced. As an eagle, I may sail majestically through the clouds, gather light from the sun-beam, and rapture from the whirlwind. As a leviathan, I may gambol in the vast depths of the ocean; or, as a lion, rival the voice of the living thunder. Still I shall be the foe-the hated foe of mankind; and, perhaps, in the shape of a calf, I may afford a fillet of veal to the Methodist who lost his turbot; or, under the likeness of a young lady, give to the stoic an opportunity of enlarging" on the harmonious aptitude of the creation, and the universal consentaneousness of things."-Déjeuné. DIARY OF AN OLD BACHELOR, AND AN OLD MAID. Years. THE BACHELOR. 16.-Incipient palpitations towards the young ladies. 17.-Blushing and confusion in conversing with them. 18.-Confidence in conversing with them, much increased. 19.-Angry if treated by them as a boy. 20.-Very conscious of his own charms and manliness. 21.-A looking-glass indispensable in his room, to admire himself. 22.-Insufferable puppyism. 23.-Thinks no woman good enough for him. 24. Caught unawares by the snares of Cupid. 25.-The connexion broken off, from self-conceit on his part. 26. Conducts himself with much superiority towards her. 27.-Pays his addresses to another lady, not without hope of mortifying the first. 28.-Mortified and frantic at being refused. 29.-Rails against the fair sex in general, |