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FOR THE COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER

THE SCRIBBLER.—No. II.

Ah! Jenny! these are hard times, but
ours is no extraordinary lot. Heavy as the
burden is on us, there are thousands on whom
the load is heavier still, while the shoulders
on which it is laid, are far less able to sus-
tain it than ours.

A feeble consolation, thou sayest, is that,
and feeble it is. To find comfort in distress,
from thinking on the greater distresses of
others whose merits are much less than ours,
is but a selfish way of judging, for why should
we be comforted by such reflections.

When I was a boy, a froward wretch,
whom I met on the highway, thought proper
to be angry at some jest that escaped me, and
snatching up a pebble about half the size of
my fist, knocked me down with it. My skull
was fractured by the blow, and I was a long
time in getting well. While sick, an ideot
that strolled about the village, chanced to
stroll into my chamber. Somebody, in an-
swer to his questions, gave him an account of
my mishap. The historian out-did Tacitus
in brevity, for the whole tragedy was sum-
moned up in—Why, Dick, the waggoner
broke his head with a brick-bat.

“Bless me, said the fool, what a mercy
that it was not a mill stone.”

Jenny smiled and said, a remark truly
worthy of an ideot.

And yet, (resumed I) foolish as it was, it
struck me, as I listened very forcibly. Dick
the waggoner to be sure, was no Ajax.
Rocks were no missives to him, but my
thoughts did not run upon the possibility of
the evil. I was really consoled by thinking
that a larger stone or a better aim might
have doubled or trebled the injury or per-
haps made it utterly irreparable. And why
since I was comforted, be very curious in
weighing its justice or wisdom. That wis-
dom that lessens joy or enhances sorrow, is not
worth our praise. Cheer up my dear girl,
and if thou can'st find no comforter but folly,
think it only folly to be wise.”

Such was the dialogue that just now pas-
sed between Jenny and me. Jenny, you
must know, reader, is my sister, and a good
girl she is; the best in the world. Abundant
cause have I to say so, for without her, long
ago should I have soundly slept in my grave:
or have undergone a much worse destiny.
Without her healing tenderness or salutary
council, I should long ago have yielded to
the ill suggestions of poverty, and have done
that which is forbidden, or have shared the
debtor's portion in a prison, or have sunk to
my last deep in a pestilential hospital.

My Jane is a sort of good angel to me, ne-
ver wanting at the point of utmost need.
What a sweet face is her’s, and what music
was ever so heart cheering as her “good
morrow brother!”

Tired, drooping, almost lifeless after the
day's toil, to hear her sing, or ramble with
her, are my sweetest consolations.

But how am I run away with by this be-
bewitching theme! My own fortunes and
my sisters praise I do love to dwell upon.
Yet strange it is that I should talk thus pub-
licly on such themes. I that have my pride
and my scruples, like others, but my contri-
vance here has saved my pride, and gratified
my darling passion; I can write about my-
self, and even publish what I write, without
risqueing my exposure, for nobody that reads
this, will ever know the writer.

Perhaps, reader, you want to know my
name and dwelling. Now these are the on-
ly things that I am anxious to hide. My
character and history I have no objection to
disclose; nay, it would give me pleasure to
tell them, but I do not wish to be known by
name and abode.

Not likely, indeed, that my name would be
of service to you. You never heard it before.
An obscure and forlorn lad like me, was nev-
er noticed in your pleasurable walks or social
circles. The meanness of my garb, indeed,
and my boyish face conceal me even from
suspicion, and far—far distant and different
are the spheres in which you and I move.
But what new suggestion of vanity is this?
To imagine that any curiosity will be felt for
him from whose pen these crudities flow, or
that any interest can be awakened in en-
lightened bosoms for the fortunes of the—
Scribbler!

Yet why not! I have a little vanity, that's
certain. Not the most contemptible of Hea-
ven's creatures, am I; good parts in me, I
verily believe; a towardly, prompt spirit, to
give myself my due, that will expand and ri-
pen as I grow older. As yet I am a mere boy,
for whose deficiencies, as well as for whose
vanity, some allowances will not be withheld
by the charitably wise.

I have, at this moment, a great desire to be
known to thee, my friend; thou, with thy
benignant smiles, who art, just now, perusing
this page. I hope thou art a woman, for if
so, softness and compassion, are interwoven
with thy feelings as intimately as bright
threads in a parti-coloured woof. Methinks
I hear thee sigh, and see thy eye glisten.
Would to heaven I was near enough to testify
my gratitude, and bid the compassionate
drop flow, to assure thee that the writer of
this is not unworthy thy regard, but that must
never be. I shall never be to thee aught but
a phantom. A something ideally existent,
and without a name or local habitation.

Not that I should be averse to know thee

for my friend, but how to discover thy good
will; how to bring myself within thy ken, is
the insuperable difficulty.

Perhaps, I might be somehow useful to thee.
I might run of thy errands , might carry thy
provision-basket on market days, or harness
thy pair of Bays to thy phaeton, but no. For
that I was not born, I will never be a slave to
fetch and carry, to fatten upon fragments
even from thy plate; to sit upon the kitchen
hearth, with trencher on my lap, and eat,
full in the envious eyes of Towser, who,
the while, is squatted opposite, and grudges
me every vile morsel.

Perhaps, thou needest a more honorable
service, art smitten with a passion for some
fashionable knowledge; to prate a little
French, or shew a pretty finger on the harp-
sichord, or flourish off a billet with a little
more correctness of spelling, more evenness
of lines; and with characters a little less like
Arabic may have awakened thy ambition.
In such a case I dont know but I might eat
thy bread and not be choaked by it. Other-
wise, this pine board and this black loaf are
sweeter by far.

I gleaned a little latin, from a well taught
uncle, but he went to sea, before I had made
much way, and I never saw him more.
Them Telemaque fell in my way, and by aid
of Dictionary, I and Jane hammered out its
meaning. Now what little I know of these
languages I would gladly teach another.

But alas! I know too little of that or any
thing else, to pretend to teach them to others.
I myself am a learner, and hte lesson I have
most need to study is, that of being content
with my lot.