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for a winter's cordial. Out of the skins of sea-fowl they suck the fat with their teeth and lips; and when they come to dress the seal-flcins, they take a knife and scrape off the fat, which could not be clean separated at the flaying, and make a kind of pan-cake of it, which they eat very savourily.

They don't drink train as some have reported, but they use it in their lamps, Sec. and what they don't want they barter. Yet they like to eat a bit or two of seal-fat with their dry herrings, as also to fry their fish in it, first chewing it well in the mouth and then throwing it out into the kettle. Their drink is clear water, which stands in the house in a great copper vessel, or in a wooden tub which is very neatly made by them, ornamented with hfh-bone diamonds and rings, and provided with a pewter ladleor drippingdisti. They bring in a supply of tresh water every day in a pitcher.which is a sealskin sewed very tight, that smells like half-tanned sole-leather; and that their water may be cool, they chase to lay a piece of ice or a little snow in it, which they seldom want.

They are very dirty in dressing their meat, as well as in every thing else. They seldom wash a kettle; the dogs often spare them that trouble, and make their tongue the dishcloth. Vet they like to keep their bastard-marble vessels neat. They Jay their boiled meat in wooden dishes, having first drunk the ibop, or eat it with spoons made of bone or wood; but their undressed meat lies on the bare ground, or on an old skin not much cleaner. Fish, they take out of the dish with their hands pull fowls to pieces with their fingers or their teeth, and fleshmeat they take hold of with their teeth, and bite off the mouthful. When all is over, they make the knife serve the office of a napkin,

for they give their chops a scrape, lick the blade and lick their fingers, and so conclude the meal. In like manner when they are covered with sweat, they stroke that too down in their mouths. And when they vouchsafe to treat an European genteelly, they first lick the piece "of meat he is to eat, clean from the blood and scum it had contracted in the kettle, with their tongue; and should any one not kindly accept it, he would be looked upon as an unmannerly man for despising their civility.

They eat when they are hungry. But in the evening, when the men bring home the spoils of the day, they have the principal meal, and are very free in asking the other families in the house that may perhaps have caught nothing, to be their guests, or fend them part of it. The men eat first alone by themselves, but the women don't forget themselves neither. Nay, as all that the man bring* falls into their hands, they often feast themselves and others in the absence of the men to their detriment. At such times their greatest joy is to fee the children stuff their paunches so full, that they roll about upon the floor, in order to be able to make room for more.

They take no thought for the morrow. When they abound, there is no end to their banqueting and gluttony, and they like to have a dance after it; being jovial in hopes that (he sea will furnish their board with fresh supplies every day. But by and by, when the fallow time comes, and the seals withdraw from March till May, or if any other calamity, as great frosts and cold, and very bad weather happen, then they must perhaps struggle with hunger for days together; nay, they arc often obliged to make a narrow escape with, their lives by eating muscles, sea weed, yea, old tent-sldns and shoe-foals, if

they they are but so fortunate as to have train enough to boil it; and after all, many a one perishes with hunger.

If their fire goes out, they can kindle it again by turning round a Rick very quick, with a string thro' a hole in a piece of wood.

They love dearly to cat foreign food, if they can get it, viz. bread, pease, oatmeal, and stock-fish, and many of them are but too fondly accustomed ro it. But they have a great aversion for swine's flesh, by seeing how this beast devours all sous of garbage. They have formerly abhorred strong liquors, and called them mad-water. But those that

have more intercourse with the Europeans, would gladly drink it if they could but pay for it. They sometimes feign themselves sick, to get a dram of brandy, and in truth it does save the life of many a one when they have over-eat themselves. Thelc last also love to smoke tobacco, but they can't purchase a sufficiency. However, they dry tobacco leaves upon a hot plate, and pound them in a wooden niofFar, to take as snuff; and they are so inured to it now from their childhood, that they cannot leave it off, nor indeed do they scarce dare leave it off, because of their running watery eyes.



(Continuedfrom sage 95.^

EVERY one slid thai Sophia was beautiful—her person, indeed, Was handsome, and her movements graceful without the assistance of the dancing-master. Her bosom was feelingly alive to every tender emotion, and never was any one Jess capable of disguising her real sentiments—her eyes spoke the language of her foul. The proudest youths of the neighbourhood were lavish in her praise, and the amiable part of her own sex solicited her friendship. She felt herself worthy of esteem, tho' her heart was a stranger to vanity. The history of her mother's family had produced some effects, which might have been naturally expected: she regarded her birth and descent as equal to any in the parish of St. Andrew: yet my continual aim, from the time she was capable of reasoning, had been to inculcate the necessity of absolutely conforming to her situation, and to convinceTver of the folly of valuing herself upon any thing but personal merit. That too,my daughter, said I, is found in the opinion of the world to be subordinate to riches. Vol. HI. No. 3.

