can depend on the care a master of a house takes to make his cook often take physic. A few explanatory words will demonstrate that nothing can be more simple. We have said at the commencement of this article, that practice was absolutely necessary to obtain perfection in this art. Tasting continually the various dishes forms a very prominent feature in this practice. A good cook should be almost incessantly thus employed, or he will never be able to season his ragouts with a masterly hand. His palate must then be extremely delicate, that a mere nothing may stimulate it and inform him of his fault. But the continual fumes arising from the stoves, the necessity of drinking often, to cool their parched throats, the vapours arising from the walls, the bile and humours that when in motion enervate their faculties, in short all conspire to soon after a cook's taste, unless he be carefully attended to. The palate becomes in some measure incrusted, and no longer retains that tact, that quickness, that exquisite sensibility, on which depends the organ of taste; it finishes by being excoriated, and becomes as callous as the con science of an old judge. The only means of making him recover his pristine purity, delicacy and vigour, is to make him take physic, whatever resistance he may be ́inclined to oppose; for there are some who, deaf to the voice of glory, do not perceive the necessity of taking medicine when they do not feel ill. But how is the precise time when the above remedy should be put in practice to be ascertain ed? There can be no fixed period: it depends || on the person's labour, his constitution, and thousand other circumstances. But in general when you observe that your cook appears negiigent, when his ragouts are too salt, or too highly seasoned, you may be assured that his palate has lost its faculty of tasting, and that it is time to call in the apothecary to your assistance. He must first be well prepared by two days regimen, and then a potion composed of manna, senna, and salts must be administered to him, the dose of which must be regulated according to the more or less insensibility of his palate; you must after wards allow him one day of complete rest; renew the potion to free him of all humours, let two days of perfect rest again follow this last medicine, and you may after this flatter yourself to have at the head of your kitchen a quite regenerated man. This recipe, to insure a good cheer is not a joke. It is practised in all families where the Amphitryon is desirous of carefully preserving the honour of his table. All eminent cooks submit to it without a murmur; and to prevent any opposition on their part, it ought to be men tioned to them as the first article of their engage ment. He who would make any objection would prove that he is not born to soar above the vulgar, and this indifference to glory would immediately make him be ranged in that class of simple artisans, who all their lives are destined to remain low born scullions. O you, who wish to enjoy the pleasures of the table in its highest perfection, make your cooks often take physic, for this precaution is indispensably necessary to its attainment. FAMILIAR LETTERS ON PHYSIOGNOMY. LETTER V. superficial knowledge only, but it ought never to be chosen for the basis of a settled opinion. Sunken eyes always indicate some degree of wit, or at least of fire, which might have been improved into wit; and you will find that a florid complexion expresses a better temper than a pale and lived hue. Cæsar gave a strong instance of his knowledge in physiognomy, when he answered his friend, who advised him to mistrust Anthony and Dolabella, "I do not fear those fair and florid complexioned men, but those meagre and pale visages," pointing at Brutus and Cassius. PERMIT me, before I enter upon this important subject, to recall to your mind a rule written by Aristotle, and which I have already mentioned to you. It is, that we ought not to form a decided opinion upon any point from the authority of one single sign, but the union of several. Thus, should the complexion and the conformation of the face not agree together, to give any judgment would be a rash and improper act. There are, however, some peculiar cases which, even according to Aristotle's doctrine, are not subjected to the same general rule, thus one sign may sometimes be'so expressive as to equal the value of two or three; it may also prove sufficient to those who wish to obtain all dowed him; for a visible difference exists be The next important rule, is that which teaches you to distinguish the accidental physiognomy of a man from that with which nature has en tween them. That usual state of the features, which I call permanent physiognomy, is often altered by an unforeseen accident, which produces a new character of physiognomy, which, as I told you before, I will style accidental. I can scarcely refrain from laughing, when I read, in the works of ignorant people, the pitiful reasonings of which they make use, to affix a meaning to the large or small size of the head, the length or shortness of the nose, the fat or meagre state of the body. They grant to all these signs nearly the same signification, with the hope of surprising us by their number, if the proofs they attempt to bring forward be found too weak to convince us It happens sometimes, that as they repeat the same stories to every being who longs to have his physiognomy explored, they may meet with truth, but they are not in general to be trusted upon. The most apparently perfect symmetry of the shape, the most regular proportions, are not always the heralds of an excellent disposition. How many pleasing tempers do we not often descry beneath a rugged exterior! We are not therefore to judge of the superior qualities of the mind from the beauty or ugliness of its