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fluids is chiefly owing to their particles being carried away by the particles of caloric, and these pass off rapidly in a cold air. Whoever, therefore, cannot keep himself warm in windy weather, either by exercise or some other means, ought to avoid exposure to it if he has any regard for his health.

I shall hence deduce two inferences which may be useful. Spring is the season when we have to expect many cold, stormy winds. For this reason I warn my readers not to change their winter dress for lighter apparel too early. Nothing is more liable to give cold than wind. If I chose to make a parade of quotations on this subject, I should never have done transcribing. Sydenham declared, that "out of a hundred persons ill of colds and inflammation of the lungs, scarcely two would be found who had not brought these disorders on themselves. by change of clothing; that is to say, not by dressing too warmly, but not warmly enough." Boerhaave coincided in this opinion; and Hoffman recommends that "in Spring, when the wea ther grows warm, people should be ware of exchanging their warm winter apparel for lighter;" and he assures us, that it would be better to wear the same kind of dress all the year round, so as to prevent the inclement air, in all vicissitudes of weather, from penetrating the pores of the skin." But of what use is all that eminent physicians may have advanced, even though every body must allow it to be true? People follow these rules only so long as they would have done had such rules never been given; and they violate them and sacrifice themselves, as though the salvation of their country required it, merely perhaps to comply with the supposed dictates of fashion.

The second warning which I have

to give relates to a draught or current of air, which is an artificial wind that we produce in an apartment by the opening of doors and windows standing opposite to one another. An apartment, under such circumstances, should either be avoided altogether, or a person should move about in it to keep up the insensible transpiration, or shun the current of air by retiring into a corner. With these precautions a draught of air in rooms is not only innocent, but to be recommended; because it is the best method of dispersing the noxious effluvia which may have collected in them. It would, consequently, be the height of folly for a person in a profuse perspiration to place himself in a draught for the purpose of cooling himself, like a man whose case is stated by one of our physicians, and who, though previously the picture of health, died on the seventh day of an inflammation of the chest, brought on by this imprudent exposure. To act thus is to run headlong into destruction. Who, indeed, could conceive it to be necessary to forbid such things to persons having the use of their reason? But so it is in our profession. We are obliged to tell people things which their own sense ought to suggest even to the meanest understandings. We have to demonstrate positions which are not more difficult of comprehension, than that a ship must be capable of floating on the water. We have to recommend precautions which, as daily experience shows, cannot be neglected but at the hazard of life. We have to exert all our eloquence to prevail upon them not to die before they absolutely must, and to remain healthy while they may. In physic, more than in any other profession, it is incumbent on a writer to bear in mind the maxim, not to take his readers to be wiser than they really are.

SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE.

Ask of the maid, who in the cloister's gloom
Repines, the living inmate of a tomb;
By force or phrenzy severed for her kind,
Yet panting for the joys she left behind-
Ask of the mariner, whom storms have toss'd
On solitary rock, or desert coast,-
Ask of the prisoner, who, in dungeon dank,
Hears but his groans resound, his fetters clank,
Without one generous heart, or pitying eye,
To share his griefs, or sooth his agony-
Ask it of these-'tis they who best can know
If Friendship be not sweet, if Solitude be so !

35 ATHENEUM VOL. 1. 2d series.

(Gent. Mag.)

THE MOSS ROSE.

The angel who tends on the flowers,
And sprinkles them nightly with dew;
Reposing one day in their bow'rs,

A Rose-bush a shade round him threw.

Awak'ning with smiles full of love,
And pleas'd with his fragrant repose,
The thought of some token to prove
How much he regarded the Rose.

He said, my dear Child, for thy shade,
Of me ask what favour you please;
I'll grant it; for by thy sweet aid
I've slumber'd with pleasure and ease.

Confer then on me, I desire,

The Rose's wild spirit reply'd,
A charm that each maid will admire,
And wear in her bosom with pride.
With Moss I will deck thee, my Child,
The Moss Rose in future thy name;
Thus Nature with Graces so mild
Will add to thy beauty and fame.

Ye fair ones must all now confess,
That rubies and diamonds are nought,
When summon'd to finish your dress,
Compar'd with what Nature points out,

WRITTEN IN EGYPT.

PARENT of nations! Art's proud sire!

Upon thy pyramid I stand,
While the sun flings his beams of fire

Over thy desolated land.

Now, far as the strain'd eye can scan,
A sandy ocean sleeps around,
Nothing speaks out of living man

Save me and mine-there is no sound
Of aught amid this solitude
To break the silence of the waste,
And fancy paints in mournful mood,
Wild visions of th' ideal past.