This last observation would frequently seem to embarrass Sophia, and she was very ingenious in apologizing for the different dispositions of men—She said, she was sure, that all young gentlemen were not so deceitful as many authors of novels had represented them ; that many of them, were capable of the most unbounded generosity and disinterested love. I do not doubt it, Sophia: but heaven forbid that you should dispose of your innocent heart, without consulting your friend, your mother, whose existence is wound up in yours. Know, my daughter, that for me there is no joy, no comfort in this world,, but in your virtue and happiness. Do not disappoint the expectations which I have formed of your wise and prudential conduct. Sophia, whose heart was ready to burst at the description of imaginary distress, trembled at the idea of giving the least uneasiness to her mother. She was deeply affected with my discourse, and rushing into my arms, she burst into tears.—

Oh, my mother! what shall I sayto obtain your forgiveness? You have

F taught taught me to moderate my ambition, to expect no other than a tradesman as a partner for life, to wear a dress suitable to my humble state: I have scrupulously obeyed your injunctions. But, why was I sent lo school to become an object of love to the most amiable of his sex? Oh, Joseph! you are rich; but it is not your riches I love—your passion is pure too, and fervent as mine. Would to heaven, I mother, that you knew the youth as well as I! then you might approve roy passion—but you will know him, and we mail both be happy. It was on condition that he would obtain your consent, that I first listened to his vows. I told him that he was a lover so different from what I had any reason to expect, that I dared not mention him myself without incurring my mother's displeasure. Ifondly expected, that ere now he would have fulfilled his promise; but he has, been unavoidably detained inCharlest'on; for Joseph ia truth itself, and you will soon be convinced that he is not unworthy of my love. My dearest mother, I will follow your advice in every thing; bat my heart tells me, that if you are deaf to the prayers of Joseph, or if he (which is impossible) should prove false, your daughter is undone. Alas, mother! why do you • iart your eyes angrily upon me, as if you would search my soul f Calm your fears—your Sophia is virtuous, and will remain so. - Joseph is not less virtuous than Sophia:' the streams of Ashley, the trees of the forest, and the stars of heaven, bear witness to the purity of his intentions.—

I beheld my daughter with looks of tenderness, while forebodings of a coming calamity diffused a damp over my spirits. I was unwilling, however, to increase her phrenzy, by presenting to her a true picture of the dangerous step she had taken.

I will not doubt, resumed I, but Joseph is worthy of youi esteem, nay,

of your love: I am sure, at least, thaf you are worthy of his. I do not doubt the present sincerity of his promises. I know him to be the pride of the opposite bank of Ashley—he excels in the schools—he excels in the chace—in short, in all the juvenile exercises. He is well shaped, and fair, few are fairer; and I believe him, from common repoit, to be generous and honourable: but who ha* assured you that the current of his youthful virtues will not be corrupted by the powerful touch of public opinion, by paternal advice, and still more by parental authority? Cast your eyes across the river, observe that elegant building which rears its head above the loftiest trees—look a little farther, and fee his father's extended fields loaded with the richest productions of the year. Lothario is haughty and avaricious—Did he fend his son to the first schools of Charleston to accomplish the husband of Sophia? My daughter, I will not chide you. I shall fee Joseph, and all may be well: but beware of expecting the sweets without the sorrows ot" life. Prepare to support yourfortune, whatever it may be, with becoming dignity.

Sophia wanted some months of sixteen, and Joseph was about two years older, when I became acquainted with the progress of their mutual love, the foundation of which, I learned, had been laid in infancy. Sophia had a taste for poetry—she read Pope and Dryden with pleasure, but dwelt with peculiar delight on Thomson's Seasons. The tender descriptive language of that chaste and elegant author, was consonant to the situation of her mind. I was often at a loss to guess the reason os her nncommon fondness for that beautiful episode in his Autumn, the subject of which is taken from the Book of Esther. She perused it with raptures, committed it to memory, and copied it several times for amusement. The riddle Was now solved—Joseph was Palemon, and file herself Lavinia.— 0 fancy! O imagination !—I recollected the vagaries of my youthful amours, and excused those os my daughter.

A more than ordinary gaiety in Sophia's dress and appearance announced her lover's return to the country. Her eyes sparkled with joy, and her features wore a perpetual sinile of serenity. Their persons were separated by the streams of Ashley, but all the signs of happy love were interchanged from shore to shore with the swiftness of lightning. In the still of the evening, Sophia, seated in the piazza, played the most tender airs upon her guitar, which she accompanied with an harmonious sweetness of voice, and transmitted to her Joseph all the melody of her faithful heart. Joseph answered her strains with the soft sounds of a Ger-man flute, which he managed with inimitable skill. I pretended to take but little notice of all this machinery of love, while I privately dropt a tear of sympathy, when I reflected how soon their present enchantment must dissolve under the most fortunate circumstances. Haopy children I said I, you now enjoy the molt refined pleasures on earth: but, perhaps even now the storms of adversity gather round your heads, to blast your hum • blest hopes, and leave you only the painful remembrance of having once tasted of felicity, which must never more return!