mansion of clay. The complexion of a face, and conformation of the features, are the most solid foundations upon which our theory may rest. To them I will add also the eyes, those expressive luminaries of the body; and I will give you the scale of the different powers of these signs. The complexion indicates the passions in general; the conformation, or ensemble, those that are most habitual to us, and the eyes, their duration, moderation, or excesses. Whoever has reflected on the principles of Our nature, well knows, that the fluids as they circulate through the organized matter with which our bodies are composed, tinge the very outsides of the channels through which they flow, with their predominant colour. Whether through its transparency, or the incessant return of those same fluids to the same places, our skin preserves a shade of their native die, and thus reveals their nature to our knowledge. Their hues are as varied as their motions: some run rapidly, while others move but slowly; some are red, others of a leaden cast, some are yellow, others green and even black. Every one may have remarked that florid visages wear the appearance of cheerfulness, while those of a livid complexion, seem dark and sad. The vivacity of the man endowed with the first may be very great, but will not last, while that of the other knows no end. When I have been told that such a person was of a very lively and excellent temper, easily bursting into a passion but as easily appeased, the sole idea which arose in my mind was that of a fair and florid complexioned man. When I have heard of a gloomy disposition, the hidden fire of which was never extinguished, my imagination presented me with a picture of a pale face. You may remark, that love of pleasure is equally expressed by both; but in the first it will be productive of follies alone, while in the other it may give birth to the most unbridled excesses. The former are capable of sacrificing their lives in the pursuit of enjoyment; the latter, of leading those who accompany them in their wild seach for it, to utter destruction. Pleasing and lively passions are expressed by lively colours, and the contrary ones by dark hues. It would be of no avail to bring forward the complexion of the Africans to overturn my argument, as the attentive and constant observer will discover as much real difference between their black, as between the white of the Europeans. But we are more used to behold men of our own colour, and seldom find ourselves in company with several negroes, to be able to descry distinctly their every shade. One instance alone will suffice to prove the truth of my argument; is not the blush of modesty widely different from the animated hue of anger? Many people are very sorry not to have the power of checking their blushes in certain cases, either when they betray the consciousness of a fault, or proceed from the pure spring of innocence afraid of being suspected. But no reasoning can persuade me that the reddening shame which overspreads the face of the guilty, can bear any resemblance to the colour which dies the cheeks of the innocent. Before I finish this letter, I must again repeat, that the complexion being only one of the signs which I have mentioned, it has no weight but with the concurrence of others, and is in itself more liable to error than any other. It denotes the germ of a passion, but not its fruits: education, necessity, the caprices of fortune, and especially the dictates of religion and virtue, the two celestial and inseparable allies, may stifle it in its birth, and the outward appearance may still remain visible, and deceive our observation. In my next I will treat of the conformation or ensemble of our bodies, and of the eyes. (To be continued.) E. R. POETRY, ORIGINAL AND SELECT. THE HUNGARIAN GIPSY's SONG. FROM Presburg's plain, from Bada's tow'rs, From old Carpathia's mountains drear, To bounteous halls and fruitful bow'rs, We charter'd libertines repair. There by Danube's silent wave, Or 'mid the shades of Szelitz's cave, Our ample feast we share; While round the bowl in fearless glee, We sing of love and liberty. And oft the Vaivod's fur-clad dame, Soft-smiling thro' her azure veil, In whispers tells some cherish'd name, And fondly hears our mystic tale; While where the honied chesnet dwells, Or where the melting melon swells In Semeswara's dale; We fill the bowl with fearless glee, And sing of love and liberty. Now tho' in Alpine woods no more Our lawless revelry we hide; By Saxon wealth and Saxon pride; Still to this gem-fraught mountain's head, Or to yon river's golden bed Our weary feet we guide; Then round the bowl with fearless glee, TO THE GRASSHOPPER. LITTLE offspring of the tender spring, By Zephyr borne on flutt'ring wing; Thine is Phoebus' cheering mien, Thine is Ceres' golden reign, The greenest grass thy humble bed, On palest primrose rests thy head; The sweetest gifts of bounteous earth, That burst spontaneously to birth, Or grow beneath man's fost'ring hand, All for thee their buds expand. For thee, in snowy vesture spread, The modest Lily rears its head; For thee around the blushing Rose Its sweetest, softest, fragance throws; When wearied, heavy hang thy eyes, The Poppy then her pow'r applies, Bid thy light wing to cease its flight, Till cheer'd by Sol's returning light. And when stern winter's frowns severe Proclaim how changed the smiling year, Its chilling pow'r thou canst defy, Give Sol a kind adieu-and die, AN ORIGINAL AIR, BY A CASMERIAN INDIAN. WHEN shall we three meet again? When shall we three meet again? Oft shali glowing hope expire, Oft shall wearied love retire, Oft shall death and sorrow reign Ere we three shall meet again! The' it distant lands we sigh, Parch'd beneath a hostile sky, Tho' the deep between us rolls, Friendship shall unite our souls; Still