r 27 to be of any importance when this spot is considerded only as a small corner of an immense basalt quarry, extend ing widely over the neighbourhood. The leading features of this whole coast, are the two great promontories of Bengore and Fairhead, which stand at the distance of eight miles from each other. Both founded on a great and extensive scale; both abrupt towards the sea, and abundantly exposed to observation; and each in its kind exhi biting noble arrangements of the different species of columnar basaltes. The former of these lies seven miles west of Ballycastle, and is generally described by seamen, who see it at a distance and in profile, as an extensive head-land, running out from the coast a considerable length into the sea; but strictly speaking, it is made up of a number of lesser capes and bays, each with its own proper name, the tout ensemble of which, forms what the seamen denominate the head-land of Bengore. These capes are composed of a variety of different ranges of pillars and a great number of strata, which from the abruptness of the coast, are extremely conspicuous, and form an unrivalled pile of natural architecture, in which all the neat regularity and elegance of art, is united to the wild magnificence of nature. The most perfect of these Capes is called Pleaskin, of which I shall attempt a description. The summit of Pleaskin is covered with a thin grassy sod, under which lies the natural rock, having generally an uniform hard surface, somewhat cracked and shivered. At the depth of ten or twelve feet from the summit, this rock begins to assume a columnar tendency, and forms a range of massy pillars of basaltes, which stand perpendicular to the horizontal; presenting, in the sharp face of the promontory, the appearance of a magnificent gallery or colonnade, upward of sixty feet in height. This colonnade is supported on a solid base of coarse black irregular rock, near sixty feet thick, abounding in blebs or air-holes; though comparatively irregular, it may be evidently observed to affect a peculiar figure, tending in many places to run into regular forms, resembling the shooting of salts and many other substances during a hasty chrystallization. Under this great bed of stone stands a second range of pillars, between forty and fifty feet in height, less gross, and more sharply defined than those of the upper story; many of them, on a close view, emulating even the neatness of the columns in the Giant's Causeway. This lower range is borne on a layer of red ochre stone, which serves as a relief to show it to great advantage. These two admirable natural galleries, together with the adjacent mass of irregular rock, form á perpendicular height of one hundred and seventy feet; from the base of which, the promontory covered over with rock and grass, slopes down to the sea for the space of two hundred feet more, making in all a mass of near four hundred feet in height, which in beauty and variety of its colouring, in elegance and novelty of arrangement, and in the extraordinary magnificence of its objects, cannot readily be rivalled by any thing of the kind at present known. Though there are but two complete ranges of pillars which appear in any of the promontories, yet it is not improbable there may be many more in suc cession at various depths under ground; and this opinion is confirmed by colum nar marks, which may be traced in se veral rocks that lie in the sea. The Causeway itself, which is situated at the base of one of those promontories on the level of the beach, is one of those columnar beds that has been ac cidentally stripped, and washed by length of time and storms. The pillars of this whole head-land appear naturally to affect a perpendicular situation, and in the few places where they lie in an inclined posture, it seems to be the effect of some internal cause, which has deranged them from their original disposition Indeed where the forms of chrystallization are imperfect, they may be seen to shoot in various directions, and sometimes in irregular curves, but in most of these instances, the columnar outline is very rude and irregular and unfinished. It is worth remarking, that the ranges of the pillars are more perfect in proportion as they lie deeper under ground; the second range in Pleaskin. is evidently better finished than the upper one; and contains much fewer irregularities in the grain of its stone; while the pillars of the Causeway, which runs into the sea itself, have still a greater sharpness in their figure, and are more close and uniform in their texture. Such is the general outline of this great headland, which affords objects extremely interesting to every one who may wish to study nature in her bold and uncommon works. T (To be continued.) THE WANDERER. witness the separation of the body and its immaterial essence, even when the process is accompanied by all the forms attendant on dissolution, when the quackeries of mourning and medicine through a long illness have marked the gradual approach of death, and by distracting the reflexions have blunted the feelings and relieved the intensity of grief-even then 'tis a most painful spectacle; one which, striking at the root of our self-conceit, convinces as of our insignificance, and proclaims aloud that man is but "the child of dust, the brother of the worm." But this, painful as it is, cannot be compared with the acute feelings of grief experienced at beholding the sudden death of a beloved friend; the unexpectedness of the occurrence stems, as it were, the usual feeling of unmixed sorrow, and produces in its stead a dull depression of soul, a sullen silent grief too heavy for utterance, and which seems as if to express it would increase its weight. Maurice beheld his friend's death with the keenest emotion, his feelings overpowered him, he sank on a chair near the lifeless body, and for some moments was overcome by the violence of his emotions; he was soon however roused by the people in the room, and stifling his feelings he gave some necessary or ders, and retired to the bed prepared for him. Left to himself, he thought with increased sorrow of the untimely fate of his deceased friend, and almost deprecated the chance which had brought him at such a moment to witness his death. His thoughts then took a retrospective glance to the period at which he had known him previously to his leaving England. They had been together at a public school, where Wharton, who was by some years Maurice's senior, had won his eternal friendship by the numerous kind offices which a bigger boy at a public school can render to his inferior in size and age; he had fought his battles, done his lessons, and screened his faults; the result was, that there subsisted between the friends the warmest sentiments of affection and esteem; the passions of schoolboys are stronger than those of men, they know less of the world, and have not arrived at the period of thinking most men knaves, and knowing many