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soliciting the commendation of pedagogues, or the adulation of the great, we feel ashamed for such a one.

Genius in him is genius in disgrace.

How many excellent performances literally are ruined, by this undue itching after praise. The author, instead of delivering his sentiments with brevity and simplicity, is oppressed with a foolish regard how to place his words, and arrange his sentiments in the most elegant manner; and while attending to the arrangement of words, he neglects the subject matter of his performance; hence, there is often to be found in the works of men of letters, an elaborate redundancy, without a particle of utility. By this means, they lose the kernel, while attempting to polish and beautify the surface of the shell. Thus, they forego their capacity to accomplish great things, while attending to superficial trifles, by paying too much deference to themselves, and solicitude for commendation. It is certain, that when the primary object of the writer is to gain applause, the benefit of his readers must, of course, be only a secondary consideration; he is, therefore, offering incense at the shrine of vanity, with a witness, and gratifying his own selfish propensities, without disguise. The apostro phe of Christ to the scribes and Pharisees, is particularly applicable to such: "Verily, they have their reward;" and a wretched reward it is.

Not one in a thousand of the pretended admirers of Homer, Virgil, Milton, or Shakspeare, could point out the beauties of these authors; they merely reverberate the opinion of judicious critics which reaches them. After a superficial investigation, they applaud their own taste and discernment, offer a compliment to their vanity, and re-echo the praises of these authors through every grade and circle in society. Hence, the best pieces that have ever been written, have been for numbers of years destined, and sometimes consigned to oblivion. Miserable, therefore, must that author be, who expects or seeks no other reward but in the bounty of public patronage; the boon is uncertain at best, and if administered, is insignificant and sometimes destructive. How many literary calumniators make not only their tongues, but also their pens, the vehicles of scandal! How many authors exert their utmost

ingenuity to commit intellectual murder! How mean, how infamous, how dastardly it is for a man, coolly and deliberately to sit down in order to dissect, analyze, and lacerate the precious character of his fellow-travellers to the grave! How frequently is detraction introduced into all companies, religious and profane; from the highest circles to the lowest, defamation finds entrance.-But there is a peculiar contrast between the scandal of the vociferous and literary calumniator. The slander of the tongue may be suppressed, after it has hovered in the atmosphere of fashion a few days, but it is not so with the scandal propagated by the pen of the vicious writer; it is handed down to posterity with the victim's name, the object of contempt. In order to prove the deformity and injustice of this practice, peculiar to too many authors, I may only ask, how would you like to have your names handed down to posterity, as the subject of animadversion and contempt? Why is it that authors, when in their studies, are ransacking their memories, and laying a contribution on their talents, for what? for the mercenary purpose of offering incense at the shrine of despotism. What a pity it is, that such sycophants do not pay some attention to their compensation, hundreds of years to come, as well as the momentary gratification of their envy, avarice or fame. Surely such a prudent consideration would have the salutary tendency of carrying the mercenary author's thoughts, not only to the profit and praise resulting from his performances, but also to the utility or injury, resulting to mankind from the same source, after he himself is wrapped in the cold embraces of the tomb.

There are many works extant, perfectly correct, as it respects the rules of composition, orthography, punctuation, &c; yet, at the same time, they are as dull, useless, and superficial performances, as ever disgraced the republic of letters; and the reverse, as it respects many inaccurate and unmethodical, yet animated and useful works.

A fine specimen of pure native eloquence, and a true picture of the fate of his whole race, is seen in the pathetic and authentic speech of an Indian.

"I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him no meat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not.

During the

last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace.

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"Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed by, and said, Logan is the friend of white men.' I had even thought to have lived with you, had it not been for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not even sparing my women and children. "There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it, I have killed many. I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country I rejoice at the beams of peace; but do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one."

THE IMPARTIALITY OF THE DEITY,

FROM

"THE RIGHTS OF GOD."

GOD has granted to man the knowledge of a Supreme Intelligence, in order to win him to his own happiness; but man, from this simple sentiment, has manufactured a thousand religions, as inhuman as the priests by whom they are administered, who are continually teaching any thing but the art of being happy. The earth every where produces abundance for man, while thoughtless, thankless man, every where waters that same earth with the tears and blood of man, unhappy man! It is not nature, but man that is to be impeached with the miseries and ills of life.

The powerful and affluent think that all are miserable who live out of the circumference of fashionable life; but they themselves are the most miserable, because they counteract the laws of nature, and live in opposition, and not in subordination to her dictates; such persons have no relish but for vain delights, no sight but for shadows, no pleasure but in sensuality; while they have no relish for God, they are total strangers to true pleasure, and their whole life is a miserable dream. They are in the midst of the superb works of God, and yet admire only their own grandeur. They are continually fed (like the swine feeding upon acorns, who never know nor care from whence they fall) by the liberal hand of the Creator, and yet they infringe his rights, and counteract his excellent laws. Surely the oppressor thus acts; and the just re-action of Providence repays him in his own coin. With the same measure he metes, it is measured unto him

again. The more men are oppressed, the more feeble and wretched are their oppressors; for they produce misery, and misery produces murders, robberies, prostitution, rebellion and civil wars, which end in their ruin.

This re-action of evil is observable in the governments of modern, as well as of ancient times. We see even in the present day, governments judicially infatuated, which with long and steady strides, approach the brink of political annihilation. They do not remember, that the cause must be removed before the effects will cease. The world is filled with wretchedness and misery, which are the offspring of man's cruelty and oppression, and not the produce of nature. Man, who is weak, man, who stands on the brink of the grave, man, who is poor, who is nothing, has the temerity to impeach God with the fruits and effects of his own folly; to show the inconsistency of which, I will transcribe a few applicable lines from my tragical poem, "Avenia."

"Behold yon Christian hypocrites unjust,
Full of rage, rapine, cruelty and lust;
T'enslave my sons, they propagate their sway,
Join fraud to force, and bear the spoil away.
Who, smooth of tongue, in purpose insincere,
Hide fraud in smiles, while death is harbour'd there;
From tender husbands, weeping brides they tear,
They proffer peace, yet wage unnatʼral war:
Whilst still they hope we'll wink at their deceit,
And call their villanies the crimes of fate.
Unjust mankind, whose will's created free,
Charge all their guilt on absolute decree :
To God they pray, to him their sins translate,
Their follies are miscall'd the crimes of fate.
The Christian rulers in their ruin join,

And truth is scorn'd by all the perjured line!
Their crimes transcend all crimes since Noah's flood,
Their guilty glories soon shall set in blood.

They swear by heav'n, then spill their brother's gore;
Lo, view my creatures bleeding on the shore :
Shall heav'n be false, because revenge is slow!
No, 'tis prepared to strike the fiercer blow:
Sure is our justice. They shall feel their wo!

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