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Anchorite. To be our own nurse and servant, and to seek in a caverned rock, not an occasional retreat, a permanent abode, seems to be a perverse wish. "The hairy gown and mossy cell are not necessary to be united, and though "musing meditation may most affect pensive secrecy," it need not be in the torpid character of a hermit, nor need his cell be “a desert cell." The hairy gown, the maple dish, and a few books, with a bed of leaves and the cheerless shelter of a rock, befit nothing but poverty and superstition.

Wild, mountainous, and lonely scenes, are dear to a museful temper. Rocks and caverns are delightful as occasional retreats, but these enjoyments are compatable with a civilized life, and constitute a kind of Hermit and Hermitage, very different from Milton. We may wish that

At last our weary age

May find the peaceful hermitage,
The peaked rock, and mossy cell,
Where we may sit, and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth shew,
And every herb, that sips the dew.

A wise old age may find delicious recreations for its solitude in astronomy and botany, but there

thing agreeable to these views, in the poet's Hermit. He merely examines earth and heaven, with the naked eye, and aims at gathering from his contemplations some miraculous power of healing diseases, and foreseeing future events. These are the views of an ignorant and Gothic age, and though somewhat congenial to the mind of one fresh from reading the old chivalrous poetry, are in reality savage and debasing and are not at all necessary to give sublimity or pathes to our conceptions of solitude and rural retreat.

Here the melancholy man, however wishes to sit,

Till old experience do attain,
To something like prophetic strain.

The life just before described, does not seem to befit the term "experience."

In fine, this poem, considers serious pleasure, not as flowing from the performance of our duty, from intercource with kindred minds, or the contemplation of that happiness, in other beings which we have been instrumental in conferring or preserving. It considers man, not as the recipient of social or moral pleasures, but as reaping his highest happiness from a certain refined indulgence of his senses, the cold abstractions of his intellect and the freaks of a superstitious fancy. The seriousness or melancholy here depicted has something in it unsocial, misanthropic and selfish, and though we may admire the portrait, as a portrait, yet, no man with a true taste for serious pleasures, will fully concur with the poet, when he terminates his soliloquy with saying, and

I with thee will chuse to live.

For the Literary Magazine.

[THE following "Chemical Question" was first proposed in a daily paper of this city, nearly two years ago: I have not seen any answer to it since that time, and from the intended scope of the Literary Magazine, I am induced to request a corner for it. This question must be considered an important one, as it may tend to elucidate some of those causes, which act so powerfully, (because secretly) towards the rapid destruction of the human teeth in all climates and situations. Whether Sugar is one of these agents of decomposition,cr not,our present imperfect state of scientific knowledge will not admit us to decide: but it rather appears from concurring circumstances, that its elects are not deleterious in their nature:as I am told, that the inhabitants of the West Indies preserve their teeth in great perfection and beauty: but for the truth of this, I cannot vouch. It is hoped that some of the great luminaries of science

now in the city, who frequent "hot lecture-rooms" (to the great disadvantage of their helath and spirits, from being unaccustomed to such a mode of life) will endeavour to throw light on this subject. In doing so, however, I would recommend them to refrain from adopting the visionary and groundless theories of a certain septified Doctor, who resides in a city at no great distance from Philadelphia. While he has fed his own vanity, science has suffered from his attempts to form an hypothesis, not only unsupported by facts, but in direct opposition to them.]

Dec. 2, 1803.


THE Oxalic acid, it is well known, can be produced by oxygenating common white sugar, powdered, by means of the nitric acid: in this process, part of the oxygen of the nitric acid unites to the carbon and hydrogen (the other constituent parts) of the sugar, and the nitrous acid escapes. This substance, according to Lavoisier, consists of 8 parts of hydrogen, 64 of oxygen, and 28 of carbon. These are also the ingredients of the oxalic acid, but the proportions in which they exist, yet remain unknown: hence it is evident, that sugar, by the addition of a certain quantity of oxygen, becomes converted into the oxalic acid.

Now sugar is generally supposed to be injurious to the teeth: how far this opinion is supported by truth, will be seen from the following considerations. The teeth are composed of lime united to the phosphoric acid, or are phosphates of lime. Oxalic acid possesses a greater affinity with the base of this salt, and wherever it meets with it, unites to it, and separates the other acid. Sugar is, by some, supposed to act in this manner.... the oxalic acid urites to the lime of the phosphate of lime, and forms an insoluble salt, and thus the teeth decay, or become decomposed: but does sugar really contain the oxalic acid ready formed? for if this is not the case,

VOL....I. NO....III.

how can it decompose them? A solution of sugar will not precipitate lime from lime-water, and hence it is clearly proved that it cannot exist in this substance; for lime, either in simple solution, or in combination with other substances, is reckoned the best test of this acid chemists have. How then does sugar act on the teeth? It is proved by experiment, that if a smaller portion of oxygen is added to sugar, than what would be necessary to convert it into the oxalic, the tartarous or some other vegetable acid would be formed: none of which have so great an attraction for lime, as the oxalic possesses. Can, therefore, sugar be prejudicial to the teeth?.... if so, in what manner does it act?

