are all which we should have to subsist upon in this country, if we trusted to the spontaneous productions of the soil; and it fares not much better with other countries. A nation of North American savages, consisting of two or three hundred, will take up and be half starved upon a tract of land which in Europe, and with European management, would be sufficient for the maintenance of as many thousands.

In some fertile soils, together with great abundance of fish upon their coasts, and in regions where clothes are unnecessary, a considerable degree of population may subsist without property in land, which is the case in the islands of Otaheite; but in less-favoured situations, as in the country of New Zealand, though this sort of property obtain in a small degree, the inhabitants, for want of a more secure and regular establishment of it, are driven oftentimes by the scarcity of provision to devour one another.

II. It preserves the produce of the earth to maturity.

We may judge what would be the effects of a community of right to the productions of the earth from the trifling specimens which we see of it at present. A cherrytree in a hedgerow, nuts in a wood, the grass of an unstinted pasture, are seldom of much advantage to anybody, because people do not wait for the proper season of reaping them. Corn, if any were sown, would never ripen; lambs and calves would never grow up to sheep and cows, because the first person that met them would reflect that he had better take them as they are than leave them for another.

III. It prevents contests.

War and waste, tumult and confusion, must be unavoidable and eternal where there is not enough for all, and where there are no rules to adjust the divis ion.

IV. It improves the conveniency of living.

This it does two ways. It enables mankind to divide themselves into distinct professions, which is impossible, unless a man can exchange the productions of his own art for what he wants from others, and exchange implies property. Much of the advantage of civilized over savage life depends upon this. When a man is, from necessity, his own tailor, tent-maker, carpenter, cook, huntsman and fisherman, it is not probable that he will be expert at any of his callings. Hence, the rude habitations, furni ture, clothing, and implements of savages, and the tedious length of time which all their operations require.

It likewise encourages those arts by which the accommodations of human life are supplied, by appropriating to the artist the benefit of his discoveries and improvements, without which appropriation, ingenuity will never be exerted with effect.

Upon these several accounts we may venture, with a few exceptions, to pronounce that even the poorest and the worst provided, in countries where property

and the consequences of property prevail, are in a better situation with respect to food, raiment, houses and what are called the necessaries of life, than any are in places where most things remain in common. The balance, therefore, upon the whole, must preponderate in favour of property with a manifest and great excess.

Inequality of property, in the degree in which it exists in most countries of Europe, abstractedly considered, is an evil; but it is an evil which flows from those rules concerning the acquisition and disposal of property, by which men are incited to industry, and by which the object of their industry is rendered secure and valuable. If there be any great inequality unconnected with the origin, it ought to be corrected.

THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM.

JANE TAYLOR.

An old clock that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's morning, before the family were stirring, suddenly stopped.

Upon this the dial-plate, if we may credit the fable, changed countenance with alarm; the hands made a vain effort to continue their course; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation, when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below from the pendulum, who thus spoke:"I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; I am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged, that it was on the very point of striking.

"Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands-" Very good," replied the pendulum: “it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as everybody knows, set yourself up above me, it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag backwards and forwards year after year as I do." "As to that," said the dial, " is there not a window in your house, on purpose for you to look through?"

"For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it is very dark here, and, although there is a window, I dare not stop even for an instant, to look out at it. Besides, I am really tired of my way of life; and, if you wish, I'll tell you how I took this disgust at my

employment. I happened this morning to be calcu lating how many times I should have to tick in the course only of the next twenty-four hours; perhaps some of you above there can give me the exact sum."

The minute hand, being quick at figures, presently replied, Eighty-six thousand four hundred times." "Exactly so,” replied the pendulum; "well, I appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue one; and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect; so, after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself I'll stop."

The dial could hardly keep its countenance during this harangue; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied:

"Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this sudden notion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time; so have we all, and are likely to do; which, although it may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to do. Would you now do me the favour to give about half a dozen strokes to illustrate my argument?"

The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. "Now, resumed the dial, " may I be allowed to inquire, if that exertion was at all fatigu ing or disagreeable to you?"

