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in it. You will tell me I did not make it a part of your education; your prospect was very different from hers. As you had much in your circumstances to attract the highest offers, it seemed your business to learn how to live in the world, as it is hers to know how to be easy out of it. It is the common error of builders and parents to follow some plan they think beautiful, (and perhaps is so,) without considering that nothing is beautiful which is displaced. Hence we see so many edifices raised that the raisers can never inhabit, being too large for their fortunes. Vistas are laid open over barren heaths, and apartments contrived for a coolness very agreeable in Italy, but killing in the north of Britain: thus every woman endeavors to breed her daughter a fine lady, qualifying her for a station in which she will never appear, and at the same time incapacitating her for that retirement to which she is destined. Learning, if she has a real taste for it, will not only make her contented, but happy in it. No entertainment is so cheap as reading, nor any pleasure so lasting. She will not want new fashions, nor regret the loss of expensive diversions, or variety of company, if she can be amused with an author in her closet. To render this amusement complete, she should be permitted to learn the languages. There are two cautions to be given on this subject: first, not to think herself learned when she can read Latin, or even Greek. Languages are more properly to be called vehicles of learning than learning itself. True knowledge consists in knowing things, not words. I would no further wish her a linguist than to enable her to read books in their originals, that are often corrupted, and are always injured by translations. Two hours' application every morning will bring this about much sooner than you can imagine, and she will have leisure enough besides to run over the English poetry, which is a more important part of a woman's education than it is genemlly supposed. Many a young damsel has been ruined by a fine copy of verses, which she would have laughed at if she had known it had been stolen from Mr. Waller. I remember, when I was a girl, I saved one than myself. You should encourage your daughter to talk over with you what she reads; and as you are very capable of distinguishing, take care she does not mistake pert folly for wit and humor, or rhyme for poetry, which are the common errors of young people, and have a train of ill consequences. The second caution to be given her, (and which is most absolutely necessary,) is to conceal whatever learning she attains, with as much solicitude as she would hide crookedness or lameness: the parade of it can only serve to draw on her the envy, and consequently tbe most inveterate hatred, of all he and she fools, which will certainly be at least three parts in four of her acquaintance. The use of knowledge in our sex, besides the amusement of solitude, is to moderate the passions, and learn to be contented with a small expense, which are the certain effects of a studious life; and it may be preferable even to that fame which men have engrossed to themselves, and will not suffer us to share. If she has the same inclination (I should say passion) for learning that I was born with, history, geography, and philosophy will furnish her with materials to pass away cheerfully a longer life than is allotted to mortals. I believe there are few heads capable of making Sir Isaac Newton's calculations, but the result of them is not difficult to be understood by a moderate capacity.

It is a saying of Thucydides, that ignorance is bold, and knowledge reserved. Indeed, it is impossible to be far advanced in it without being more humbled by a conviction of human ignorance, than elated by learning. At the same time I recommend books, I neither exclude work nor drawing. / think it is scandalous for a woman not to knoio how to use a needle. I was once extremely fond of my pencil, and it was a great mortification to me when my father turned off my master, having made a considerable progress for the short time I learned. My over-eagerness in the pursuit of it had brought a weakness in my eyes, that made it necessary to leave off; and all the advantage I got was the improvement of my hand. I see by hers, that practice will make her a ready writer: she may attain it by serving you for a secretary, when your health or affairs make it troublesome to you to write yourself; and custom will make it an agreeable amusement to her. She cannot have too many for that station of life which will probably be her fate. The ultimate end of your education was to make you a good wife, (and I have the comfort to hear that you are one ;) hers ought to be to make her happy in a virgin state. I will not say it is happier, but it is undoubtedly safer than any marriage. In a lottery, where there is (at the lowest computation) ten thousand blanks to a prize, it is tne most prudent choice not to venture. I have always been so thoroughly persuaded of this truth, that, notwithstanding the flattering ».;ews I had for you, (as I never intended you a sacrifice to my vanity,) I thought I owed you the justice to lay before you all the hazards attending matrimony: you may recollect I did so in the strongest manner. Perhaps you may have more success in the instructing your daughter; she has so much company at home, she will n:t need seeking it abroad, and will more readily take the notions you think fit to give her. As you were alone in my family, it wouid have been thought a great cruelty to suffer you no companions of your own age, especially having so many near relations, and I do not wonder their opinions influenced yours. I was not sorry to see you not determined on a single life, knowing it was not your father's intention ; and contented myself with endeavoring to make your home so easy, that you might not be in haste to leave it.

