yet, gratify it, for the time may come, when you may make a similar request of another; it is that you bury me this night, before the moon goes down, in the sand, where the stake stands, and by the side of my dear boy."

I had no time for reply, for the words "dear boy" were the last he uttered; yet I felt just as much bound as though I had promised.

I alone was to perform the funeral rites of the old man-no obsequious wretches were to weep over him. I dug him a grave in the sand, by the side of the being he adored—and as the day broke, I shoved my boat off from the shore.

Such is the history of one, which so beautifully interweaves itself with the history of another. I always carry my oars as I pass this spot, that I may revive the memory of the broken oar -that I may sympathise in the misfortunes of the young man— that I may recall, to exalt the virtues of the old man.

Sacred! most sacred! if but for the old man's sake is this manuscript; and I consider I am fulfilling a portion of my duty to him in having it published. It can, I judge, injure the feelings of no individual. His parents are both dead, and he had neither brother or sister; and, moreover, it is now many years since he too died; and association of every sort in regard to him, if it died not with him, surely is buried now.

DESULTORIA.

MAY 29th, 18.-I am about to commence, not a journal, for I cannot fancy a title under which every schoolboy keeps an account of his nonsense, and every wise-acre subscribes his selfsufficient follies. My notion is, to place here whatever has occurred of interest in my intercourse with men in society, or the world-whatever I have gathered from the conversation of men or have become acquainted with in my observation of their manners, and their actions; and it is my intention to make my remarks here, on the authors I am reading, or have read.

Here shall I garner up the thoughts of my solicitude-here give vent to all the feelings of my soul. This shall be the book of my heart, and the book of my mind—and, should this manuscript fall into the hands of one who knows not how to appreciate the feelings of a sensitive man, he may construe it into folly or egotism:-but then I shall be gone; and, fortunately for the grave, no harm can visit its precincts-no key. can unlock its doors to the voice of reproach, and coarse, unfeeling mockery.

Whatever may find its way into this book of my heart, and book of my mind, will proceed from the spur of the moment:

and there must exist, therefore, much irregularity-not only in time, but likewise in thought and emotion.

I commence this in a truly unlucky year-not politically, for I have no affection, and scarcely any care for politics. But there are private matters-painful private matters, which my pen cannot detail; for they are too recent, and weigh too heavily on the heart indeed, how inadequate is language to the expression of our feelings, and soon after a catastrophy especially! When we cast aside all amusement, our books, and all those things which formerly invariable interested us, for the heart to bury itself deep in its throes.

Then this month is unfortunate in being that in which a strangely constituted being came into existence. And this day, (Friday,) his birth-day, too, the unlucky day of the week. A prospect, indeed, opens to my view-one which almost crazes

me.

Before I close these thoughts, I must say, that having failed in everything I have undertaken of a laudable character, this last, the keeping an account of my thoughts and feelings I shall undertake-but I prophesy that I am writing the last lines; however, I shall continue to undertake, until the office of undertaker shall pass into other hands and I into other beings, and other worlds-no matter what or where.

JUNE 10th.-This morning, thoughts which might be considered singular, filled my waking mind; they concerned myself, and regarded my own peculiar nature, as considered in connexion and contrast with that of my fellow men-as, indeed, of all created beings. It seemed that I was desirous of working out the cause of my being-which had always been a mystery to me, and I hold to be mysterious to all men.

My purpose seemed, not to discover the essence of my nature, but to bring to light that within myself which was susceptible of development, and to make it subserve some useful end. I think every being in the universe has been, or is now being created with a proposed design; that they are to render moral illustration of some grade of worthiness, or unworthiness; to define some shade of difference in the world of mind or matter. I have always considered, that from the lowest to the highest being in creation—even from the elementary principles of organic and inorganic matter, to the most mysterious complication of being, there was in the mind of the creative being, at the time of their birth, the most settled and determined intention

I likewise consider, that there was a definite purpose for which each individual of each race, class and order, became a separate creation; and that each came from the hand of the Master-workman, plastic to peculiar, and only those impres

sions.

If these sentiments were expressed to men, perhaps I might be thought a fatalist-but very far am I from sustaining any such impressions; and no man abhors this wretched sect of men more than myself;—as proof, I shall recall to mind my belief, which is, that every thing, animate and inanimate―mind— matter-all, are subject to laws ever the same, or they should not be called laws; and derived perfect, from the profound head of the being the world unites in adoring as God.

Many a time, of course, have I seen it appear, that the intention was doubtful; but no man who examines all circumstances and occasions, and thoroughly, can come to any such conclusion. For to take the human race generally, who denies that the creation of man was for a noble end? To be more particular :