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oment, and blushed at his own uncharitable suspicion. He was only engaged in the pious devotions of a Christian.

His simple or'ison being finished, the little man in black withdrew his eyes from the east, and, taking my grandfather by the hand, and making a motion with the other towards the sun,-" I love to contemplate it,” said he; “it is an emblem of the universal benevolence of a true Christian ;and it is the most glorious work of Him who is philanthropy itself.” My grandfather blushed still deeper at his ungenerous surmises. He had pitied the stranger at first; but now he revered him. He turned once more to regard him, but his countenance had undergone a change :-the holy enthusiasm, that had lighted up each feature, had given place to an expression of mysterious import :-a gleam of grandeur seemed to steal across his Gothic visage, and he appeared full of some mighty secret which he hesitated to impart.

He raised his tattered night-cap, which had sunk almost over his eyes; and, waving his withered hand with a slow and feeble expression of dignity—“In me,” said he, with laconic solemnity,—“In me you behold the last descendant of the renowned Linkum Fidelius !”-My grandfather gázed at him with reverence; for, though he had never heard of the illustrious personage, thus pompously announced, yet there was a certain black-letter dignity in the name, that peculiarly struck his fancy, and commanded his respect.

“ You have been kind to me, "continued the little man in black, after a momentary pause,

Wand richly will I requite your kindness by making you heir of my treasures ! In yonder large deal box are the volumes of my illustrious ancestor, of which I alone am the fortunate possessor. Inherit them :-ponder over them, and be wise.”

He grew faint with the exertion he had made, and sunk back, almost breathless, on his pillow. His hand, which, inspired with the importance of the subject, he had raised to my grandfather's arm, slipped from his hold, and fell over the side of the bed; and his faithful dog licked it, as if anxious to soothe the last moments of his master, and testify his gratitude to the hand that had so often cherished him.

The untaught caresses of the faithful animal were not lost upon his dying master. He raised his languid eyes, turned them on the dog,—then on my grandfather,--and, hav, ing given this silent recommendation,-closed them forever.

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The remains of the little man in black, notwithstanding the objections of many pious people, were decently interred in the church-yard of the village and his spirit, harmless as the body it once animated, has never been known to molest a living being. My grandfather complied, as far as possible, with his request. He conveyed the volumes of Linkum Fidelius to his library : he pondered over them frequently :--but whether he grew wiser, the tradition does pot mention.

This much is certain, that his kindness to the poor.descendant of Fidelius was amply rewarded by the approbation of his own heart, and the devoted attachment of the old turnspit; who, transferring his affection from his deceased master to his benefactor, became his constant attendant, and was father to a long line of runty curs, that still flourish in the family. And thus was the Cockloft library first enriched by the valuable folios of the sage Linkum Fidelius.


Danger of being a good Singer.-LONDON LITERARY


One of the pithy remarks in Lacon, though I cannot remember the precise words, amounts to this; that any man, who is an excellent å måteur singer, and reaches the age

of thirty, without, in some way or other, feeling the ruinous effects of it, is an extraordinary* man. “ True it is, and pity, 'tis 'tis true," that a quality so pleasing, and one that might be so innocent and so amiable, is often, through the weakness of “poor human' nature, converted into a bane-a very pest --and occasions it to be remarked, when this miserable result occurs, that a man had better croak like a frog, than be a good singer.

That the ruin too frequently occasioned by a man's being a good vocalist, arises from want of resolution, and from his inability to say no, when invited to a feast; or, when there, to use the same denying monosyllable, when pressed to take another glass, and then-what then ?-why, another; cannot be denied; and that such is the manifest and frequent consequence, he who. runs may read! A few mornings ago, I was accidentally reading the Morn

Pron. ex-tror-de-ner-e.

ing Herald, in the committee-room, when my attention was roused by a sort of debate at the table, between the presiding overseer, the master of the workhouse, and a pauper, who wanted permission to go out for a holýdayOn raising my head, I discovered, in the pauper, a young man, rather above thirty, to describe whose carbuncled face would be impossible, and whose emaciated appearance bespoke premature decay, and the grossest intemperance; whilst the faculties of his mind were evidently shown, by his conversation, to be as impaired as his body.

To my surprise, I discovered, in this shadow of a man, one who had been, but a very few years prior to this, in a good business, from which his father had retired with a comfortable fortune, and who is still living reputably in one of the villages adjoining the metropolis. At the time I speak of, I frequently met this young man at the Freemasons', the Crown and Anchor, and other taverns, where public dinners are held, and where he was always hailed with rapture, as a second Braham ; and he really sung very delightfully; but he could not stand the flattery attendant on it, and the hard drinking, which he thought necessary, poor fellow, but which is well known to be a singer's greatest enemy.

He frequently attended two or three dinners in one day; and, in short, he altogether verified the old proverb of short life and a merry one;" and, descending in the scale of society, step by step, he exchanged his elegant tavern dining, for evening clubs and free-and-easys, till, ejected from the public-house parlour, he sunk into a frequent'er of common tap-rooms, and an associater with the vilest of the vile,-he cared not whom,--and, provided he could get liquor to drink, he cared not what.

His business had been entirely lost, long before this utter degradation; though his friends had, from time to time, with great sacrifices, upheld him; and he was, at the period spoken of, a pensioner on their bounty, and on the occasional treats still procured by his failing voice; till, at length, finding he was attacked by a grim disease, and having become so lost to all decency of feeling as to make it impossible for his friends to take him into their houses, the parish workhouse was his only resource, where he is now paid for by those friends; an older man in constitution than his father, though still, by age, he ought to be numbered with our youths.

After he had left the room, the overseer told me that, although he could not find it in his heart to refuse this lost being his request, yet he knew that he would only go : begging round among his old friends and acquaintances, the consequence of which would, in all probability, be several days of intoxication before his return, when he would again come into the workhouse, in the same sickly state, from which, by good care and attention, he had been greatly relieved.

Let this communication, every syllable of which is true, sink deeply into the hearts of all my young male readers, who are just entering into life, and who may happen to have tolerable voices. Singing is an elegant, but, as I have shown, a dangerous accomplishment. Far be it from me to assert, that there are not many good singers, both public and private, who are prudent men. I have only sketched, feebly indeed, and slightly, what has been the result of musical talent of this sort, and what, therefore, may be the result again; and I have good reason to know, that a fate, similar to the one I have related, has befallen many a man besides him of whom I have been writing, whose youthful pride has been to be called a good singer.


The Country Clergyman.--GOLDSMITH.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich, with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour :
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train ;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast:


The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed :
The broken soldier, kindly bade* to stay,
Satet by his fire and talked the night away ;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their wo;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side:
But, in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all :
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last, faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran :
Even children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile;
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed :
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

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