"Not in the least," replied the pendulum; "it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of millions."

"Very good," replied the dial; "but recollect, that though you may think of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to execute but one; and that, however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in."

"That consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum. "Then I hope," resumed the dialplate, "we shall all immediately return to our duty; for the maids will lie in bed till noon, if we stand idling thus."

Upon this the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum began to swing, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a red beam of the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitchen shutter, shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been the mattter.

When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the clock, he declared that his watch had gained half an hour in the night.

EGOTISTICAL JEALOUSY.-There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little fire: it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egotism.- George Eliot

MARRIAGE.

JEREMY TAYLOR.

They that enter into the state of marriage cast a die of the greatest contingency, and yet of the great. est interest in the world, next to the last throw for eternity. Life or death, felicity or a lasting sorrow, are in the power of marriage. A woman, indeed, ventures most, for she hath no sanctuary to retire to from an evil husband; she must dwell upon her sorrow, and hatch the eggs which her own folly or infelicity hath produced; and she is more under it, because her tormentor hath a warrant of prerogative, and the woman may complain to God, as subjects do of tyrant princes; but otherwise she hath no appeal in the causes of unkindness. And though the man can run from many hours of his sadness, yet he must returu to it again; and when he sits among his neighbours, he remembers the objection that lies in his bosom, and he sighs deeply. The boys, and the pedlers, and the fruiterers, shall tell of this man when he is carried to his grave, that he lived and died a poor wretched person.

The stags in the Greek epigram, whose knees were clogged with frozen snow upon the mountains, came down to the brooks of the valleys, hoping to thaw their joints with the waters of the stream; but there the frost overtook them, and bound them fast in ice, till the young herdsmen took them in their stranger snare. It is the unhappy chance of many men, finding many inconveniences upon the mountains of single life, they descend into the valleys of marriage to refresh their troubles; and there they enter into fetters, and are bound to sorrow by the cords of a man's or woman's peevishness.

Man and wife are equally concerned to avoid all offences of each other in the beginning of their conversation; every little thing can blast an infant blossom; and the breath of the south can shake the little rings of the vine, when first they begin to curl like the locks of a new weaned boy: but when by age and consolidation they stiffen into the hardness of a stem, and have, by the warm embraces of the sun and the kisses of heaven, brought forth their clusters, they can endure the storms of the north, and the loud noises of the tempest, and yet never be broken: so are the early unions of an unfixed márriage; watchful and observant, jealous and busy, inquisitive and careful, and apt to take alarm at every unkind word. After the hearts of the man and the wife are endeared and hardened by a mutual confidence and experience, longer than artifice and pretence can last, there are a great many remembrances, and some things present, that dash all little unkindnesses in pieces.

There is nothing can please a man without love; and if a man be weary of the wise discourses of the apostles, and of the innocency of an even and a private fortune, or hates peace, or a fruitful year, he hath reaped thorns and thistles from the choicest

flowers of Paradise; for nothing can sweeten felicity itself but love; but when a man dwells in love, then the breasts of his wife are pleasant as the droppings upon the Hill of Hermon; her eyes are fair as the light of heaven; she is a fountain sealed, and he can quench his thirst, and ease his cares, and lay his sorrows down upon her lap, and can retire home to his sanctuary and refectory, and his gardens of sweetness and chaste refreshments. No man can tell but he that loves his children, how many delicious accents make a man's heart dance in the pretty conversation of those dear pledges; their childishness, their stammering, their little angers, their innocence, their imperfections, their necessities, are so many little emanations of joy and comfort to him that delights in their person and society. . . . It is fit that I should infuse a bunch of myrrh into the festi val goblet, and, after the Egyptian manner, serve up a dead man's bones at a feast: I will only shew it and take it away again; it will make the wine bitter, but wholesom. But those married pairs that live as remembering that they must part again, and give an account how they treat themselves and each other, shall, at that day of their death, be admitted to glorious espousals; and when they shall live again, be married to their Lord, and partake of his glories, with Abraham and Joseph, St. Peter and St. Paul, and all the married saints. All those things that now please us shall pass from us, or we from them; but those things that concern the other life are permanent as the numbers of eternity. And although at the resurrection there shall be no relation of husband and wife, and no marriage shall be celebrated but the marriage of the Lamb, yet then shall be remembered how men and women passed through this state, which is a type of that: and from this sacramental union all holy pairs shall pass to the spiritual and eternal, where love shall be their portion, and joys shall crown their heads, and they shall lie in the bosom of Jesus, and in the heart of God, to eternal ages.

