time, think fit to withdraw. And the society shall, annually, publish an abstract of the titles, object, or subject matter of the communications so under consideration; except such as the society shall think not worthy of public notice.

10. The letters containing the names of authors whose performances shall be rejected, or which shall be found unsuccessful after a trial of five years, shall be burnt before the society, without breaking the seals.

11. In case there should be a failure of any communication worthy of the proposed premium, there will then be two premiums to be awarded in the next year. But no accumulation of premiums shall entitle an author to more than one premium, for any one discovery, invention, or improvement.

12. The premium shall consist of an oval plate of solid standard gold, value ten guineas; on one side shall be neatly engraved a short Latin motto, suited to the occasion, together with the words, The premium of John Hyacinth de Magellan, of London, established in the year 1786. And on the other side of the plate shall be engraved these words: Awarded by the A. P. S.-for the discovery of, A. D.

And the seal of the society shall be annexed to the medal by a ribbon passing through a small hole at the lower edge thereof.

They likewise offer a second or extra premium, consisting of a gold medal, of the value of not less than twenty, nor more than forty-five dollars; or the same sum in money, at the option of the candidate, accompanied with a suitable diploma on parchment, with the seal of the society, to the author of any useful invention or improvement on any subject within the general view of the Magellanic donation, as before described, and which shall be deemed most worthy thereof; or to the author of such communication as may lead to such inventions and improvements, and which may be deemed worthy of the premium, un

der the before-mentioned conditions.

The society also point out a few subjects, to which they wish to direct the attention of candidates for the premium; informing them, at the same time, that communications on other subjects, which come within the general or particular views of the donor, will not be excluded from the competition. All communications for the extra premium must be made in the manner prescribed in the conditions for the ori ginal premium.

The objects towards which the society direct the attention of candidates are,

1. The best experimental essay on native American permanent dyes or pigments, accompanied by specimens.

2. The best means of navigating our rapid rivers against the stream.

3. The best essay on the general natural history of the ranges of American mountains in the country east of the river Mississippi.

4. The best essay on the natural history and chemical qualities of the hot and warm springs of the United States, or of any one of them.

For the Literary Magazine.

THE GLEANER.

NO. II.

BECAUSE the whimsical Lavater wrote three or four quartos, and invented a great number of distinctions, in relation to physiognomy, most people are apt to imagine that this is a new science. I do not mean that nobody before him ever imagined a certain correspondence between the character and outward form of a man, but that no one before him ever built up a regular and complex system on the subject. I shall not attempt to inquire how far this is true, but shall content myself with quoting some sentiments, written near a century before the Swiss physiognomist was thought of, which

seems to comprise all that any reasonable mind can hope to discover on this subject, notwithstanding the confident and parading declamations of Lavater and his followers.

There are several arts, of which all men are in some measure masters, without having been at the pains of learning them. Every one that speaks or reasons is a grammarian and logician, though he may be wholly unacquainted with the rules of grammar or logic, as they are delivered in books and systems. In the same manner, every one is in some degree a master of that art which is generally distinguished by the name of physiognomy; and naturally forms to himself the character or fortune of a stranger, from the features and lineaments of his face. We are no sooner presented to any one we never saw before, than we are immediately struck with the image of a proud, a reserved, an affable, or a good-natured man; and upon our first going into a company of strangers, our benevolence or aversion, awe or contempt, rises naturally towards several particular persons, before we hear them speak a single word, or so much as know who they are. - Every passion gives a particular cast to the countenance, and is apt to discover itself in some feature or other. I have seen an eye curse for half an hour together, and an eye-brow call a man a scoundrel. Nothing is more common than for lovers to complain, resent, languish, despair, and die in dumb show. For my own part, I am so apt to frame a notion of every man's humour or circumstances by his looks, that I have sometimes employed myself in a crowded street in drawing the characters of those who have passed by me. When I see a man with a sour rivelled face, I cannot forbear pitying his wife; and when I meet with an open ingenuous countenance, think on the happiness of his friends, his family, and relations.

I cannot recollect the author of a famous saying to a stranger who

VOL. V. NO. XXXII.

læsus:

Rem magnam præstas, Zoile, si bonus es.

