where nature has given an ear to seize, a heart to feel, and a hand to execute, all the finer touches of harmony-if one thus so highly gifted may hardly trust himself in a pursuit so likely to encroach on others of a higher nature, what can be said of the folly of some parents who encourage, nay, more, who urge their children, in whom no such talent dwells, to sacrifice the best hours of the day, the best years of their life, to the vain acquirement, that they may at last execute that which, with less labour and more effect, an automaton might be made to perform. The female sex usually devote much of their time to external accomplishments, having, it is supposed, but a small share of the burden of life to bear. A woman's duties may be lighter than those which belong to the other sex, but they are more numerous, and equally essential. Granting, however, that much embellishment becomes the female character, are there not roads enough open to elegant and ornamental attainments? Why must a girl, who might read with profit and delight, be perpetually straining a bad voice, to perform quirks and flourishes, to shew herself to the worst advantage, and wound the ears and souls of the truly musical? Why must the fingers that would correctly guide the pencil, or neatly practise all the lighter arts of female utility, be forced to sprawl over the clashing strings of a harp, or confound the delicate tones of a piano forte? How might she charm by her conversa tion the ears she now offends with her music! and how will she one day regret the time so misspent, the pains so misapplied! The next generation will, it is to be hoped, offer fewer victims on the shrine of music: the rage for this kind of performance having made it too common to be a distinction, some more rational mode of embellishment will probably be adopted, and music be once more left in the hands of professional persons, and of the comparatively small number of amateurs who cultivate and love it, for its own sake. ESSAY V. ON PLACES OF BURIAL. "The rolling seasons, day and night, For him exist in vain." MONTGOMERY. It was on a lovely morning, in the month of May, A.D. 18, that I first beheld the romantic village of H. The country wore its freshest verdure, the flowering shrubs their gayest dress, and the bright sunshine glowed in beautiful contrast with the deep shade of those stately chesnut trees, which form so striking a feature in the scene. Every thing conspired to encourage the buoyancy of spirit with which, at that time, I was wont to begin a journey. The morning is always favourable to active enjoyment; the body is refreshed, and the mind is invigorated, by repose; and both feel new delight in exertion. There is a pure coolness in the air, and a spirit of busy animation pervading all nature, of which the heart of man cannot fail to partake, unless weighed down by care or affliction; and, at that time, I was a stranger to both. Who can forget the energetic pleasure, the lively consciousness of some natural source of joy, independent, in some measure, of external causes, yet ready to be heightened and improved by every new impression on the senses, which belongs only to the morning of life? A gleam of sunshine, a fragrant smell, a flower, an insect, every trifle is a pleasure; yet we scarcely know it till all these pleasures are past. It was in one of the gayest of these youthful moments that I entered the village; and even at this distance of time, the sight of it produces a faint renewal of the sensations which I then experienced. On turning the corner of a lane, which leads towards the church, a funeral procession sud denly met my view. Two villagers carried a coffin, covered with a plain black pall; only three or four others followed. After they had entered the church-yard gate, I passed slowly on, and saw them stop by the side of a newly-made grave. With what altered sensations did I pursue my journey! My heart lingered in the church-yard; from thence fancy led me to the house of mourning, when its inmates should return from committing him whom they loved to that rustic grave, all trace of which must so soon be effaced! I can recollect much of the visionary lucubrations which employed my mind, during that day, on the subject of burial. The opinions which I then conceived time has in part corrected, and in part confirmed: a morbid excess of feeling, pardonable only in early youth, has long since given way to a deep, silent conviction of the comparative nothingness of this life; which has altered the nature, without diminishing the force, of those sensations, which arise on seeing a fellow-creature consigned to his last place of rest. There is now inexpressible consolation, mixed with the sadness of those sensations; but I do still, and must ever regret, the transient nature of our duties towards the dead, and the small regard paid to their remains, from the moment the last sod is laid over them. Intemperate grief often withholds us from seeing, almost prevents us from knowing, the spot where they rest; and because we cannot teach moderation to our feelings, we finish by extinguishing them altogether. We sorrow for a sea |