of which the operations are obvious, while the moving and regulating prin_ciple is unseen. When she wants a servant, which happens seldom, as there is always a competition for the situation, she has a number to choose from, and never admits any one into her service, till she has satisfactory evidence of her good character, good temper and qualifications for the place which she is to fill. When her servants enter the service, they receive a written scroll of their various duties, and would be ashamed of the smallest neglect, because she treats them with kindness and humanity, and it can never be necessary for her to reproach them, a single look of disapprobation is sufficient to rouse the indolent to exertion, and recal those that err to a sense of their duty. At whatever hour you enter Mrs. Harvey's house, it is a model of cleanliness and domestic economy, and her servants are always dressed with neatness and propriety. A beautiful little girl acts as porter, who has so genteel an air, that I have often taken her for a lady, beg. ged her pardon when she offered me a chair, and requested her to sit down, while the poor soul would blush like the red rose, and retire without saying a word. Not that she is dressed out of character, but she is always so perfectly clean, has so much native gentility about her, and is so unlike other şervants that one sees, that it is not surprising that an old fellow like the Spy, who has spent the greatest part of his life in the country, should commit such a blunder.

Mrs. Harvey sometimes does me the honour of inviting me to dinner. At these entertainments there is no unne

cessary expence, no vain show, but every thing is conducted with so much regularity, simplicity, and unstudied elegance, that nothing can be more delightful; and her parties are so judiciously selected, being composed of people of complete congeniality of taste and sentiments on all subjects, literary and moral; and she possesses, in so uncommon a degree, the talent of making her guests pleased, not only with herself, but with each other and themselves, and of delighting by the powers of her conversation, that I never rise from her board without a more exalted opinion of human nature than I had before. This lady never had a bad servant but one, and she was an unprincipled wretch, who, six months after she left her, narrowly escaped transportation. If it be asked why Mrs. Peevish never had a good servant, and Mrs. Harvey never a bad one, the answer is obvious; Mrs. Peevish has lost her character among servants, and none will engage with her, but such as can find no other place, while Mrs. Harvey's character stands so high, that she has the choice of all those out of place.

Of all your societies which abound in this intellectual city, your Literary Societies, your Wernerian Societies, and your Royal Societics, one of which I have heard lately, delights me most; it is instituted for the support of sick, infirm, and aged female servants, and the encouragement of the young and healthy. One regulation by which premiums are given to those who continue. long in the same family, pleases me very much. much. This is considered as a test of good conduct, and deserves honourable notice. Does any of my readers ask,

to be reduced to a state of servitude, and, who, by the delicacy of her infant education, is ill fitted to brook the pri vations and neglect to which she must now submit. I confess there are many bad servants, who, by carelessness or inattention, or even through malice, neglect their duty and destroy the property of their master; but even the bad may be reclaimed by kindness, and never are by harshness and severity; and though they should make me an ungrateful return for all my kindnesses, I shall never deviate from my system; at the end of six months I shall be rid of them, and will not for their sakes put my name to a falsehood.

Mary! ten chequer'd years are past,
Since we beheld each other last,
Yet, Mary, I remember thee,
And thou, I think, remember'st me.
The bloom was then upon thy face,
Thy form had every youthful
grace;
I, too, had then the warmth of youth,
And in our hearts was all its truth.
We convers'd, were there others by,
With common mirth and random eye,
But when escap'd the sight of men,
How serious was our converse then!
Our talk was then of years to come,
Of hopes that ask'd a humble doom,
Themes that to loving thoughts would move,
Altho' we never mention'd love.
At our last meeting, sure thy heart
Was even as loth as mine to part;
And yet, we little thought that then
We parted-not to meet again.
Long Mary, after that adieu,
My happiest day-dreams were of you :

to be grateful for the kindness of good masters, and to endeavour to soften even the severe, by a meekness of deportment and a steady adherence to duty. Let them remember, that what they may consider as niggardliness on the part of their master, may be an economy necessary to the well being of an infant family, and that though they may neglect their duty, and destroy his property without his knowlege, that there is a Being who sees all their actions, and to whom they must ere long be accountable.

To conclude, if at any time I must reprove my servants, I shall never do so in wrath, by which I both give them an advantage over me, which they know how to improve, and lose my object: knowing that they are endowed with the same sense of kindness and injury with myself, I will always treat them with humanity, never forgetting that they are rational creatures, fellow-men, and joint heirs of immortality.

In sleep I saw you still, and long
Made you the theme of secret song.
When manhood and its cares came on,
The humble hopes of youth were gone,
And other hopes, and other fears,
Effac'd the thought of happier years.
Meantime, thro' many a busy year,
Of thee no tiding did I hear;
And thou didst never hear my name,
Save from the vague reports of fame.`
But then I trust detraction's lie,
Hath kindled anger in thine eye,
And thou my praise wert proud to see,
My fame should still be dear to thee.
Ten years have had their course, thus late.
I hear the tidings of thy fate:
A husband I and father now,

A tender wife and mother thou.
And Mary as for thee I frame,
A prayer which hath no selfish aim:
No happier lot I wish for thee,
Than such as heaven hath granted me.

1811.

You have manifested your desire of rendering yourself an useful member of society, by ridiculing the foibles, and branding the crimes of your fellowcitizens. Amidst your ingenious and engaging speculations, can you listen to the voice of the wretched? Even in your endeavours to please, you have hitherto appeared anxious to instruct and to reform; to you, therefore, as the friend of virtue and of man, I beg leave to address the following narrative. It contains nothing wonderful, but it is true; and may, in some degree, serve to warn others against the arts by which I was deceived; it is the relation of a perfidy of which myself was the victim.

I was born in a parish about forty miles distant from Edinburgh. My father was a farmer in that parish, more respectable for his prudence and virtues than for his wealth. As soon as I was old enough, I was sent to the parochial school, where I learned the usual branches of education for one in my station of life; and in the evenings, and on Sunday, I was carefully instructed by my parents in the principles of our holy religion. I was commended

No. XXII.

as a dutiful and promising child; and was daily reminded that the more cheerfully I obeyed my parents, the more I would be loved. I was taught that the same almighty Being who caused every flower of the garden to grow, and placed the sun and the moon and all the stars in the sky, created me, and my parents, and all mankind. I was assured that God kept an exact account of every one's words and actions; that he loved the good, and was angry with the wicked; and that he would love me too, and make me for ever happy, if I would obey my parents, and ask his blessing and his love.

As far as the heart was concerned I was sincerely pious, and I felt all the satisfaction of well-doing. Ah! how amiable is the piety of a young and innocent mind! how cheering and sweet the approbation of those we love! With what tenderness I hid my face in the lap of an affectionate mother, and lisped my evening prayer to that God who never slumbers nor sleeps, that he would watch over my repose. When I retired to bed after these simple acts of devotion, I felt a warmer affection for every one I was acquainted with: my little sister, who slept beside me, was dearer than usual; I could not forbear clasping the sleeping infant in my arms, and wishing her awake to share my delightful sensations. Perhaps, Sir,