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into serious consideration.-Let not my remarks discourage you: had you made ten times more, you would soon be able, by attending to the directions I have given you, to avoid them in future.

I wish you much to make the most of your mind: the thinking and reasoning faculty which God has given you is a great blessing; but, like other of his blessings, it must be improved and cultivated, or it comes to nothing.

The whole creation is one continued display of motion and industry. All beings that have any wants must be brought to exercise, to answer those wants: this is the law of nature.

The creature that is given up to idleness and sloth must degenerate, if not die, without the supply of others; and with this supply what is the life of such a creature? born for activity, it becomes the sink of diseases, stupidity, and sorrow. Seck then to improve all the faculties of your mind; now especially, while you are young.

Any wisdom now gained is of tenfold worth: what is gained in the decline of life serves us but a little time; but the wisdom of our mind that guides our earliest years grows with our growth, and increases in value as we advance towards old age.

Watch well your hours: each hour is your friend, or it is your enemy; it has something good to bestow, or something valuable to take away.

I am not, however, an advocate for intense application. Tasks that are too severe and injudicious do the mind more harm than good; they cramp all its energies: the faculties must not be hastened, nor burthened too soon. Thousands are ruined by being made to appear early prodigies. The child is often thus sacrificed to the vanity of the

parent: early intense mental application as well as early intense la bour, are both injurious. The colt of every ignorant farmer is managed better, that its strength and growth may not be checked. And shall the intelligent child whose mind looks forward to heaven, formed for the noblest flights, not have time to allow its pinions to gather strength and nerve, that it may stretch, and expand itself, in the noblest atmosphere-in the sublime regions of Genius, because it was forced too far at first, before the mind was qualified to receive the nourishment of the element to which it is carried, and which it is calculated to convey?

In my next I shall endeavour to give you some instructions concerning grammar; that is, the proper placing of words in the construction of sentences; which will probably be followed, as I have leisure, by other subjects that I may judge most useful in assisting you to open your mind, regulate your conduct, and guard against those pernicious weeds of error, which will arise and flourish where there is not due cultivation. I am your very affectionate uncle,

April 22, 1807.

VESPER.

ACCOUNT of the new Opera, called PETER THE GREAT; or, WOODEN WALLS,' performed for the first Time at the TheatreRoyal, Covent-Garden, on Friday, May 8.

THE CHARACTERS.

Peter the Great,
Le Fort,
Count Menzikoff,
Mauritz,
Sparrowitz,

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PETER the Great, and his minister Le Fort, after having visited and worked as ship-carpenters in England, France, &c. under the disguised names of Pedro and Alexis, are returned to Muscovy, and still continue their labours in one of the northern ports, under Mauritz, a ship-wright; who, acknowledging the obligations he owes to the industry and skill of Pedro, conceives the highest opinion of him, and is resolved to marry him to his daughter Paulina, and make him his successor; but Pedro, already acquainted with the mutual loves of Michael (a young soldier) and Paulina, declines the promised favour of his employer, and avows his passion for Catharine, the niece of Mauritz. Disappointed, but not displeased, Mauritz gives his consent, and, through the intercession of Pedro, promises to ratify the marriage of Michael and Paulina. In deviation from the historic facts, Catharine is here represented, not as the follower of a a camp, but, as far as her means extend, the general advocate and benefactress of the village; and, according to an ancient custom, is presented with the rural crown, annually bestowed on the most deserving female. During the absence of Peter, the reins of government are placed in the hands of Menzikoff, who alone is acquainted with the place of the emperor's retreat; when the Boyards, impatient of their master's absence, and suspecting some foul play on the part of Menziko, order him to immediate trial, and sentence him to death, unless in six

days the emperor returns to Moscow,
Under a strong escort, Menzikoff is
permitted to go in search of his
royal master; and arrives just at the
moment when Peter is about to
'espouse Catharine.--The emperor
(still unknown to Catharine but as
the humble Pedro) hurries to the
escort, declares himself, and gives
freedom to Menzikoff; leaving Ca-
tharine in the utmost despair.-Men-
zikoff returns, relieves the anxiety of
Catharine, announces the emperor,
and claims her as the bride of his
royal master.-Peter now appears
in all his splendour; when Catharine,
yielding to the dictates of love rather
than to those of ambition, gives her
hand to the emperor, who bestows
that of Paulina upon Michael.—The
under-plot is sustained by Olmutz,
Sparrowitz, Old Petrowitz, Michael,
Mauritz, Paulina, Genevieve, &c. and
the piece concludes with a civil and
military spectacle.

