The Literary Magazine, and American Register

He had the fate of those who are born with a too susceptible heart, he loved more than he was loved, and the bitterness of jealousy defeated his success, and accelerated his death. He found, however, in friendship the consolations which a more tender sentiment refused him. Despreaux, Chapelle, and La Fontaine were those of his contemporaries of whose society he was most fond, and who, by a just return, contribut ed their utmost to gain for him beforehand the suffrage of posterity.

Courtiers feared Moliere, but the favour of the monarch saved him from their snares. They were frequently obliged to applaud characteristic portraits of which they had themselves furnished the models.

No writer has better observed dramatic propriety, better developed the characters he has treated, better pursued the rout of the passions through all the intricacies of the human heart.

Moliere is translated into all languages, and played on the theatre of every polished nation. He has universally extended the empire of French literature. He is the poet of all times, of all ages, of all countries, a glory which he divides only with La Fontaine.

Moliere was the scourge of the wicked, and the father of the unfortunate; he was just, sensible, and good, and never did misery ask his succour in vain.

Under an exterior serious and cold, Moliere concealed an ardent soul, a lively imagination, and a compassionate heart. It is known that his humanity was the cause of his death, and this sacrifice, made by virtue to the love of his fellow-creatures, puts the last seal to his glory.

Regnard.

It is certainly not as a moralist that Regnard occupies the next place to Moliere in the list of dramatic writers.

We will not dispute a rank which

public opinion seems to have accorded him, though the judgment of literary men runs counter to it.

Regnard is more gay than humorous, more humorous than comic. He is satisfied when he makes. us laugh, and seems to confine to this all his pretensions. The rights of the comic muse are, however, much more extensive, and the drama would never have been the first of arts, if it served only to make us merry.

Regnard is truly moral in one of his pieces only, and the claim to this piece Dufresny disputes with him.

It will readily be perceived that we refer to the Joueur, a work that is placed immediately after the admirable productions of Moliere and the Metromanie. What leads us to think that the claims of Dufresny are well founded, is, that in all his dramatic career Regnard has not been able to produce any thing at all to compare with it in merit. The other pieces of Regnard form a dangerous school for manners, but they often by their pleasantry make the most rigid philosopher smile.

If Regnard had entitled his Legataire Universel the Punition du Celibat, it would have been the most moral piece on the stage; at present it is the most dangerous.

Regnard has done great injury to the dramatic art by turning it from its moral end, which is considered by philosophers as the chief apanage of comedy. He conceived that he ought to pursue a different road from that of the author of Tartuffe, by striving to please by other means. He felt that the vicinity of this great man was too dangerous for him.

The life of Regnard exhibits a romance very extraordinary, and scarcely credible. The dangers he ran in his numerous travels, the singular adventures that happened to him, the strange events which sprung up under his feet, are entertaining to read, and furnish matter for a variety of reflections.

Regnard wrote with singular faci

lity in the midst of a dissipated life, which was not extended beyond his thirty-fifth year.

For the Literary Magazine.

THE REFLECTOR.

NO. XIX.

IN my last number I noticed some of the peculiar beauties of night; let me now proceed to point out some others: my subject naturally led me to contemplate her in the meridian of her reign, and I will now view her in a different stage of her progress.

Night, at its commencement, inspires the most pleasing sensations: we see the flocks retiring to their folds; the lowing herds laving their lusty limbs in the tranquil stream; the birds closing the business of the day with a song, and retiring to their leafy coverts, save the unwearied rambler*, who now swiftly sails (screaming) on the bosom of the air, now describing an airy circle, then darting swiftly from the higher regions towards the earth; we see the sun, glorious in his setting as in his rising, clothing the mountain tops with gold, while they stretch their enormous shadows across the dusky plain, the clouds glowing with his last rays, while his immense orb is sinking in the western ocean; the purple gleam of expiring day succeeded by the pensive gloom of evening stealing over every object; the general harmony, the silence of every thing discordant: all these inspire the mind with sensations which no language can adequately describe. Added to these, the weariness of the frame and spirits wonderfully disposes the mind to enjoy fully all the tranquil pleasures which these delightful hours are capable of affording. Contemplation, wrapt in the mantle of Night, with the * A bird known by the name of the night-hawk, which is very common trere.

finger of Silence on her lips, comes to open new scenes to the mind; her sober influence hushes the passions to rest, and Reason is permitted to reign with undivided sway. She paints all objects as they really are; no false, no flattering colours disguise the portrait; the plans of aspiring ambition, the delusions of glory, the follies of vanity, and the wishes of avarice, all appear in their proper hues. Those things which, during the hours of day, seemed valuable and interesting, lose much of their importance; those actions which then seemed virtuous or justifiable (into the commission of which we have been betrayed by the ardour of passion or the impulse of interest), now, viewed through a clearer medium, are found to be vicious or improper. The hour of self-examination then arrives; we look into ourselves, we consider our actions in a proper light, we weigh them in an even balance. Before, we acted not as we thought we ought to act, but as we thought spectators would act in similar cases: thus we too often find impurity, vice, and selfishness, where we expected to find purity, virtue, and generosity; it teaches us a lesson of humility and caution, and bids us regulate our future con duct by a more certain standard.