I have seen a very ingenious author on this subject, who founds his speculations on the supposition, that as a man hath in the mould of his face a remote likeness to that of an ox, a sheep, a lion, a hog, or any other creature; he hath the same resemblance in the frame of his mind, and is subject to those passions which are predominant in the creature that appears in his countenance. Accordingly he gives the prints of several faces that are of a different mould, and by a little overcharging the likeness, discovers the figures of these several kinds of brutal faces in human features. I remember, in the life of the famous prince of Conde, the writer observes, the face of that prince was like the face of an eagle, and that the prince was very well pleased to be told so. In this case, therefore, we may be sure that he had in his mind some general implicit notion of this art of physi ognomy which I have just now mentioned; and that when his courtiers told him his face was made like an eagle's, he understood them in the same manner as if they had told him there was something in his

8

looks which showed him to be strong, active, piercing, and of a royal descent. Whether the different motions of the animal spirits, in different passions, may have any effect on the mould of the face when the lineaments are pliable and tendcr, or whether the same kind of souls require the same kind of habitations, I shall leave to the consideration of the curious. In the mean time, I think nothing can be more glorious than for a man to give the lie to his face, and to be an honest, just, good-natured man, in spite of all those marks and signatures which Nature seems to have set upon him for the contrary. This very often happens among those who, instead of being exasperated by their own looks, or envying the looks of others, apply themselves entirely to the cultivating of their minds, and getting those beauties which are more lasting and more ornamental. I have seen many an amiable piece of deformity; and have observed a certain cheerfulness in as bad a system of features as ever was clapped together, which hath appeared more lovely than all the blooming charms of an insolent beauty. There is a double praise due to virtue when it is lodged in a body that seems to have been prepared for the reception of vice; in many such cases, the soul and the body do not seem to be fellows.

Socrates was an extraordinary instance of this nature. There chanced to be a great physiognomist in his time at Athens, who had made strange discoveries of men's tempers and inclinations by their outward appearances. Socrates's disciples, that they might put this artist to the trial, carried him to their master, whom he had never seen before, and did not know he was then in company with him. After a short examination of his face, the physiognomist pronounced him the most lewd, libidinous, drunken old fellow that he had ever met with in his whole life. Upon which the disciples all burst out a laughing, as thinking they had detected the falsehood and vanity of his art. But

Socrates told them, that the principles of his art might be very true, notwithstanding his present mistake; for that he himself was naturally inclined to those particular vices which the physiognomist had discovered in his countenance, but that he had conquered the strong dispo→ sitions he was born with by the dictates of philosophy.

We are indeed told by an ancient author, that Socrates very much resembled Silenus in his face; which we find to have been very rightly observed from the statues and busts of both that are still extant, as well as on several antique seals and precious stones, which are frequently met with in the cabinets of the curious. But, however observations of this nature may sometimes hold, a wise man should be particularly cautious how he gives credit to a man's outward appearance. It is an irreparable injustice we are guilty of towards one another, when we are prejudiced by the looks and features of those whom we do not know. How often do we conceive hatred against a person of worth, or fancy a man to be proud or ill-natured by his aspect, whom we think we cannot esteem too much when we are acquainted with his real character!

For the Literary Magazine.

FRENCH EMPIRE.

IF in military matters the French discover conduct and heroism which did not heretofore belong to them, we do not find that they are divested of the levity and frivolity by which they have been in all ages characterized. On the contrary, never do they seem to have found more facility in flying from one extreme to another. How short a time has passed since republican representations threw them into the wildest raptures, and all were the disciples of the goddess of reason, zealots for the sovereignty of the

people, and advocates for the rights of man! yet now this mania is as much out of fashion as the Fronde or the league. Nothing suits their present taste but imperial and royal pomp; all insist on the necessity of religion, all applaud the unity of the supreme authority, all plead for hereditary succession; and no sooner is an emperor made, than the history of the empire is advertised; though it has existed only a few months, its annals are announced! Are a people of this fickle cast destined to command the world? are they to be the models of mankind?

For the Literary Magazine. THE REFLECTOR.

NO. X.

MY correspondent Antonio's letter has remained so long unanswered, that to notice it now may be unnecessary. The cause from which it originated has probably ceased to exist: for grief naturally exhausts itself by its own violent exertions, or overpowers the object of its attack, and ends by destroying the plant on which it subsists. Yet it is the duty of the Reflector to perform the duties he owes to civility; and though the performance of them has long been deferred, yet it is perhaps better, that that, which should be done, is done late, than not at all. It is, perhaps, not unworthy of enquiry, why we indulge grief so much as we do: while we must be sensible we are nourishing a perfidious enemy in our bosom, who, under the fascinating exterior of tenderness and affection, robs us of so many enjoyments. Grief is certainly not an emotion, or (if it please my readers better) a passion, agreeable in the abstract, either in its nature, or its effects. It deadens or stupifies the mental faculties, it contracts the range of our ideas, it makes all our reflections centre in one point, and makes us almost unfit to exer

