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he who is silent on topicks with which he is familiar, and he who aims to be learned on those of which he is ignorant; the long story teller, and the artificial wit, might all have their places assigned in the new classification of talkers. But certain circumstances have led me, instead of a scientifick arrangement and analysis, to offer, in the present number, such loose hints as have occurred to me, and have been suggested by others.

Taciturnity is often interpreted as a mark of wisdom; and its opposite is estimated according to the ability of the loquacious to please or instruct. It is singular, that we should often discover the most positive significancy in silence, and brand him for a blockhead, who, in his social intercourse, sometimes overleaps the bounds of discretion. A wise man, however, while he is too proud to expose his ignorance, is generally willing to impart his knowledge; and if he become a mere listener, when the discourse turns on subjects that are familiar to him, we are authorised to class him among those captious cynicks, who delight to prey upon the absurdities of mankind. But, there is in some, a reserve that cannot be accounted for, either from pride or affectation; a reserve wholly constitutional, and which, if it can ever be entirely subdued, cannot be overcome without effort. This natural disposition is often cherished and confirmed by habits of seclusion; and hence it is, that we sometimes find the scholar, who has never relished the beauties of ancient or modern literature, except in his study, unable, at the literary fair, to hold competition with those, who have been accustomed to bring their wares to market. Still less can he expect to rival the literary fop, who knows precisely what

is in demand, and who, though he has as few changes of dialogue as the finical gentleman has of dress in his wardrobe, is very knowing in what will certainly please.

The Remarker thinks it proper to communicate to his readers, certain complaints, from different correspondents, of the awkward situation, in which they have severally been placed by the pedantry, affec tation, or ignorance of those with whom they have occasionally associated.

Mr. Remarker,

I am one of your plain, sedentary scholars, read my Latin and Greek, and am not altogether insensible to the pleasures arising from the study of modern belles-lettres. But I seldom commit to memory the fine sayings of the ancients, and cannot repeat two couplets from any modern poet. What I would chiefly complain of is, that a shallow fellow of my acquaintance, who has procured a gradus ad sententiolas, Dodd's beauties of Shakespeare, and several other excellent books to abridge the labour of reading, is continually, wherever I meet with him, interlarding his discourse with passages drawn at second hand from great writers, by means of his scholar's assistants. Sometimes he will pretend to forget whence he has procured those treasures, which he lavishes with such profusion. "It is Ho. race, Sir," he has said to me more than once, when justifying the levities of which he has been guilty, "it is Horace, I think, who says; dulce est desipere in loco." "Is it not Virgil, who observes, in speaking of the happiness of agricultural life; O fortunatos nimium, c." "Juvenal, if I remember rightly, has, what 1 would apply to this remarkable genius (such for instance as a

juggler or rope dancer,)"rara avis in terris, &c." Such rattle may be very well borne once; but my misfortune is, that, apprehending me to be a scholar, he persecutes me with this same sort of entertainment, in whatever company we meet. It is true, he always gives warning of the attack to be made on my pa'tience; for, like a certain Italian poet I have read of, he invariably has the same exordium Now, Sir, is it right, that these superficial coxcombs, who have acquired a small, jumbled miscellany, should be suffered at pleasure to retail the little stories of their memory to the annoyance of those, who have some relish for the intercommunity of social and literary discourse. The gentleman will probably know this sketch of his picture; though he has set for it so often, that it might have been drawn much nearer to perfection. With this conviction, I shall neither expose his name, nor Subscribe my own.

SIR,

Yours, &c.

To the Remarker.

I am a widowed lady, who have been persuaded by my female friends, to send my daughter to a boarding school, to learn what are called the accomplishments. I had the good fortune to receive a tolerable education under the care of my parents; but I was utterly astonished at the novelty, exhibited by the directress of the institution, in the use of terms and in the application of her knowledge. At my first interview, she placed such a host of "tall opaque words" between me and her meaning, that I was more than once on the point of making my escape. Having occasion to speak of some of that class of misses, commonly

called romps, and the vexation they caused her, she exclaimed with infinite dignity," O, that I could revive the ostracism!" In relating to me the stupidity of a pupil in performing a problem on the globe, she burst into a sublime apostrophe to the immortal Newton, and la mented that prodigious disparity of intellect, in consequence of which, few could learn even a small portion of all that he discovered.

I am no enemy, Sir, to a modest display of the little learning that our sex is permitted to acquire; but I would pray to be delivered from such a wanton misapplication of it, as I have witnessed in the lady I have mentioned. In truth nothing is more disgusting to those of either sex, who have any knowledge or taste, than a female pedant. She is entitled to more praise, who applies her philosophy to improvements indemestick economy, than the woman, who acquires just learning enough to expose herself to the ridicule of a satirist; who stores her memory with trite axioms of the ancients, which she finds in magazines, with the history of institutions for which she makes some absurd parallels; or with that mere scum of science, which serves only to excite the contempt of the learned.