STUDIES.

LORD BACON.

Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring; for ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of business: for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots, and the marshalling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies, is sloth; to use them too much for ornament, is affectation; to make judgment wholly by their rules, is the humour of a scholar; they perfect nature, and are perfected by experience-for natural abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning by study; and studies themselves do give

forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them; for they teach not their own use; but that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by observation. Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others; but that would be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner sort of books; else distilled books are, like common distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man: and, therefore, if a man write little, he nad need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not.

FRIENDSHIP.

FRANCIS LEIBER.

As the love of Romeo and Juliet elevated their souls above the strife of their houses, so can friend. ship elevate two hearts above the struggles of their time, though the individuals be even engaged in it; while those friends who happily walk the same path cheer and strengthen each other by their mutual example; and since essential confidence can exist be tween good men only, they propel each other in the path of virtue, for it is a primary law of all intercourse, that if two or more of the same inclination, pursuit, or character-good, frivolous or wickedare brought in close contact with one another, in that same direction they will propel one another still more rapidly. Friendship must rest on mutuality, it is one of its essential qualities; for one of its requisites and blessings is the enjoyment of confidence-a luxury to good men; and schylus is right when he says that kings suffer one evil, they do not know how to confide in friends; while the reason that was given of Trajan's having friends is that he was a friend himself.

SPEECH.-The common fluency of speech in many men and most women, is owing to a scarcity of matter and scarcity of words; for whoever is a master of lan. guage, and hath a mind full of ideas, will be apt, in speaking, to hesitate upon the choice of both; whereas common speakers have only one set of ideas, and one set of words to clothe them in, and these are always ready at the mouth. So people come faster out of a church when it is almost empty, than when a crowd is at the door.-Swift.

QUEEN DIDO'S LOVE.

VIRGIL "ENEAD."

ARGUMENT.

Dido discovers to her sister her passion for Æneas and her thoughts of marrying him. She prepares a hunting match for his entertainment. Juno, by Venus' consent, raises a storm, which separates the hunters, and drives Æneas and Dido into the same cave, where their marriage is supposed to be completed. Jupiter dispatches Mercury to Æneas, to warn him from Carthage. Æneas secretly prepares for his voyage. Dido finds out his design, and, to put a stop to it, makes use of her own and her sister's entreaties, and discovers all the variety of passions that are incidental to a neglected lover. When nothing could prevail upon him, she contrives her own death, with which this concludes.

But anxious cares already seiz'd the queen: She fed within her veins a flame unseen; The hero's valor, acts, and birth, inspire Her soul with love, and fan the secret fire. His words, his looks, imprinted in her heart, Improve the passion, and increase the smart. Now, when the purple morn has chas'd away The dewy shadows, and restor❜d the day, Her sister first with early care she sought, And thus in mournful accents eas'd her thought: 'My dearest Anna! what new dreams affright My lab'ring soul! what visions of the night Disturb my quiet, and distract my breast With strange ideas of our Trojan guest. His worth, his actions, and majestic air, A man descended from the gods declare. Fear ever argues a degen'rate kind: His birth is well asserted by his mind. Then, what he suffer'd when by Fate betray'd! What brave attempts for falling Troy he made! Such were his looks, so gracefully he spoke, That, were I not resolv'd against the yoke Of hapless marriage-never to be curs'd With second love, so fatal was my firstTo this one error I might yield again: For, since Sichæus was untimely slain, This only man is able to subvert The fix'd foundations of my stubborn heart. And, to confess my frailty to my shame, Somewhat I find within, if not the same, Too like the sparkles of my former flame. But first let yawning earth a passage rend And let me through the dark abyss descendFirst let avenging Jove, with flames from high. Drive down this body to the nether sky, Condemn'd with ghosts in endless night to lieBefore I break the plighted faith I gave! No! He who had my vows, shall ever have: For, whom I lov'ed on earth, I worship in the grave." She said: the tears ran gushing from her eyes, And stopped her speech. Her sister thus replies: "O dearer then the vital air I breathe! Will you to grief your blooming years bequeath, Condemn'd to waste in woes your lonely life, Without the joys of mother, or of wife!