The village schoolmaster, although .almost ignorant in classical learning, was famous for his knowledge of mathematics, which gave Joseph an opportunity of returning frequently to Sheraton, long after he had quitted the school, under pretence of further improvement in surveying, a branch of education which his father had particularly recommended to him: but now I was convinced that Sophia

was the chief object oF his visits. Oa one of these occasions, while Sophia and I were walking in our little garden, we observed Joseph advancing towards us with a flow pace and downcast eyes. My daughter endeavoured to conceal her blushes and confusion at this unexpected interview, and taking shelter in the house, lest me alone with her lover. I was but too well informed of the cause of their mutual timidity, and judged it high time to come to a speedy explanation. Ah! Joseph, said I, little did I think that you would have used me so ungenerously. You have stolen the affections of my daughter, without considering the imprudence of your conduct. You have made her happiness hi depend solely on you, not reflecting that you yourself depended on the will of others. Have you bestowed a single thought on the delicacy of the female character, which the slightest breath of scandal is capable of blasting for ever? Your partiality for Sophia has already become the talk of the neighbourhood. Are you not sensible that public opinion, for the most part, acts in direct opposition to the dictates of simple nature and ingenuous sentiment? Had you consulted your parents, had you even consulted the mother of Sophia, all the inconveniencies of your proposed connection would have been clearly pointed out to you. Know, young gentleman, that my happiness is warped up in that of my daughter. I am persuaded ycu have already carried mairers too far to retract with safety. Would it not shock your sensibility to drive Sophia to despairto load her mother with extremest misery? I myself have sacrificed largely on the altar of faithful love: Sophia is the pledge of the sweet suf. ferings of my youthful age.

Joseph, who had listened to my discourse with the most profound attention, could no longer repress the ardour

ardour of his feelings. He precipitately seize j my hand in the utmost confusion, pressed it to his cheek, and bathed it with tears; and in a kneeling posture called heaven and earth to witness the disinterestedness and purity of his passion. Yes, worthy mother of my incomparable Sophia, said he, I confess my fault—I know your character—you deserved my confidence much sooner. Let it apologize for me, that I loved your daughter before I had any sense of the formalities necessary to be observed on such occasions. To please her has been my chief delight from my childhood; but now my passion is wrought to the highest pitch, and I only wait for your consent to make me happy. Do r, * tear the trammels of interest—My fortune does not altogether depend upon my father—No one can deprive me of the property left me by my mother. But why do I talk thus f My father, my sisters, all our family love and esteem

Sophia. I shall doubtless gain then consent with the greatest facility. The birth, the beauty, the education, the innumerable good qualities oF Sophia, will even in their eyes be more than a balance for all my paltry possessions. For my own part, whenever they stand between me and trie mistress of my heart, the matchless Sophia, I shall spurn them from me with contempt.

By this time Sophia, eager to know the issue of this long wished for conversation, had gently approached the place where we stood. I felt an inclination to retire, and joining their hands, observed, that the concurrence of Joseph's parents would complete their happiness, from which mine could never be separated. They both seemed insensible to every thing but the contemplation of each others charms. I resigned them to solitude, which I was conscious was then the greatest favour I could bestow upon them. (Toie continue J. J

Account of an Apparition which made a great noise in France alout the end of the /a/I Century.

A BELIEF in spirits and apparitions has prevailed in all ages of the worl'd, and many absurd fables have been propagated respecting those beings, which were probibly invented to serve particular parposes, or had their origin in ignorance and superstition. Whether the following relation be of this kind or not, we

ihall not pretend to determine, but we are of opinion that it merits some attention, on account of the noise which it made at the Court os France about the end os the last century.

The small city of Salon, in Provence, where the famous Nostradamus* was buried, produced another kind of Prophet, who made his appearance * Nostradamus, a physician and famous astrologer of the sixteenth century, rvas horn at St. Remy, a small tillage in the diocese of Avignon, on the l ^tb cf December, 150 J. He studied at Montpellier, and travelled aftertuardi into Thoulcuse and Bourdeaux. On his return to Provence, he published, in 1555, his seven first Centuries, ivhich King Henry II. of France esteemed si much, that he wished to see the author, and having sent for him, presented him nvith tavo hundred crowns of gold. In I 5 5 8, he published his three last Centuries, and died at Salon, on the id of July, I 566, aged fixty-three. He noes buried in the church of the Cordeliers, where his epitaph is to be seen. The following distich made upon this prophet, and attributed to Stephen Jodelle, is well known.

Nostradamus, cum falsa damus, namfallere nostrum est:
JLt cum falsa damus, nilnist nostra damus.

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