This piece is the production of Mr. CHERRY, and was very well received.-It has considerable merit.

The story is well told, and the characters are judiciously drawn. All the performers acquitted themselves with the greatest commendation; and it was announced for a second representation, with the loudest plaudits.

THE

ELVILLE FAMILY SECRETS.

A NOVEL.

(Continued from p. 36.)

THE earl, Matilda's, father, taking her a little aside, said it gave him inexpressible pleasure to see her so cheerfully obey his injunc tions, and congratulated her on the

splendour she would that day be mistress of. She heaved a heavy sigh, and, in spite of her utmost efforts, atear rolled down her cheek. But she uttered not a syllable; re ceiving the compliments of the nobility with a dignified politeness peculiar to herself alone. Heaven only knows how little she participated in the joy which illumined every countenance but her own. Her father soon presented her to the earl, whose dress at once convinced her of the narrowness of his mind, as it was evident that he supposed the frippery glitter of apparel would carry great weight, and recommend him more strongly than any virtuous trait in his character. Poor Matilda! what a hopeless situation! But she was conscious she had gone too far to recede; yet a certain moni tor in her own heart informed her, that from the hour she gave her hand to the earl she was doomed to wear out a life of wretchedness! Ill-fated, unfortunate victim of a parent's ambition! Had she known the real state of the case, nature would have shrunk from the dire contest; her gentle spirit could not have supported it, but must have taken its Hight from the fragile casket which cʊntained it for ever.

Her father said, as he gave her hand to her intended lord, I give you this day my darling child; endeavour, by kind usage, to reclaim her from that path of error in which she has long strayed: you will, I hope, be able to disperse the gloom which pervades her beautiful countenance. Her disposition is no comHer good opinion must be won by unremitting assiduity and tenderness. She has been a dutiful daughter, and I have no doubt but she will prove an obedient wife. In one instance only has she ever deyiated from the paths of filial duty; but her guilt has been sufficiently expiated by sincere repentance, and

mon one.

that, my lord, you are well awar of. I need give you no advice on the important crisis of your life you this day enter on: you require nones you are every thing I could wish as a husband for my daughter.'

With this eulogium he resigned the unhappy trembling, almost fainting, Matilda; who, after pausing few minutes to collect her scattered senses, said, in faltering accents→→→→ I hope, my lord, you will excuse my feeble efforts to be gay on a day when such high honour is conferred upon me. I hope your goodness will consider what I have of late encountered. You know I have already informed you that you never could possess my affection. You said you were content with possessing my person. My father insists on a union of hands this day taking place. I am compelled to become the countess of Holden, without one spark of affection for the person whom I must call by the endearing name of husband. Therefore pity and forgive an un fortunate wretch, who cannot so far disguise her feelings as to conduct herself as she ought,'-Then, turaing her eyes towards her father, she faintly uttered-To your will 1 sacrifice myself; never can I know peace more!'-A stern look silenced her. She lowly ejaculated, Gracious Heaven, send me aid, and support me through the trying ceremony; or, if it please thee in thy goodness, take me to those realms where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest!'

The procession at length commenced with great formality. Matilda was the only person sad. When she came before the never-to-be-forgotten altar, a livid paleness overspread her fine features, and she sank into the arms of her father. After a few minutes she recovered, and went through the ceremony with tolerable composure. She attended the procession back, but in the se

and antichamber leading to the ground saloon, fitted up most superbly for their reception, her eyes met her brother's picture. She thought he assumed an unusually reproachful look, which pierced her soul. Perhaps,' thought she, 'I have been deceived: if I am thus a dupe to credulity, I never can see him more.' . She feigned indisposition purposely to retire to her own apartment to meditate alone, and by that means avoid the festivities of the day.. She prevailed on the earl, her husband, to take her to his own residence as soon as he possibly could, thinking, change of scene might in some degree obliterate former remembrance, now of no avail only to make her more wretched than she would otherwise be, conscious should she discover that Burns yet lived it would be death to her. He consented, but not till Matilda had satisfied herself that there had been every art tried to alienate her affections from the gallant Burns, who had in vain sought the object of his love, during the residence at the castle,

We will now leave her paternal residence, and follow her to that of the earl her husband; who, instead of introducing her into that sphere of life which she was born to adorn, selected the most retired place he could possibly think of, to immure her within its shades, in case she should ever meet with any one who might disclose the sad secret of her brother and Burns.