Think you these tears, this pompous train of woe,

Are known or valu'd by the ghosts below?
I grant that while your sorrows yet were green,
It well became a woman, and a queen,
The vows of Tyrian princes to neglect,
To scorn Iarbus, and his love reject.
With all the Libyan lords of mighty name:
But will you fight against a pleasing flame?
This little spot of land which heav'n bestows,
On ev'ry side is hemm'd with warlike foes:
Gætulian cities here are spread around,
And fierce Numidians their young frontiers bound
Here lies a barren waste of thirsty land,
And there the Syrtes raise the moving sand:
Barcæan troops besiege the narrow shore,
And from the sea Pygmalion threatens more.
Propitious heav'n, and gracious Juno, lead
This wand'ring navy to your needful aid:
How will your empire spread, your city rise,
From such a union, and with such allies!
Implore the favor of the pow'rs above;
And leave the conduct of the rest to love.
Continue still your hospitable way,
And still invent occasions of their stay,
Till storms and winter winds shall cease to threat.
And planks and oars repair their shatt'd fleet.”

These words, which from a friend and sister came
With ease resolv'd the scruples of her fame,
And added fury to the kindled flame.
Inspir'd with hope, the project they pursue;

On ev'ry altar sacrifice renew;

A chosen ewe of two years old they pay

To Ceres, Bacchus, and the god of day.
Preferring Juno's pow'r (for Juno ties
The nuptial knot, and makes the marriage joys),
The beauteous queen before her altar stands,
And holds the golden goblet in her hands,
A milk-while heifer she with flow'rs adorns,
And pours the ruddy wine betwixt her horns;
And, while the priests with pray'r the gods invoke,
She feeds their altars with Sabæan smoke,
With hourly care the sacrifice renews,
And anxiously the panting entrails views.
What priestly rites, alas! what pious art,
What vows avail to cure a bleeding heart?
A gentle fire she feeds within her veins,
Where the soft God secure in silence reigns.

Sick with desire, and seeking him she loves,
From street to street the raving Dido roves.
So, when the watchful shepherd, from the blind,
Wounds with a random shaft the careless hind,
Distracted with her pain she flies the woods,
Bounds o'er the lawn, and seeks the silent floods→
With fruitless care; for still the fatal dart
Sticks in her side and rankles in her heart.
And now she leads the Trojan chief along
The lofty walls, amidst the busy throng;
Displays her Tyrean wealth, and rising town,
Which love, without his labor, makes his own.
This pomp she shows, to tempt her wanɗring
guest,

Her falt'ring tongue forbids to speak the rest.
When day declines, and feasts renew the night,
Still on his face she feeds her famish'd sight;
She longs again to hear the prince relate
His own adventures, and the Trojan fate.
He tells it o'er and o'er; but still in vain,
For still she begs to hear it once again.
The hearer on the speaker's mouth depends;
And thus the tragic story never ends.

Then, when they part, when Phoebe's paler light
Withdraws, and falling stars to sleep invite,
She last remains, when ev'ry guest is gone,
Sits on the bed he press'd, and sighs alone;
Absent, her absent hero sees and hears;
Or in her bosom young Ascanius bears,
And seeks the father's image in the child,
If love by likeness might be so beguil'd.

