such a thing as religion, then But I must conceal my severe censures, and spare the venerable dead. The high praises bestowed by the Edinburgh Review, on the works of Dickinson, led me to an impatient search after the FARMER'S LETTERS; and I must say, I read them with disappointment. Though the author assumes with great parade, the character of a practical man, yet the reader may judge of the justice of that claim, by his pretending to plough with a little child riding on the beam; which is very sentimental. His tale of a gibbeted negro in the southern States, is so horrible, that the reader is compelled to disbelieve it; his style is redundant, and he labors hard at the vain effort of making backwoodsmen happy, and log-houses picturesque. These foreign critics are doubly unjust; they know not how to praise us. There was a couple of volumes published in Massachusetts some forty years ago, called the MORAL MONITOR, not wholly unworthy of notice. As another follower in the bright succession, we may notice Dennie, who refused" to beat down mud walls with roses," but whose papers were a selection of roses collected in a golden string. People as old as I am, will remember some other fugitive names, which had only an ephemeral existence. Such as the GLEANER, supposed to be written by a clergyman's wife, and too foolish to be approved by any body; the Gossip, in a Magazine published in Boston thirty years ago, con sidered as the work of the same hand, and bearing marks of equal folly. The ORDEAL, in a paper called the Emerald, was a far more respectable production. But all its merits could not redeem it from oblivion. Purpureus veluti cum flos succisus aratro But one of the best of these writers, and one who has placed the lighter morals on their only solid foundation, and that too in a sweet and playful style, is Mr. Sampson, the author of the BRIEF REMARKER. This author has not contented himself in dealing out moral truisms, nor has he plunged into a dazzling deluge of perverse originality. He has some penetrating remarks on human nature, and many of his papers are beautiful, original and just. I am sure my commendation is impartial; for I know the man only from his book. Thus have I endeavored to do justice to all my predecessors, so far as I know them. after, like a humble servant to the My book comes illustrious train. I could wish such pleasing themes had fallen into more skilful hands; but if Mr. Everett will condescend to be governor; if Dr. Channing and Dr. Beecher will waste their energies on temporary controversies; if Mr. Irving will write semi-novels, and Mr. Paulding exaggerated caricatures for satires why then the moral and the permanent must fall into such hands as those of John Oldbug. I say-JOHN OLDBUG. Phoebus! what a name! To fill the speaking trump of future fame. THE PURITAN. No. 60. Now Mr. Great-heart was a strong man; so he was not afraid of a lion. Pilgrim's Progress. BEHOLD! I have reached my last number. After having long been tossed by the billows and beaten by the tempest, I am at last sailing by the buoy of Point Alderton, and have the prospect of casting my anchor, for a quarantine, by Rainsford's island. I mean, I am about closing my book; and it requires no small share of intrepidity to deliver the offspring of one's brain, to this cold and censorious world. I am afraid of the lions. In anticipation I hear them roar already; and fancy I can see the critics devouring my harmless pages, with that merciless spirit with which they can at once gratify their hunger and satiate their revenge. But I am not answerable for consequences; and the first thing I have to tell the reader, is, that time has intercepted my purposes; and many things, which I designed to have put into my volumes, have slipped through my fingers and are gone-probably forever. Whether this be thy sorrow or mine, I must tell thee that I intended to have described my aunt Hannah's death-bed; to have made much more use of my uncle Gideon; to have invited thee to a husking; to have talked more about that New England feast a thanksgiving; to have given the history of a debt; to have told thee some capital stories, related by my grandfather, about the Indians; to have brought up New England manners and incidents, in more vivacious pictures than any I have yet been able to paint. I had some flowers, at the bottom of my basket, more sweet, more fair, than any I have yet presented thee. But, alas! how do our designs shrivel in the execution! My last hour has come; and, instead of weaving new narratives, I must give my closing advice. Remember then, my friendly reader, who hast thus followed me patiently to my last page, that thou art a REPUBLICAN; thy duties, like those of all other men, arise from thy station; and there are certain tendencies in republicanism, which will certainly upset our happiness, unless they are resisted by an antagonist spirit. You have observed, no doubt, that many things preserve their position by balancing. Hold up a pair of scales, for example; see two boys tilting on a rail; see Signor Blitz, walking the slack. rope, (if that is among his jugglings, for I have never |