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She was a professed enemy to flattery, and was seldom

known to praise or commend;

But

the talents in which she principally excelled, Were difference of opinion, and discovering flaws and imperfections.

She was an admirable economist,
and without prodigality,

Dispensed plenty to every person in her family;
But

would sacrifice their eyes to a farthing candle. She sometimes made her husband happy, with her good

qualities,
But

much more frequently miserable, with her many failings : Insomuch that in thirty years cohabitation, he often lamented, that, maugre all her virtues,

He had not, in the whole, enjoyed two years of matrimonial comfort.

At length,

finding that she had lost the affections of her husband, as well as the regard of her neighbours, family disputes having been divulged by servants, She died of Vexation, July 20, 1768,

Aged 48 years.

Her worn-out husband survived her four months and two days, and departed this life, November 28, 1768, In the 54th year of his age.

WILLIAM BOND, brother to the deceased, erected this

stone,

as a weekly monitor to the surviving wives of this parish, that they may avoid the infamy

of having their memories handed down to posterity
with a patch-work character.

Domestic enjoyment is often blasted by an intermixture of foibles with virtues of a superior kind. The want of a certain polish of manner, towards near relations and those with whom we live on a very familiar footing, is apt to destroy the value of essential good qualities. A wife may drudge all day, in taking care of the main chance; may superintend the affairs of her family with unwearied zeal, and relinquish every indulgence for its welfare; whilst she deprives herself of the love and esteem of those who depend upon her, by ill-humour and petulance. Brothers and sisters have generally a tender affection for each other, which they evince upon extraordinary occasions; but how often do they corrode the mutual enjoyment of the domestic circle, by inattention to the mild graces of gentleness, and an endeavour to please. The same fatal mistake occurs frequently amongst other near connexions.

The re

straint that is felt in the company of strangers, banishes, for a time, that rudeness that interrupts the peace of families; and which, like our best clothes, is too apt to be worn only occasionally.

The importance of cultivating true gentleness, as a habit, must be acknowledged by every one who has suffered from the neglect of it. And who is there that has not been stung by the contempt of the proud, the sarcasms of the ill-natured, the sallies of the petulant, and the inconsideration of the selfish? An extract from Dr. Blair, descriptive of the amiable quality I wish to recommend, will form a suitable conclusion to my remarks, and enforce its advantages with more precision

and elegance, than any addition I can make upon the subject.

"True gentleness is founded on a sense of what we owe to him who made us, and to the common nature of which we all share. It arises from reflection on our own failings and wants, and from just views of the condition and the duty of man. It is native feeling, heightened and improved by principle. It is the heart which easily relents; which feels for every thing that is human, and is backward and slow to inflict the least wound. It is affable in its address, and mild in its demeanour; ever ready to oblige, and willing to be obliged by others: breathing habitual kindness towards friends, courtesy to strangers, long-suffering to enemies. It exercises authority with moderation; administers reproof with tenderness; confers favours with ease and modesty. It is unassuming in opinion, and temperate in zeal. It contends not eagerly about trifles; slow to contradict, and still slower to blame; but prompt to allay dissertion, and to restore peace. It neither meddles unnecessarily with the affairs, nor pries inquisitively into the secrets of others. It delights, above all things, to alleviate distress; and, if it cannot dry up the falling tear, to soothe at least the grieving heart. Where it has not the power of being useful, it is never burdensome. It seeks to please, rather than to shine and dazzle: and conceals with care that superiority, either of talents or of rank, which is oppressive to those who are beneath it. In a word, it is that spirit, and that tenour of manners, which the gospel of Christ enjoins, when it commands us, to

bear one another's burdens; to rejoice with those who rejoice, and to weep with those who weep; to please every one his neighbour for his good; to be kind and tenderhearted; to be pitiful and courteous; to support the weak, and to be patient towards all men."

FRUITS OF EARLY GENIUS.

OLD nurses say, that children who possess the under

standings of men, seldom live to maturity. This remark I take to be a superstitious notion, though it is probable that the taste for knowledge, and the vanity of parents coinciding, may in such cases often cause an application too close for the health of the body.

Thomas Dermody was the son of an Irish schoolmaster, at Ennis, in the county of Clare, where he was born on the 19th of January, 1775. He was a poet at ten years old, as appears by a copy of verses he wrote on the death of his brother, which I shall insert as a specimen of the powers of his imagination. When he grew to manhood, he associated with profligate company, and became a professed libertine. His genius attracted the notice of some powerful patrons; but his vices counteracted their benevolent intentions, and brought him to an early grave.

THOMAS DERMODY ON THE DEATH OF HIS BRO.

THER, WRITTEN AT TEN YEARS OF AGE :

What dire misfortune hovers o'er my head?
Why hangs the salt dew on my aching eye?
Why doth my bosom pant, so sad, so sore,
That was full blithe before?

Bitter occasion prompts the untimely sigh.
Why am I punish'd thus, ye angels, why?
A shepherd swain, like me, of harmless guise,
Whose sole amusement was to feed his kine,
And tune his oaten pipe the livelong day,
Could he in ought offend th' avenging skies,
Or wake the red-wing'd thunderbolt divine ?
Ah! not of simple structure was his lay,
Yet unprofan'd with trick of city art,

Pure from the head, and glowing from the heart.
Thou dear memorial of a brother's love,

Sweet flute ! once warbled to the list'ning grove,
And master'd by his skilful hand,

How shall I now command

The hidden charms that hush within thy frame,
Or tell his gentle fame ?

Yet will I hail, unmeet, his star-crown'd shade,
And beck his rural friends, a tuneful throng
To mend the uncouth lay, and join the rising song.
Ah, I remember well yon oken arbour gay,
When frequent at the purple dawn of morn,
Or 'neath the beetling brow of twilight gray,
We sat like roses twain upon one thorn;
Telling romantic tales of descant quaint,
Tinted with various hues, with Fancy's paint;

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