in fancy's rich domain Oft shall we three meet again. When around this youthful pine Moss shall creep and ivy twine, When our burnish'd locks are grey, Thinn'd by many a toil-spent day; May this long-lov'd bow'r remain, Here may we three meet again! When the dreams of life are fled, When its wasted lamp is dead, When in cold oblivion's shade Beauty, pow'r and fame are laid, Where immortal spirits reign Then may we three meet again ! Clipstone-street. A. TOLL. MARIA, OR THE MOTHER'S DIRGE. BY WILLIAM CAREY. DIRGE THE SECOND. How fragrant is the breath of spring; Oh list, how sweet, my daughter. The morning sky is ting'd with gold: Awake, arise; my daughter. Art thou so fast in slumber bound? No sun thy narrow house can cheer: No voice is heard, my daughter. No play-mate can to thee repair; The silent worm,—my daughter. Of late, I mark'd on Avon's side, And thought on thee, my daughter. Alas, in one revolving hour, How like thy fate, my daughter. The spring is past, it swiftly fled; And blighted thee, my daughter. But ah, the graces of thy mind, Can I forget, my daughter? Since I must quit this fatal place, And press thy hand, my daughter. Or could I ope' thy lowly shrine, And sleep with thee, my daughter. LINES Occasioned by the departure of a Friend for Canada. UNRUFFLED the wave and unclouded the sky, The sails gently swelling as kissed by the wind, Sweet England receding, the passenger's eye Still look'd but in vain for the prospect behind. The cliffs proudly rising no more can he view (Which the sailor, return'd after many a storm, Hails with transport as beacons of happiness true,) Not a shadow is left for sweet fancy to form. In vain would he catch, at the close of the day, For the last time, the sound of some far distant bell; But nought-save the vessel dividing its way, Is heard-or the boatswain proclaiming "all's well." Down my cheek let the tear be permitted to steal, At the song I have caroll'd, my bosom to swell; Believe me, "'tis hard to be parted," I feelBelieve me, "'tis hard to be saying farewell;" And perchance too, "for ever. "Before I return, Of those whom I leave with so keen a regret, Haply some will be gone to that far distant bourne, And the friend of their youth-haply others forget. As I dwell on the thought shadows transiently rise, And my breast, at the sound of " for ever," beats high; But a glance of sweet sunshine from Anna's bright eyes, Bids the gloom be no more, and disperses the sigh. Yes, Anna, with thee I contented will roam; With thee the wild beauties of nature explore; As thy falls in the sun, Niagara shall foam, We with awe will their mighty creator adore. When the beautiful white bird announces the spring, And the flowers of the cotton tree glisten with dew; When their fragrance around palms and cedartrees fling, We will far from the dog star their solitude woo. When for mirth and for converse the circle we form, At the social fireside, when snow covers the ground, The white bird, mentioned in the 9th verse, is the chief Canadian bird of melody; it is a kind of ortolan, and remarkable for announcing the return of spring. The cotton-tree is peculiar to Canada; tufts of flowers grow on its top, which, when shaken in the morning, before the dew falls off, produce honey that may be boiled up into sugar; the Adieu, England! adieu, then my dear native seed being a pod, containing a very fine kind of land, Ye winds on your wings kindly waft my adieu; Many years must pass by, e'er again on your strand I may hope the sweet joys of the past to renew. cotton. Immense forests apparently coeval with the world, abound in North America; trees in an endless variety of species, losing themselves in the clouds. TO A YELLOW BUTTERFLY. BY A YOUNG LADY. Hail, loveliest insect of the Spring! O! lovely is thy airy form, That wears the Primrose hue so fair; It seems as if a passing storm Had rais'd the beauteous flower in air! Far different from the spotted race TIME AND CUPID. His life in travelling always spent, And call'd for aid with all his might: "Will none have pity on my years, "I that preside in every clime? "O, my good friends, and passengers, "Lend, lend a hand to pass old Time!" Full many a young and sprightly lass, Upon the adverse bank appear'd, Who eager sought old time to pass, On a small bark by Cupid steer'd ; Repeated oft this moral rhyme- And gave his canvass to the gale. He oft exclaim'd,-" Observe, my lasses, "Attend the burden of my song, "How sprightly Time with Cupid passes !" At length the urchin weary grew, For soon or late 'tis still the case; He dropped the oar and rudder tooTime steer'd the vessel in his place. No. XX. Vol. III. WELCOME hither, airy trav'ler, If along the trackless ocean, Thou by chance hast miss'd the way, I have news of note to freight thee, Love shall be thy pilot now. Shun, I pray thee, gentle stranger, Touch not Gallia's hated shore, There is death, and certain danger, She is stain'd with royal gore.* But to happier Britian tend thee, Where the milder virtues rove, And this kiss with which I send thee, Bear it to my distant love. Near her window fix thy dwelling, No rude hand shall do thee wrong, Safer far than arch or ceiling, Delia's self shall guard thy young. There a thousand soft sensations, Lull the tranquil mind to rest; Nature there, with fond persuasions, Oft shall soothe a parent's breast. Haste then, gentle bird of passage, When thou leav'st our wintry isle, Bring me back my Delia's message, Bring a kiss and bring a smile. * Perfectly coinciding in sentiment with the author of these stanzas, we cannot forbear observing, that this is a stain which will remain an everlasting blot in the annals of France. While his savage subjcets dipped their handkerchiefs and pikes in the blood of the ill fated Louis, he fell, "By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd." G |