I am, Sir, Yours,

SOPHIA. My friend Mythologos has examined every niche in the Pantheon, and is perfectly acquainted with the genealogy of every God and Goddess acknowledged by the ancients. He often complains of the ignorance of his associates in the fabulous history of Greece and Rome, and has more than once felt a glow of shame upon his cheek for the ludicrous blunders he has witnessed. The following letter to the Remarker shews how much a man of his sensi

MY DEAR FRIEND,

I HAD commenced in my last letter a short topographical description of modern Rome. I have spoken of its size, its surface, and general form and appearance. Something has been said also of its mountains, or rather as we should call them, hills.

The Monte Celio, or Mons Celius, is no otherwise remarkable at the present day, than as being the scite of the famous church of StJohn in Laterano, the second church of Rome in point of splendour, and the oldest in Christendom as the catholicks pretend. Whatever may be the justice of its pretensions in this respect, they are so far admitted by the Apostolick see, that the ceremony of the induction of the pope is always performed in this church, to the great prejudice of its proud sister, St Peter's.

In the early ages of Rome, this mountain was called the mountain of Oaks, on account of its being covered with a thick forest; it is said to have derived its present name from Celius, who, according to Tacitus, brought succours to Tarquin the ancient in his war against the Sabines. It would not be an injury to Rome, if it were again covered with oaks, since it embraces a portion, which is among the most de

The Aventine mount is not worthy of notice on account of any remarkable modern edifices; its extent is very considerable, and its heighth has been as little impaired as any of these famous hills.

The Mons Quirinalis is situated in the most populous part of modern Rome; it is in fact covered with fine streets and magnificent edifices, but it is most distinguished by being the seat of the papal palace, in which the pope always actually resides. Upon occasions of great splendour and solemnity, the Vatican is preferred, but the constant domestick establishment of the pope is at the Quirinal palace. It is a most beautiful and noble hill, and gives an air of grandeur to this city, of which no other city of Europe can boast.

Though the Mons Janiculus was not considered as one of the seven hills, on which ancient Rome was said to have been built, (probably because it was on the opposite side of the river from the others, and rather without the populous part of the city,) yet it always formed, and still forms a very important and interesting portion of the metropolis. It is now inferiour to none of the other hills in point of splendour, since it has the honour to support the incomparable palace of the Vat

jcan, and the metropolitan church of St. Peter's. These edifices, so beautiful, so magnificent, so princely, so filled with relicks of ancient art, and with the incomparable productions of modern genius, would alone be sufficient to bestow distinc tion and consequence upon any hill or any city, in which they should be placed.

The Tiber, so celebrated by aneient poets, so deserving of interest for having watered the first city in the world, is often spoken of contemptuously by modern travellers. It has been called a little, contemptible, muddy rivulet. What pleasure these gentlemen literati can take in thus calumniating this noble stream, I cannot conceive; for my own part, I have a different feeling on the subject, and as the Tiber fully answered my expectations, and responded to the descriptions of it in classick writers, I think it worthy of a few lines of 'description, from which you will be able to form an opinion for yourself.

The Tiber takes its rise about one hundred and fifty miles from the Mediterranean, though it is nav. igable for boats, only to the distance of one hundred miles from that sea. At Rome, it is about three hundred feet wide at the narrowest point, and from Rome to the ocean is navigable for large ships. It is a fact, that a British frigate some years since ascended to the city, and landed there the dutchess of Cumberland, the widow of the late duke of Cumberland, brother to the present king Great Britain. At Rome, the river is exceedingly rapid, but from thence to the ocean its course is very lazy, and considerably impeded by quicksands and mud, which are deposited by the stream, and are frequently shifting their position and quantity. Its navigation

or shipping is not extensive, consid ering the immense population of this city; it is principally carried on in feluccas of from thirty to sixty tons burthen. This torpid state of its commerce is rather to be attributed to the character of the inhabitants, and the wretched nature of the government, than to any natural defects in the river. When Rome contained, as it formerly did, more than a million of inhabitants, the most luxurious and extravagant that ever inhabited any city; when the productions of every climate and the delicacies of every soil enriched their banquets, it is not possible, that such demands could have been supplied without a crowded navigation in the Tiber. I venture to say, that if Rome was at this moment in the possession of the people of our country, the Tiber would be whitened by a thousand ships.

The waters of the Tiber are usually turbid, but this is not peculiar to this river; with very few exceptions all the great and small rivers of Europe are so. This is very disgusting to an American, at first. Accustomed as he has been to the clear and transparent streams of our continent, and forming his ideas of the Wye, the Cam, the Dee, and the Thames, from the pencil of the painter, or the numbers of the poct, he is vexed and irritated at the yellow, dirty colour of their waters.

In this respect then, the Tiber may vie with the majestick Thames, or the meandering Wye. It is still, as in ancient times, filled with excellent fish ; but it is the most remarkable for its inundations. At this moment it has laid two thirds of the populated part of the city under water, and a brigantine of two hundred tons might sail along some of the streets near the river.