The solution of the above question, is requested from some of the scientific readers of his Magazine.


For the Literary Magazine.



My father's sister was an ancient lady, resident in Philadelphia, the relict of a merchant, whose decease left her the enjoyment of a frugal competence. She was without children, and had often expressed her desire that her nephew Frank, whom she always considered as a sprightly and promising lad, should be put under her care. She offered to be at the expense of my education, and to bequeath to me at her death her slender patrimony.

This arrangement was obstinately rejected by my father, because it was merely fostering and giving scope to propensites, which he considered as hurtful, and because his avarice desired that this inheritance should fall to no one but himself. To me, it was a scheme of ravishing felicity, and to be debarred from it was a source of anguish known to few. I had too much experience


of my father's pertinaciousness ever to hope for a change in his views; yet the bliss of living with my aunt, in a new and busy scene, and in the unbounded indulgence of my literary passion, continually occupied my thoughts: for a long time these thoughts were productive only of despondency and tears.

Time only enhanced the desirableness of this scheme; my new faculty would naturally connect itself with these wishes, and the question could not fail to occur whether it might not aid me in the execution of my favourite plan.

A thousand superstitious tales were current in the family. Apparitions had been seen, and voices had been heard on a multitude of cccasions. My father was a confident believer in supernatural tokens. The voice of his wife, who had been many years dead, had been twice heard at midnight whispering at his pillow. I frequently asked myself whether a scheme favourable to my views might not be built upon these foundations. Suppose (thought I) my mother should be made to enjoin upon him compliance with my wishes?

This idea bred in me a temporary consternation. To imitate the voice of the dead, to counterfeit a commission from heaven, bore the aspect of presumption and impiety. It seemed an offence which could not fail to draw after it the vengeance of the deity. My wishes for a time yielded to my fears, but this scheme in proportion as I meditated on it, became more plausible; no other occurred to me so easy and so efficacious. I endeavoured to persuade myself that the end proposed, was, in the highest degree praiseworthy, and that the excellence of my purpose would justify the means employed to attain it.

My resolutions were, for a time, attended with fluctuations and misgivings. These gradually disappeared, and my purpose became firm; I was next to devise the means of effecting my views, this did not demand any tedious deliberation. It

was easy to gain access to my father's chamber without notice or detection, cautious footsteps and the suppression of breath would place me, unsuspected and unthought of, by his bed side. The words I should use, and the mode of utterance were not easily settled, but having at length selected these, I made myself by much previous repetition, perfectly familiar with the use of them.

I selected a blustering and inclement night, in which the darkness was augmented by a veil of the blackest clouds. The building we inhabited was slight in its structure, and full of crevices through which the gale found easy way, and whistled in a thousand cadencies. On this night the elemental music was remarkably sonorous, and was mingled not unfrequently with thunder heard remote.

I could not divest myself of secret dread. My heart faultered with a consciousness of wrong. Heaven seemed to be present and to disapprove my work; I listened to the thunder and the wind, as to the stern voice of this disapprobation. Big drops stood on my forehead, and my tremors almost incapacitated me from proceeding.

These impediments however I surmounted; I crept up stairs at midnight, and entered my father's chamber. The darkness was intense and I sought with outstretched hands for his bed. The darkness, added to the trepidation of my thoughts, disabled me from making a right estimate of distances: I was conscious of this, and when I advanced within the room, paused.

I endeavoured to compare the progress I had made with my knowledge of the room, and governed by the result of this comparison, proceeded cautiously and with hands still outstretched in search of the foot of the bed. At this moment lightning lashed into the room: the brightness of the gleam was dazzling, yet it afforded me an exact knowie ge of my situation. I had mistaken my way, and discovered that my knees nearly touched the

bedstead, and that my hands at the next step, would have touched my father's cheek. His closed eyes and every line in his countenance, were painted, as it were, for an instant on my sight.

The flash was accompained with a burst of thunder,whose vehemence was stunning. I always entertained a dread of thunder, and now recoiled, overborne with terror. Never had I witnessed so luminous a gleam and so tremendous a shock, yet my father's slumber appeared not to be disturbed by it.

I stood irresolute and trembling; to prosecute my purpose in this state of mind was impossible. I resolved for the present to relinquish it, and turned with a view of exploring my way out of the chamber. Just then a light seen through the window, caught my eye. It was at first weak but speedily increased; no second thought was necessary to inform me that the barn, situated at a small distance from the house, and newly stored with hay, was in flames, in consequence of being struck by the lightning.

My terror at this spectacle made me careless of all consequences relative to myself. I rushed to the bed and throwing myself on my father, awakened him by loud cries. The family were speedily roused, and were compelled to remain impotent spectators of the devastation. Fortunately the wind blew in a contrary direction, so that our habitation was not injured.