For now the mind is left to guess,
How fair was once this wilderness;
As death upon some lovely frame
Tells life once breathed in beauty there,
That th' extinguish'd taper's flame

Once flash'd its radiance on the air;
Thus shadowing forth from their decay
The glories of a perish'd day.

The crown that gemm'd thy awful brow,
Thine arts, thy power-where are they now!

No wandering Arab can be seen
Within the horizon's sweep,

And I am living 'mid the scene

Where the tiar'd Pharaohs sleep

And I am trampling o'er the dead,

Full fifty ages vanished:

Those vanish'd dead-but who were they?
They pass'd and left no name :

Haply ambition in their day

Had never shown the toiling way
To cheat posterity with fame.
What ruin'd cities may be hid
Around this lofty pyramid,

Whelm'd in the desert sand;

In whose long streets the gazer's eye

Once saw amid antiquity

This wonder of his land,

Yet knew not who had rear'd it high,

But guess'd as erringly as I.

Yet the same heaven look'd out in light
Upon the toiling busy sight,
Uprearing then its glorious brow,

At morning's dawn as it does now.

O Land of that famed sound which hung
Round Memnon's mystic shrine !!

I gaze upon thy ruins flung

Like wrecks upon the brine.
I think of Memphian chivalry
Amid thy Red-Sea lost,

Of Necho and his swarthy host,
Th' avengers of their destiny

In a long after-age.

Of giant Thebes that now defies

The waste of years and human rage
Beneath these burning skies:

Her very wrecks are mighty still;
They scorn our strength and mock our skill.
Here, in the light of beauty's eye
That charm'd him with its witchery,

The Roman lost a world.
Here Cæsar's mighty rival died,
And, one poor foot of earth denied,

With scorn was headless hurl'd ;
And he who captived king and throne,
Had not a grave to call his own.
Mark, ye who sail ambition's tide,
The bitter sum of human pride!

But wherefore call up ancient years?
Enough within my view appears
To minister to thought:
The desolation reigning here
Speaks to the mind in accents clear

Things schoolmen never taught.
Behold, the horizon's self is clad
In a strange hue and livery sad,
Like th' impressive calm that reigns
Mournful o'er earthquake-riven plains,
That the "mind's eye" can see full well,
But language hath no skill to tell;
Seeming to grieve the mighty day
Of its pass'd glories rent away;
Even their very record flown,
Unwrit, unregister'd, unknown.

The camel waits his lord below;

The turban'd guides my musings break;

I must away-yet ere I go

One parting glance around me take, Then bury 'mid a Moslem crew

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IT

(Lon. Lit. Gaz.)

A TRUE TALE.

T was on the afternoon of a lovely day in summer, a veteran Tar came whistling through the narrow lane that cuts off a considerable portion of the main road between Plymouth and Exeter, and shortens the journey to the weary traveller. There was something in his whole appearance so peculiarly interesting and neat, that the passenger, after receiving his "What cheer, what cheer?" could not refrain from turning round and stopping to take another look. Indeed that sparkling eye of good-humour'd pleasantry, that countenance displaying at once the generous benevolence of his heart, was not easily pass'd by unnoticed, or readily forgotten. His ⚫ dress consisted of a blue jacket and white trowsers, a straw hat bound with black riband thrown carelessly back upon his head, so as to display the straggling locks of silver'd grey that flow'd beneath, and a black silk handkerchief loosely knotted round his neck, over which lay the white collar of his shirt; a short cudgel was tuck'd under his arm. He had now reach'd the inn by the way-side where he purposed heaving to, to hoist in a fresh supply of grog and biscuit for the voyage. Crossing the threshold, and entering the passage, his ears were saluted with vile discordant sounds of some one in a terrible passion. "Never throw hot water and ashes to windward, (says the old Tar, shortening sail ;) I'd sooner engage a squadron of fire-ships than one woman in a rage. They're sure to have the last broad side, even while sinking." He was putting about to stand off again, when a sweet voice, in plaintive supplication, struck upon his heart, and brought him up. 'Twas in reply to the vociferations of the termagant, and he remain'd backing and filling in the passage. "What, money-clothes-all lost, did you say? (exclaimed a rough strain'd throat, something resembling the combined noise of a blacksmith's bellows and a flint-mill-All gone, eh ?"'Yes, Ma'am, all-all is lost to me,' replied a female, in tones which would have excited pity in any heart that

claim'd the smallest acquaintance with humanity. "So you think that story will do, eh? (continued the first ;) 'twont though, Missus, so you must tramp. I don't keep a house for vagrums, and sich like." 'Indeed, indeed, 'tis true; the villains robb'd me of all, and I've walk'd many, many weary miles. Oh but for a piece of bread-a little cold water!-can you deny me this? Indeed, I've not been used to beg.'-"Why that's the way with all you canting creatures-all ladies, forsooth! Where do you come from?" "Oh, Ma'am, I'm a wretched girl, yet I was once happy; sorrow has indeed reach'd me-lost, lost, Lucy!" "Ha, I see how it is! What, you've been with the fellows, have you?