Meantime the rising tow'rs are at a stand;
No labors exercise the youthful band,

Nor use of arts, nor toils of arms they know:
The mole is left unfinish'd to the foe;

The mounds, the works, the walls, neglected lie, Short of their promis'd height, that seem' to threat the sky.

But when imperial Juno, from above,
Saw Dido fetter'd in the chains of love,

Hot with the venom which her veins inflam'd,
And by no sense of shame to be reclaimed,
With soothing words to Venus she begun:
High praises, endless honors, you have won,
And mighty trophies, with your worthy son!
Two gods a silly woman have undone!
Nor am I ignorant, you both suspect
This rising city, which my hands erect:
But shall celestial discord never cease?
'Tis better ended in a lasting peace.
You stand possess'd of all your soul desir'd;
Poor Dido with consuming love is fir'd,
Your Trojan with my Tyrean let us join;
So Dido shall be yours, Æneas mine—
One common kingdom one united line.
Eliza shall a Dardan lord obey,

And lofty Carthage for a dow'r convey."
Then Venus (who her hidden frauds descried
Which would the sceptre of the world misguide
To Libyan shores) thus artfully replied:
"Who, but a fool, would wars with Juno choose,
And such alliance and such gifts refuse,
If fortune with our joint desires comply?
The doubt is all from Jove, and destiny;
Lest he forbid with absolute command
To mix the people in one common land—
Or will the Trojan and the Tyrean line,
In lasting leagues and sure succession, join,
But you, the partner of his bed and throne,
May move his mind; my wishes are your own."
"Mine," said imperial Juno, "be the care-
Time urges now-to perfect this affair;
Attend my counsel, and the secret share.
When next the Sun his rising light displays,

And gilds the world below with purple rays,
The queen, Æneas, and the Tyrean court,
Shall to the shady woods, for sylvan game, resort;
There, while the huntsmen pitch their toils around
And cheerful horns, from side to side, resound,

A pitchy cloud shall cover all the plain
With hail, and thunder, and tempestuous rain:
The fearful train shall take their speedy flight,
Dispers'd and all involv'd in gloomy night:
One cave a grateful shelter shall afford
To the fair princess and the Trojan lord.

I will myself the bridal bed prepare,

If you, to bless the nuptials, will be there:
So shall their loves be crown'd with due delights
And Hymen shall be present at the rites."
The queen of love consents, and closely smiles
At her vain project and discover'd wiles.

The rosy morn was risen from the main,
And horns and hounds awake the princely train,
They issue early through the city gate,
Where the more wakeful huntsmen ready wait,
With nets, and toils, and darts, beside the force
Of Spartan dogs, and swift Massylian horse.
The Tyrean peers and officers of state,
For the slow queen, in ante-chambers wait:
Her lofty courser, in the court below

(Who his majestic rider seems to know),
Proud of his purple trappings, paws the ground.
And champs the golden bit, and spreads the toam
around.

The queen at length appears: on either hand
The brawny guards in martial order stand.
A flow'red cymar with golden fringe she wore,
And at her back a golden quiver bore.
Her flowing hair a golden caul restrains,
A golden clasp the Tyrean robe sustains.
Then young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace,
Leads on the Trojan youth to view the chase,
But far above the rest in beauty shines
The great Æneas, when the troop he joins,
Like fair Apollo, when he leaves the frost
Of wintry Xanthus, and the Lycian coast,
When to his native Delos he resorts,
Ordains the dances, and renews the sports;
Where painted Scythians, mix'd with Cretan bands.
Before the joyful altars join their hands:
Himself, on Cynthus walking, sees below
The merry madness of the sacred show.
Green wreaths of bays his length of hair enclose:
A golden fillet binds his awful brows:

His quiver sounds,-Not less the prince is seen
In manly presence, or in lofty mien,

Now had they reached the hills, and storm'd the

seat

Of savage beasts, in dens, their last retreat:
The cry pursues the mountain goats: they bound
From rock to rock, and keep the craggy ground:
Quite otherwise the stags, a trembling train,
In herds unsingled, scour the dusty plain,
And a long chase in open view maintain.