cise the most distinguishing qualities which we possess, as rational beings, over the rest of the creation. Behold the man of grief: see how he moves along; his step is slow, his arms are folded on his breast, or carelessly hanging at his sides: mark the paleness of his cheek; his eyes are fixed as though he was intently gazing on some interesting object, yet he sees nothing; his sight penetrates space, but fixes at last (if I may venture the expression) on vacancy; his dress is negligent and disordered, while an air of abstraction sits on every feature. To him almost all things are alike; whether the gentle gales of spring fan his bosom, and bear upon their silken pinions the odours of Arabia, or the sultry heats of summer oppress him with their fervour; whether autumn presents to the eye the full harvest, and the loaded bough, or winter covers the ruins of nature with the fleeces of heaven: his breast is insensible to the change. The change of seasons or of cir cumstances make but a slight impression on a pre-occupied and mourning heart. Approach him; ask him some question not connected with the cause of his grief; his answer will be short and from the point; he will convince you, by his manner, that his mind is fixed on some particular object, to the almost total exclusion of every other; and, notwithstanding that on the proper understanding of the business on which he is questioned may rest much of his temporal prosperity, yet he will continually revert to that object which seems to claim, on the principle of previous possession, a right to all his attention.

The mourner loves to converse on one subject only; and this is the one which occupies his whole soul. On this he could continually dwell; and though repetition might weary all others, it would still afford him pleasure: that is, all the pleasure which grief can know, the pleasure of weeping. Let not the reader say this is a paradox: grief loves to weep, for in weeping, as I

have just said, it finds its greatest enjoyment. This is the true cause why those who regret the recent loss of some beloved friend hear with so much impatience the frequent repetition of those ill-timed and common-place consolatory phrases, so often used on these occasions. It is in vain to say, "weep not; it is the will of Heaven; tears cannot recal your friend to life," &c., &c. The mourner knows all this; perhaps he has endeavoured to console another in the same manner. Let him who would offer comfort and consolation, not appear to attempt, nay, let him rather seem to want it himself; let him dwell on the virtues and amiable qualities of the deceased, and weep with him who mourns his loss. Thus will he sooth the grief, which it is not in the power of mere consolatory speeches immediately to

cure.

Nor is the effect of grief on the health of the body less pernicious than it is on the health of the mind: it saps the very foundations of life, and is not unfrequently the mourn er's passport to the grave. Still it is indulged with a fondness unaccountable, perhaps, in any other way, than by remembering that it is natural; philosophy is frequently unable to tell us any more: after all its enquiries, its investigations, it finds itself on the same ground where it commenced them, and where ignorance itself would have concluded its researches.

When we lose a beloved friend by the stroke of death, how we love to call to remembrance every feature which distinguished him; to embody the departed form in our imagination; to place him in those situations in which we have beeen accustomed to see him; while living to make him speak, to act, to give his opinion on this or that subject; to enumerate his virtues and his talents; and, at last, to weep over the loss of all the pleasing enjoyments which, with him, we once participated. Is not this a proof that we love to grieve? If we did not, we would endeavour to forget whatever might awaken any

recollection of the object of our grief; should think ourselves obliged to him who would show us that we ought to forget it; that it was unworthy; and its loss not to be regretted, but desired. But who, that has felt the influence of grief, would bear, for a moment, to hear the object of its regret vilified? who would ever hear his actual failings enumerated with any degree of patience? No one. Yet grief is unreasonable; to weep over the remains of a departed friend cannot "back to its mansion call the fleeting breath." We know it; we fee! it; yet we lament, and lament because lamenting is vain: we feel how foolish, how absurd is our conduct; we know we ought to bear the inevitable afflictions of life with fortitude and without repining; yet we glory in our own imbecility; and who would not? who would not be a man? The philosopher who thinks he is, then feels and acknowledges he is nothing more; he glories in feeling like one; although, perhaps, he may be ashamed to own how weak is reason and philosophy, when opposed to the meltings of nature and the calls of tender regret.

Nature has placed this distressing, though not altogether ungrati fying emotion, in the breast of man for a very useful purpose. Grief is to love, as night is to day; it is always the successor of love, when its object has been removed from us by the hand of death. Perhaps this may be one reason why we shudder at the thought of depriving a fellow. creature of life (that is, one who is dear to our affections), because we dread the attacks of the grief that will follow his loss. This may be extending the action of grief too far; but let any one form an imaginary scene; let him suppose himself placed in it, as one of the principal actors, and one of his friends as another. His friend must be supposed to possess something which he himself desires to possess; he knows no other way of acquiring it but by the death of his friend. Here he must suppose himself insensible