The mansion was large and irrégu lar, situated at the foot of an almost perpendicular mountain in North Wales, surrounded on all sides by a barren heath, in some seasons of the year impassable from the dangerous bogs which were on all sides. Scarcely a tree or single shrub was standing to direct the traveller on his way. This was a place convenient

to such a character as the earl, as few who entered those walls ever again returned. An old friar was his only confidant, a hoary headed monster of iniquity, capable of any crime the vicious disposition of his employer suggested. He had but to say the word, and the deed was done with promptness and secrecy. Two or three domestics, ignorant, low-bred beings, easily imposed on and deceived by his art, comprised his household; many miles from any habitual dwelling, except a few labourers' miserable huts, dispersed here and there near the mountains.

Thus was the unhappy Matilda secluded from all society, all intercourse with any one, as no letters were permitted to go from her hands without the inspection of the earl her husband. She saw all this precaution unmoved. The fond hopes of her heart had been disappointed; it was now immaterial where, and how, she dragged on a miserable existence, become hateful. She packed up some valuable remembrances of her dearly loved brother, and the no less valued Burns, putting them in a private cabinet, determining, if she could not forget them, not to deviate so far in her duty as to cherish the thought of them (not even leaving out the favourite ring), conscious it was now criminal to regard them as she had hitherto done; not wishing to injure herself in the eyes of her lord, who had provided very splendid apartments entirely appropriated to her use, and fitted up in the most superb manner, plainly shewing if grandeur could have procured peace of mind she would have had no occasion to have been uneasy; the liberal profusion displayed all around must have been effectual. But pomp, and all the pageantry of greatness, could afford a mind like hers no delight; she despised alike his wealth and the unbounded extravagance

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with which he lavished it, to gain
her good opinion, as a substitute for
a feeling and generous heart, which
she possessed in that of her former
lover. How did she wish it had
been her destiny to have moved in a
lower sphere of life; then would she
never have known the pangs which
rent her heart. Ah!' sighed she, as
the labourer plodded along to his
peaceable cottage, how I envy you
those tranquil retreats, ye who toil
for your daily bread! No care nor
ambition ever haunts your breast: so
as your subsistence is earned by your
own hands, ye have nothing more to
fear; while I, hapless mortal! am
wretched, surrounded by every luxury
the world can afford.'

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she had now no hope of enjoyment » of this life, every ray of consolation was entirely destroyed; and during. the day another circumstance added to her uneasiness. She accidentally overheard the old friar say exultingly to one of the domestics She has no occasion to carry herself so high; our walls have been graced with as handsome faces as hers before now. She will be served no, better than those who have preceded her, al- ́ though she thinks so much of herself. These dark expressions alarmed her: she knew not to what they could allude.

Months thus passed over her unhappy head. Her lord seldom deign ed to visit her when he did, it was in that careless indifferent manner, that plainly evinced if he ever had any affection for her it was now entirely vanished. She could support his unkindness no longer without mentioning it; conscious she had, on his account, estranged herself from the world, from all she held dear, and had become quite an exile. She entreated him to give her some explanation, as she once thought that she was certain of his affection, and might so far overcome all former recollections as in time to make him a tolerable good wife, had he continued to behave as he did when first they met. His answer was with a frown, and such a voice that alarmed' her- Madam, do not disturb my repose by seeking any explanation of my conduct. I shall grant none, farther than that you never did please me: it was merely to oblige your father that I condescended to marry you, fearing you might dis honour his family by your connec tion with that stripling Burns.'

With these unfeeling words he abruptly left her. Confident that

Time thus passed heavily on. No. father, no sister, ever came near to pay their respects to the retched. bride. She wrote to her sister Elfrida, but no answer did she obtain; indeed she hardly expected one, as she found she was to be denied all intercourse with any person, and for what reason she could not conceive. Day after day she sat disconsolate and sai, deserted by all the world, looking wistfully over the wide extended plains, to see if perchance any human being, more compassionate than the rest, directed his steps towards her solitary habitation. But no one ever met her eye. Her lord scarcely ever came; and when he did he gave her the strictest orders, under pain of his severe displeasure, not to leave the house, and likewise to see no strangers. He knew that Burns, whom they had reported to be dead, was returned to England, and that her brother accompanied him, and he feared they might seek some means of seeing her, to be satisfied that her marriage was by her own wish; and he dreaded the vindictive spirit of these young soldiers, conscious of his own baseness in thus forming an alliance with so amiable a person, and then treating her in such a villainous manner.

A year after her seclusion from

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