The

Night, however, is not always thus: spring and summer pass away, and autumn warns us that winter, in all his rigour, will close the scene. Yet even a wintry night is not without its beauties; its celestial glories remain the same, though the terrestrial features are changed. scene of our enjoyments is then principally removed to the cheerful fireside, where we may defy the fury of the cutting blast, and driving snow, and learn to enjoy the pleasures of an opposite season with a greater relish.

Midnight is the time when all the terrors which superstition can inspire are most dreaded. It is indeed a solemn hour; the awful stillness which reigns around, the darkness, and a variety of circumstances arising from various causes, tend to ren

der it so, independent of the terrors with which superstition has invested it. Nor has this tendency been unfelt in any age, or overlooked by any observer; all true poets, whether sacred or profane, have raised their boldest structures upon this foundation; it has furnished them with their most sublime conceptions, and terrific descriptions. They well knew they struck a chord whose vibrations are universally extensive. "A day of clouds and thick darkness" conveys in a few words a most sublime description; yet what is there wonderful in it? A day of clouds is by no means uncommon, and "thick darkness," except in sound, is nothing more than a cloudy night; yet, by a certain association of ideas, we find ourselves infinitely more struck with the one than with the other. Something, it is true, must be allowed for the singular felicity of the expression, but more certainly from the combined effects of physical, moral, and habitual causes, which frequently operate in a manner not easily understood or explained.

VALVERDI.

Philadelphia, July 10th, 1807.

For the Literary Magazine.

WEIGHTS AND MEASURES.

AMONG the measures submitted to the consideration of the legislature of Pennsylvania at their late session, was an interesting report by Mr. Dorsey on the subject of weights and measures. After stating the total inefficiency of the existing laws of Pennsylvania in this respect, the committee submitted the following plan, embraced by a bill previously before the legislature. The subject, from its influence on almost all the concerns of life, and from the tendency of a uniform system to add another tie to the union of the several states, loudly claims the interposition of the general government; and we are particularly led to a republication of this plan,

under the hope that the public attention may be thereby drawn to the subject, and that the previous inves tigations of philosophical men may prepare congress for the adoption of sound and enlightened provisions. "1. A plan for the establishment of standards for weights and measures.

"The whole system to be comprised in three articles or units of regulation, viz.

"The unit of extension, the unit of capacity, and the unit of weight, to wit:

"The unit or measure of extension to be the same, and no other than the English foot-rule or measure, which has heretofore always obtained, as well throughout the whole of the United States, in the measurement of the lands thereof, to be ascertained as regards exactitude by the mayor and aldermen of the city of Philadelphia, after taking into aid the officers of the mint of the United States, and of the Philosophical Society, who will, when required, afford such aid, and who, it is believed, are in possession of the means by which to ascertain and determine such unit or foot measure, to wit: Bird's standard of the British exchequer scale, and a comparative and corroborative test of the same, by means of two well regulated and authentic French toises, and an accurate French metre, with other data; the said unit or foot, when so ascertained, to be divided on one side into twelfths or inches, and parts of inches, in the usual manner, and on the other side into tenths of such unit or foot, and again into tenths of such tenths, or hundredths of such foot.

❝2. The unit or measure of capacity, or common pint measure, to contain sixteen such cubical tenths of the aforesaid unit or foot measure, to be fashioned (as regards the regulator or standards only) in a square form, the sides and bottom to be at least the half of such decimal inch in thickness.

"3. The unit of weight or pound avoirdupois, to be equal to the weight

lity in the midst of a dissipated life, which was not extended beyond his thirty-fifth year.

For the Literary Magazine. THE REFLECTOR.

NO. XIX.

Night, at its commencement, inspires the most pleasing sensations; we see the flocks retiring to their folds; the lowing herds laving their lusty limbs in the tranquil stream; the birds closing the business of the day with a song, and retiring to their leafy coverts, save the unwearied rambler*, who now swiftly sails (screaming) on the bosom of the air, now describing an airy circle, then darting swiftly from the higher regions towards the earth; we see the sun, glorious in his setting as in his rising, clothing the mountain tops with gold, while they stretch their enormous shadows across the dusky plain, the clouds glowing with his last rays, while his immense orb is sinking in the western ocean; the purple gleam of expiring day succeeded by the pensive gloom of evening stealing over every object; the general harmony, the silence of every thing discordant: all these inspire the mind with sensations which no language can adequately describe. Added to these, the weariness of the frame and spirits wonderfully disposes the mind to enjoy fully all the tranquil pleasures which these delightful hours are capable of affording. Contemplation, wrapt in the mantle of Night, with the

The

He had the fate of those who are born with a too susceptible heart, he loved more than he was loved, and the bitterness of jealousy defeated his success, and accelerated his death. He found, however, in friendship the consolations which a more tender sentiment refused him. Despreaux, Chapelle, and La Fontaine were those of his contemporaries of whose society he was most fond, and who, by a just return, contributed their utmost to gain for him beforehand the suffrage of posterity. Courtiers feared Moliere, but the favour of the monarch saved him from their snares. They were frequently obliged to applaud characteristic portraits of which they had themselves furnished the models.

No writer has better observed dramatic propriety, better developed the characters he has treated, better pursued the rout of the passions through all the intricacies of the hu

man heart.