Why, you good-for-nothing !— there, get out of my house-get out, I say!" Can you have the cruelty to let me perish? Where-where shall I find compassion, if my own sex refuse it! Oh remember, that mercythat pity is the attribute of angels!'"Don't talk to me of angels, hussy! and as for tributes, there's sesses, and taxes, and poors'-rates enough-Out, I say! What you want, eh? Here, John! Bet! where are you all? you pack of idle vagabonds! Here, take this Miss and turn her out." "Oh let me implore your pity-here humbly let me beg' This was too much for our honest Tar. Entering the kitchen, he beheld a young girl, plainly but neatly dress'd, on her knees before an old woman. The tears were running down her pale face, and she seem'd fainting with fatigue and grief, while a man grasp'd one shoulder, a boy the other, and a maid-servant together, were attempting to force her out. "Yo-hoy, what's the matter here! (said the veteran, flinging the man to the opposite side of the room, and giving the boy a trip that laid him sprawling on the other.) Cowardly, lubberly rascals! what, grapple a vessel in distress? And you (turning to the Landlady) to stand looking on! Is this a Christian country? For shame, old woman !" "Old woman, forsooth! What you takes the part of

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John, stop, I'll go myself for the poor dear." "Ha, ha, ha! what a generous heart! (cried Will;) how readily it expands at the voice of distress! Here's the key will unlock the floodgates of her benevolence at any time, (holding up a guinea.) But come, pretty one, (drawing a chair,) sit down and rest.” "Oh, Sir, how shall I ever repay your bounty?" said Lucy. "Wait till 1 ax you," replied Will, who felt hurt at the idea of being repaid. "Here, Miss, (said the Landlady, entering,) take this nice cake and wine, 'twill do you good. God bless your sweet face! why, do you think I would go for to hurt a bair of your bead ?” "I"There, there, there's enough of itno more palaver, I arn't agreed for that, you know, though I suppose you'll consider it in the bill." Luckily at this moment, to prevent the gathering storm, the bell rung violently in another room, and she disappeared. "Come, come, don't be backward, never mind an old Sailor, (said Will.) Refresh yourself, and then tell me what I can do to serve you; speak as if I was your father." 'Oh, Sir, don't talk of my father-I have fixed a wound in his heart- "There, there, don't cry, I carn't bear to see a woman's tears, it makes a fool of me; but tell me honestly all about it, for I've got to be at old Admiral M's by night." "Of

the young-un, eh? But she shall
budge directly." "I say she shan't
then. Come here, pretty one, and no-
body shall harm you while old Will
Block can keep the weather-gage."
"Well, this is fine treatment, too, in
my own house! And you, ye rapscal-
lions, who eat my victuals and take
my wages, to see it tamely! Lay hold
of her, I say." "Touch her if you
dare, (says old Will, flourishing his
stick,) and I'll-I'll-Aye, that's
right, keep off, for if you come athwart
my hawse, blow my wig but I'll cut
your cables!" Poor Lucy had got
close to his side; but fearing her pro-
tector would be injured by his genero-
sity, she entreated him to desist.
am not worthy your notice, Sir ;-only
a drop of water, for I am very faint."
"Shall have the best the house affords,
while I've a shot in the locker. Go
along, old Mother Squeeze-lemon, and
get something for the poor child; don't
you see she's all becalmed ?" "What,
give my property to vagrums and
wenches!-not I, indeed! Will you
pay the reckoning ?" Avast, old
Grampus! think of this here when you
stands at another bar, and the last great
reckoning comes-how will you look
then? This will stand a black account
against you, and what'll you have to
rub it off with, eh? Go, get her a glass
of wine." "And who's to pay? Wine,
indeed! get her some water, Jack,"
said the now alarmed Landlady, for
Will's reflection, and the solemn man-
ner in which it was utter'd, operated
powerfully on her conscience. "Heave
to, you porpoise-faced swab-none of
your water; get us some wine, and
the best in the house, too, d'ye hear?
why, what's the lubber grinning at!
Will this satisfy you, ye old she-shark?
(thrusting his hand into his jacket-
pocket, and drawing it out again fill'd
with gold)-Will this satisfy you?"
The landlady's countenance brighten'd
up: "Why if so be as how you means
to pay for it, that's another thing.
Well, well, I dare says you're a gen-
tleman, after all. Come, child, (to Lu-
cy,) I'm sorry I was so harsh, but it's
only my way. There, run, John, and
fetch a bottle of my best wine, and
some of those nice sweet cakes-Stop,