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I am afraid you will think this a very long, insignificant letter. I hope the kindness of the design will excuse it, being willing to give you every proof in my power that I am your most affectionate mother.

JOHN BYROM. 1091—1763.

Johs Bthom, the son of si linen-dmper at Manchester, was born in 1091, and at the age of seventeen entered the University of Cambridge. Here he cultivated with great assiduity a taste for elegant letters, and especially for poetry, to which, even in his earliest years, he had shown a marked propensity. After taking his degree, he obtained n fellowship in the university, through the influence of Dr. Richard Benlley, whose daughter Joanna is the "Phtt'be" of his pastoml poem, the best of his poetical elforts. As he declined "taking orders," he vacated his fellowship, and soon after married. Having no profession, he went to London, and supported himself by teaching short-hand writing, till, by the death of his elder brother, he inherited the family estate, and spent the remainder of his life in easy circumstances, devoting his time to litemry pursuits. He died on the 28th of September, 1703, in the seventy-sec ond year of his age.

Byrom's best pieco is his pastoml poem of " Colin and Phcebe," remarkable for its easy and flowing versification, and its sprightlinoss of thought. Ho also wrote a poem on "Enthusiasm," and one on the " Immortality of the Soul." His comic poem, entitled "The Three Black Crows," has a most excellent moml in it, well illustmting dip nntm-p of D "Fn•n/i" of Yinril. The Sneeratnr :

Btit now she is gone, and has left me behind;
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were rts line as could possibly be,
1 thought twas the spring; but, alas! it was she.

II.

With such a companion, to tend a few sheep,

To rise up and play, or to lie down itnd sleep,

I was so good-humor'd, so cheerful and gay,

My heart was as light as a feather all day.

But now I so cross and so peevish am grown,

So strangely uneasy as never was known.

My fair one is gone, and my joys arc all drown'd,

And my heart—I am sure it weighs more than a pound.

III.

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along,

And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among;

Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phojbe were then',

Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear;

But now she is absent, I walk by its side,

Ami still as it murmurs do nothing but chide.

Must you be so cheerful while I go in pain?

Peace there with your bubbling, and hear ine complain.

IV.

When my lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
And when Phcebo and I were as joyful as they,
How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time,
When spring, love, and beauty were all in their prime!
But now in their frolics when by me they pass,
I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass:
Be still, then I cry; for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry while I ain so sad.

v.

My flog I was ever well pleased to see
Come wagging his tail at my fair ono and me;
And Phcelje was plea^d too. and to my dog said,
"Come hither, poor fellow;"' and patted his head.
But now, when he's fawning. 1 with a sour look
Cry, Sirrah I and give him a blow with my crook.
And I II give him another; ibr why should not Tray
Be as dull as his master, when Phuibe's away?

VI.

When walking with Plurbe, what sights have I seen!
How fair was the llower, how fresh was the green!
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade,
The corn-fields and hedges, and every thing made!
But now she has left me, though all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear:
'Twas naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes,
Made so many beautiful prospects arise.

VII.

Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too;

Winds over us whisper'd, flot:ks by us did bleat,
And chirp went thc gmsshopper under our feet.
But now she is absent, though still they sing on,
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone:
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Gave every thing else its agreeable sound.

Vill.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?

And where is the violet's beautiful blue?

Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile?

That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?

Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you dress'd

And made yourselves fine lor—a place in her breaiti

You put on your colors to pleasure her eye,

To be plnck d by her hand, on her bosom to die.

Ix.

How slowly Time creeps, till my Phoebe return!

While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes 1 burn!

Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread,

I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead.

Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,

And rest so mnch longer for t when she is here

Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay,

Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say.

x.

Will no pitying power that hears me oomplain,
Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain?
To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, Deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair!
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair

THE THREE BLACK CROWS.

Two honest tmdesmen meeting in the Stmnd,
One took the other, briskly, by the hand;
Hark-ye, said he, 'tis an odd story this
About the Crows!—I don't know what it is,
Replied his friend.—T'"''

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