The impression that was made upon me by the incidents of that night is indelible. The wind gradually rose into an hurricane; the largest branches were torn from the trees, and whirled aloft into the air; others were uprooted and laid prostrate on the ground. The barn was a spacious edifice, consisting wholly of wood, and filled with a plenteous harvest. Thus supplied with fuel, and fanned by the wind, the fire raged with incredible fury; meanwhile clouds rolled above, whose blackness was rendered more conspicuous by reflection from the

flames; the vast volumes of smoke were dissipated in a moment by the storm, while glowing fragments and cinders were borne to an immense hight, and tossed everywhere in wild confusion. Ever and anon the sable canopy that hung around us was streaked with lightning, and the peals, by which it was accompained, were deafning, and with scarcely any intermission.

It was, doubtless, absurd to imagine any connexion between this portentous scene and the purpose that I had meditated, yet a belief of this connexion, though wavering and obscure, lurked in my mind; something more than a coincidence merely casual, appeared to have subsisted between my situation, at my father's bed side, and the flash that darted through the window, and diverted me from my design. It palsied my courage, and strengthened my conviction, that my scheme was criminal.

After some time had elapsed, and tranquility was, in some degree, restored in the family, my father reverted to the circumstances in which I had been discovered on the first alarm of this event. The truth was impossible to be told. I felt the utmost reluctance to be guilty of a falsehood, but by falsehood only could!clude detection. That my guilt was the offspring of a fatal necessitv, that the injustice of others gave it birth and made it unavoidable, afforded me slight consolation. Nothing can be more injurous than a lie, but its evil tendency chiefly respects our future conduct. Its direct consequences may be transient and few, but it facilitates a repetition, strengthens temptation, and grows into habit. I pretended some necessity had drawn me from my bed, and that discovering the condition of the barn, 1 hastened to inform my father.

Some time after this, my father summoned me to his presence. I had been previously guilty of disobedience to his commands, in a matter about which he was usually very scrupulous. My brother had

been privy to my offence, and had threatened to be my accuser. On this occasion I expected nothing but arraignment and punishment. Weary of oppression, and hopeless of any change in my father's temper and views, I had formed the resolution of cloping from his house, and of trusting, young as I was, to the caprice of fortune. I was hesitating whether to abscond without the knowledge of the family, or to make my resolutions known to them, and while I avowed my resolution, to adhere to it in spite of opposition and remonstrances, when I received this summons.

I was employed at this time in the field; night was approaching, and I had made no preparation for departure; all the preparation in my power to make, was indeed small; a few clothes made into a bundle, was the sum of my possessions. Time would have little influence in improving my prospects, and I resolved to execute my scheme immediately.

I left my work intending to seek my chamber, and taking what was my own, to disappear forever. I turned a stile that led out of the field into a bye path, when my father appeared before me, advancing in an opposite direction; to avoid him was impossible, and I summoned my fortitude to a conflict with his passion.

As soon as we met, instead of anger and upbraiding, he told me, that he had been reflecting on my aunt's proposal, to take me under her protection, and had concluded that the plan was proper; if I still retained my wishes on that head, he would readily comply with them, and that, if I chose, I might set off for the city next morning, as a neighbours waggon was preparing to go.

I shall not dwell on the rapture with which this proposal was listened to: it was with difficulty that I persuaded myself that he was in earnest in making it, nor could divine the reasons, for so sudden

and unexpected a change in his maxims....These I afterwards discovered. Some one had instilled into him fears, that my aunt exasperated at his opposition to her request, respecting the unfortunate Frank, would bequeath her property to strangers; to obviate this evil, which his avarice prompted him to regard as much greater than any mischief, that would accrue to me, from the change of my abode, he embraced her proposal.

I entered with exultation and triumph on this new scene; my hopes were by no means disappointed. Detested labour was exchanged for luxurious idleness. I was master of my time, and the chuser of my occupations. My kinswoman on discovering that I entertained no relish for the drudgery of colleges, and was contented with the means of intellectual gratification, which I could obtain under her roof, allowed me to pursue my own choice.

Three tranquil years passed away, during which, each day added to my happiness, by adding to my knowledge. My biloquial faculty was not neglected. I improved it by assiduous exercise; I deeply reflected on the use to which it might be applied. I was not destitute of pure intentions; I delighted not in evil; I was incapable of knowingly contributing to another's misery, but the sole or principal end of my endeavours was not the happiness of others.

I was actuated by ambition. I was delighted to possess superior power; I was prone to manifest that superiority, and was satisfied if this were done, without much solicitude concerning consequences. I sported frequently with the apprehensions of my associates, and threw out a bait for their wonder, and supplied them with occasions for the structure of theories. It may not be amiss to enumerate one or two adventures in which I was engaged.

[To be continued.]

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