“Memory minds not what is read.”
Took up a magazine, which I carefully skimmed but obtained no cream. Cracked, in the Dean of St. Patrick’s phrase, a rotten nut, which cost me a tooth and repaid me with nothing but a worm.—Breakfasted; reflected on the occurrences of the week. In the drama of my life, procrastination, and indolence, are the principal actors. My resolutions flag, and my studies languish. I must strive to check the irregular sallies of fancy. I never shall be useful to others, till I have a better command of myself. Surely one, abiding in the bowers of ease, may improve, if industry be not wanting. Alfred could read and write, eight hours every day, though he fought fifty six pitched battles, and rescued a kingdom; and Chatterton, the ill-fated boyish bard, composed, though cramped by penury, poems of more invention than many a work which has been kept nine years and published at a period of the ripest maturity. When I fly from business, let ambition, therefore, think on, and practice these things. I determine, next week, to effect an entire revolution in my conduct, to form a new plan of study, and to adhere to it with pertinacity. As this week is on the eve of expiration, it would be superfluous to sit down to serious business. I therefore amused myself, by dipping into Akenside’s “Pleasures of Imagination;” read till five, visited a friend, and conversed with him till midnight; conversation turned on propriety of conduct, for which I was a strenuous advocate—* * * * * * *
Here the journal of Meander was abruptly closed. I was curious to learn in what manner he employed his week of reformation. On the ensuing Monday he grew weary of his books; instead of mounting Pegasus, and visiting Parnassus, he actually strode a hack-horse of mere mortal mould, and, in quest of diversion, commenced a journey. He was accompanied, not by the muses, but by a party of jocund revellers; and prior to my friend’s departure, the last words he was heard so say, or rather roar, were the burden of a well known anacreontic “dull thinking will make a man crazy.”
The character and journal of Meander scarcely need a commentary. There shall be none. I was not born in Holland, and only Dutchmen, are qualified to write notes. But I will make an apostrophe.
Ye tribe of Mercurealists! in the name of prudence, avoid eccentricity; expand not your fluttering pinions; trudge the foot-way path of life; dethrone Fancy and crown Common Sense. Let each one seek and fulfil his daily task, “one to his farm and another to his merchandize.”
ANECDOTES.
A worthy Clergyman belonging to a parish in New-England, had the misfortune to have a son of a flighty and wild disposition: altho’ many were the pious admonitions of the virtuous father to bring his son’s remissness into subordination with his own, he had to lament that his injunctions and assiduous endeavours were fruitless, and far from being productive of the desired end.—His son’s heart was so averse to solemnity, that he could not contain himself at the time of worship, and he was often so overstocked with frivolity and his mischievous humor, that his father often noticed it, while preaching, with much regret—and concluded upon harsher means than he had before used to bring his son to better subjection.—The next sabbath he confined him to his house, and proceeded to church with the rest of his family, consisting of his wife, two daughters, and his old negro Tone:—the service being nearly half performed, and the pastor speaking with much fervency to his crouded audience, his voice was all at once drowned by a sudden and tremendous burst of laughter, from all parts of the church, which confounded him.—This laughter was occasioned by the sudden entrance of his favorite old dog, who always placed himself next the pulpit door, in full view of the audience; he now appeared decorated in an old gown and wig powdered and tied on with much taste, which occasioned such loud peals of laughter, that he with difficulty obtained an explanation in ten or fifteen minutes. Old Tone, who seemed to be more in a state of reserve than any other, cried out from the gallery in great earnestness—“Massa, Massa! ony you look at our Tray, den you se what ma-ke dem laff!”—The parson opening the pulpit door, the old dog immediately ascended to him, and was so profuse with his caresses, that the pastor could scarcely dismiss his congregation.
Christina, the Swedish Queen, never wore a night-cap, but always wrapped her head in a napkin. In order to amuse her during her sleepless nights, after having been indisposed the preceding days, she ordered music to be performed near her bed, the curtain of which was entirely closed.
Transported at length with the pleasure she received from a particular passage in the music, she hastily put her head out of bed, and exclaimed. “How well he sings!” The poor Italian singers, who are in general not remarkable for bravery, were so much frightened by her voice, and the sudden appearance of such an extraordinary figure, that they became at once dumb and stupified, and the music immediately ceased.