Grove?' en

And

quired Lucy, much agitated. "Why
aye; do you know him ?” No, Sir;
but-but I have seen-I have been in
company with his nephew;' and again
she burst into tears as if her heart would
break. "Why aye, I see how it is;
knock old Will down for a witch. I
see how it is; this is some of Master
Tommy's doings, eh? Zounds! (clinch-
ing his fist)-but no matter
where are you come from?" From
my father's, Sir." "And who is your
father!" "Oh do not ask me; my
name is Lucy B-"What, the
daughter of old B- that was in the
Venerable as first Lieutenant ?" Yes,
I am indeed his wretched daughter."
"Zounds! why (starting up in a pas
sion)-why, and has Tom dared-bu
don't be frighten'd, don't be frighten'd
And so you have deserted your home

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and my poor old friend ?" Spare me, Sir, spare me: if my father was indeed your friend, who succour his erring child!" "Well, well, my upper works get crazy now-hardly able to weather the storm. But the villain that would betray innocence, and then abandon his victim-zounds!-but come, come along." I thought of going to the Admiral's, Sir." "To be sure, to be sure; we'll be under weigh in a minute." "Yet, Sir, perhaps he will not see me, or it may be injurious to his interests; and oh I would willingly die to serve him, for he has a feeling heart.'"A what! a feeling heart! Why are you here then! But come along, sweetheart ;" and discharging the reckoning, they set of in company.

Of all the eccentric beings in this eccentric world, old Admiral Mwas the most eccentric. He had risen solely by merit from the station of Cabin-boy to Vice-Admiral of the White; and 'twas ever his boast that he had never skulk'd in great men's pockets, nor been afraid to dip his hands in a tar-bucket. "I came in at the hawse-holes, (he would say,) and didn't creep in at the cabin-windows." He had been known to absent himself from home for weeks together, and no one could tell where he went, or what had become of him, till his repeated acts of generous bounty discover'd the track he had taken. He would frequently return home without previous notice, enter the house unobserved, ring his bell, and order refreshments, as if he had never quitted it. Not an old sailor that ever sailed with him but was welcome to partake of his cheer; and those who had been his messmates previous to his mounting the uniform, (if of good character, but not success ful as himself,) always sat at his own table. Possessed of an immense fortune, which he was accustom'd to say was drawn from the Spanish Stocks, yet without children, for he was a bachelor, he had adopted his nephew, determin❜d to leave him the bulk of his property. The young man, who real ly was naturally of an amiable disposition, on this accession to his uncle's favour, associated with some of the

dashing characters of the day, and became tinctured with their vices and follies. He had been introduced to the family of Lieut. B by a brother Officer, and that acquaintance which terminated so sadly for poor Lucy, was begun. Yet he passionately loved her; but fearing the condemnation of the Admiral, and the loss of his patronage, he had withdrawn himself from Exeter, without even bidding her farewell, choosing rather to immure himself from the world than break the oath he had pledged to Lucy, or disoblige his Uncle by marrying without his consent, knowing that the old gentleman was ambitious for his nephew to look for a wife agreeable to the high prospects in view before him, and equally convinced that to thwart his inclinations would but annihilate all his hopes, and cast him adrift upon the world. Such was the state of affairs when Lucy left her home to endeavour to gain an interview with her lover, and fell in with old Will, who in early life, according to his own account, had sailed with the Admiral, and was now going to pay him a visit, and see some of his old messmates, of whom the principal part of the household was composed. She had been plunder'd by some villains of all she possess'd at day-break, but still continued her journey, till worn with hunger and faint with fatigue, she enter'd the inn and implored assistance.

The shades of evening fell on the landscape as they pass'd under the avenue of trees that led to Grove House. Will having promised to exert himself in obtaining an interview between Mr. Mand his convoy, left her at a short distance and proceeded onward. Almost overpower'd by her reflections, and every pulse throbbing violently with agitation, she lean'd against the trunk of a tree, expecting to see the being whom, hext Heaven, she loved most tenderly. 'Twas now too dark to distinguish objects, but she could hear footsteps approaching, and she sunk without sense or motion to the ground. On recovery, she found herself sitting on a couch in a small room, and the old housekeeper, with other females, sedu

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