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FOR THE COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER

THE SCRIBBLER.—No. III.

Why truly, Sister, I have no objection, but
first, I must despatch my daily scribble. Con-
tent thyself for a while with a look out from
thy window. This is a more amusing em-
ployment than I thought it would prove.
What importance does it give, to have one's
idle reveries clothed with the typographical
vesture, multiplied some thousand fold, and
dispersed far and wide among the race of
readers! I wonder the scheme never occur-
red to me before.

Jane, much to my chagrin condemns my
scheme.—“Nobody, says she, will read your
scribble, or nobody whose attention or whose
praise is of any value. And to what end do
you write? It profits you nothing. It en-
larges not, by the bulk of a cent, the days
scanty earnings. Are you not fatigued enough
by ten hours' writing, that you must add thus
voluntarily, to the task? Throw your pen in-
to the fire, and come with me. You know I
must have exercise to keep me alive and I
cannot walk out alone.”

Presently, my dear girl. Eight or ten mi-
nutes more, and I shall have done. What
matters the addition of a few minutes to the
labors of the day? I derive pleasure from
scribbling thus. 'Tis a mental recreation,
more salutary to the jaded spirits than a ram-
ble in the fields or a contemplation of the
starry heavens. I like it better than walk-
ing and conversing with my only friend, but
there is time enough for both to be done.

And are you sure that what I write, nobo-
dy reads? Every sort of curiosity exists in
the world, and some, methinks, there are,
who cast an eye, not without some little in-
terest, even upon my scribble.

Is it the brilliancy of wit, the solidity of
argument, or the dignity of narrative only
which can hope for an intelligent audience?
Are there not moments of vacuity, best filled
up by the milder effusions of an artless, unso-
phisticated pen? No mind is at all times,
overflowing. There is a tide in its sen-
sations, and its richest streams, swelling
and impetuous for a while, will occasionally
check their course, and will ebb, as rapidly
away.

'Tis not for me, indeed, to speculate on
history or politics or morals; these are of
greatest moment, and wise men will bestow
most of their time and thoughts upon them,
but intervals must now and then occur in the
life of the most devoted to the toils of gain
or of science, when nothing can more suita-
bly be offered than a light repast, prepared
by such a superficial, though unspoiled, wit as
mine!

A pair of broad shoulders would be thrown
away upon a barber. What would all the
science of Newton, avail him who is doomed
all his life to saw stone? Had it been Archi-
mede's destiny to spend his days in giving
heads to tenpenny nails, of what use would
he have found the power, had the power been
his, to push the globe into a new track?
So, I; if I had monopolized the current
eloquence of France and England, should
have found it useless in my hands, on such
occasions as these. 'Tis true, I am no such
fortunate wight, at no time can I soar above
the character of Scribbler, but those who are
at leisure to peruse the moral or literary dis-
quisitions of a newspaper, will, perhaps, be
satisfied; nay will be best pleased with such
petty efforts as these; such levities of fancy
as ask no toil to produce and no labor to pur-
sue; at any rate, they please myself, and
while that is the case, Jenny, you must give
me leave to write on.

Jane is not vanquished by logic such as this.
She still insists upon my strolling with her on
the battery. How can I, she asks, resist the
invitations of so soft a breeze? If I prefer to
ply a useless quill, by this farthing taper, she
will pity me and go out alone.

Why Jane, be not displeased. I can write
and walk with thee too. Stop, my girl, thou
shall not go out alone. I love thy company
too much to suffer thy solitary rambles. I
love this balmy air around, and these glim-
mering lustres above us too much to stay
within doors, in so sweet a twilight as this.

Yet thy panicks, sister, are idle ones.
Thou cans't not walk alone, it seems, and
why not? Are not these Americans a civili-
zed nation? Is it requisite in order to screen
a female from injury that a champion should
always walk beside her? Is every man at
these hours, a wild beast prowling for his
prey, and ready to fall upon every innocent
unguarded by a wild beast like himself?

You bring these fears from ’tother side of
the Alantic, and from that overgrown and fla-
gitious city where thou and I passed our
youth. There was a real inconveni-
ence to be dreaded by a female who should
venture to explore the streets alone after
night-fall, but here surely the case is widely
different; here is all security and peace, and
the most timorous of thy sex might rove in
safety and alone from the Bowery-house to
Albany pier, at any time of the night.

You doubt the truth of my assertion, do
you? Well, no matter; while I have life,
thou shalt never put its truth to the test of
experiment. In every part of life's rough
road, I will always be posted at thy side and
to the utmost of my little power, be thy guar-
dian and thy friend.

Foolish boaster that I am! Instead of giv-
ing, I have only received counsel and advice

at thy hand. The poor prerogatives of sex
have sunk beneath thy superiority in intelli
gence and virtue—Not for my happiness, not
for my fortitude alone, but for my virtue, for
my very life am I my sister's debtor.

The time will come when I shall be able
to repay her benefits; I am sure it will, and
the prospect of such a time gives me courage
to endure the present evil: Yet for that very
courage, for that very hope, am I indebted
to my sister's keener foresight and more sted-
fast resolution.

True, as thou sayest, I have written enough,
and now having done my scribble, I will stroll
with thee.

	'Tis not the river's pebbly bound,
	Or gloomy corpse or secret dell,
	Where cricket music floats around,
	Or stilly murmurs love to dwell.
	That calls us forth to walk, dear sister Jane.

	But long dead walls and narrow street,
	Shop-window-lights and homeward cars,
	And brawling tongues and shuffling feet,
	And smoaky airs and winking stars;
	Are all that we shall find, dear sister Jane.

	But walls be dead, be smoke the air,
	And wheels o’er pavement rattle still.
	With lights let every window glare,
	And tongues be brawlers if they will;
	Yet I will stroll with thee, dear sister Jane.