to be so-when looking with coolness on the occur rences of life, and profiting by their experience, (often dearly bought) their attachments become rather subservient to their interests, than the results of their feelings. From the sombre reflections which had occupied his mind during the night, Maurice rose as soon as the day ap peared, and after visiting his friend's lifeless corse, and giving directions about his funeral, which he learned from the landlady Wharton had desired to be as plain as possible, and not at all differing from those of the villagers, he proceeded to his home, where he found his friends as well as he could wish, and received a most ardent wel come-the joy of the meeting was somewhat checked by his melancholy account of the death of his unfortunate friend. A week from the day on which Wharton had died, Maurice followed his bier to the grave, it was a most romantic spot in which he had desired to be buried, upon a small eminence in the village church-yard; an immense yew-tree overshadowed the grave, and the wind rustling through its thick branches made a sighing sound at every blast. Without any very great effort of the imagination, it might have seemed to be performing a requiem over the dead. In this spot, which commanded a view of the village school and the surrounding country, Wharton had loved to sit for hours together; and here, a short time before his death, he had requested to be interred. Maurice stood in a reverie almost insensible to the objects around him, until the hollow sound of the heavy earth striking on the coffin roused him—it secm. ed to break, as it were, the last link of the chain which had connected the deceased to humanity. He listened devoutly to the remainder of the burial service, the most sublime of all the offices of the church of England, calculated at the same time to inspire a resignation to the will of the Almighty, and to impart consolation to the mind borne down with grief. Among Wharton's papers was found a note, in which he desired, that after the payment of his funeral, and other expenses, the remainder of the money be possessed, should be given to his hostess, as some remuneration for the kindnesses he had received from her. Maurice fulfilled his friend's intentions, and retired home with a heavy heart, where, at the first opportunity, he opened the manuscript which Wharton had given him. On the first leaf, and evidently written much later than the beginning of the book, was written as follows:: "When a man's mind has become so much estranged from his fellow men (no matter whether by his own vices or by those of others) that he feels no social tie, which causes him to take any interest in the affairs of the world and its inhabitants; when his spirit has been so much wounded, that the accidental collision of his own with the human feelings of others, has no effect but that of tearing afresh those wounds which the hand of time may sear into forgetfulness, but can never restore to health; it is some consolation to pour forth on paper the overflowings of his heart-at least I find it so and as on looking back upon the occurrences of my life, I see many circumstances which now seem to have been mighty ridiculous, though they once appeared of vital importance to me, I have determined to put them on paper, in order, as Montaigne says, "to make them ashamed of themselves." Some of them are of a more sombre cast; and, perhaps, when the cold, but friendly grasp of death shall have ceased the throbbing of the heart which now pants from the oppression of the world, some congenial spirit may light upon these pages, written as cursorily as the feelings which prompted them, occurred to the mind of the writer. Should such a one meet with them when the eye of the world is not upon him, and the hand which now traces them shall have mouldered into that oblivion which (but that religion forbids the murmur) his aching mind wishes it never woke from, the recital may beguile him of a tear-the sufferance has cost me many-if this should not be the case, they will at all events serve to light a fire. (To be continued.) Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Ν Can be retentive to the strength of spirit, JULIUS CEASAR, Act 1, sc. 2. estimating the character, and deIN ciding upon the disposition of our companions and associates, we are very often led into errors which are the constant attendants upon forming a hasty judgment,and pronouncing sentence before every circumstance is nicely investigated. If we see a man bent upon the fulfilment of a design which appears to us unwise, and indeed impracticable, and find, that notwithstanding the advice which we may have given him, he still perseveres in his efforts; we are too apt to stigmatize him with the opprobrious epithets of obstinate, self-willed, and self-sufficient; but before we thus make him the object of our censure, we should do well to ask ourselves if we have given that attention to the subject, and if we have so cautiously weighed all the arguments both for and against it, as he has done; and we should also remember, that there is nothing which throws so unfavourable a light over the projects of another, when our opinion concerning them has been rejected, as that wounded pride which very often springs from slighted advice. Nor is obstinacy, though it may perhaps be the most frequent one, the only charge that is brought against the man of decisive character; but, at an earlier stage of his conduct, he is liable to be blamed for what is the very reverse of the subsequent cause of censure. None are so apt to detect and find fault with failings in others, as those persons who possess the very same; and the man of weak mind and wavering disposition is the first to charge those with it, whom he has often envied for completing what he has been afraid to commence. There is a period in the plans and operations of him who possesses the greatest firmness, which to the rash judgment of the superficial observer, appears chargeable with indecision. Let us for one moment picture to ourselves such a man proposing to himself some new course of life, and impressed with the idea of its probable advantages, reviewing his former and present situation, and contrasting it with that which would be the probable result of the meditated change: and what is his conduct? Does he eagerly seize at the tempting object of his wishes, give up those connexions and sacrifice those comforts which he is already in possession of, and part with present realities for reversionary possibilities? No. This would indeed be laying himself open to the charge of obstinacy and its general companion, weakness. But he adopts a much wiser course. He proposes to himself a series of questions, on the answers to which depend his future conduct. He takes a second and a third review of all his motives and his prospects, and calculates accurately the difference between what he is to relinquish, and what he is to obtain. He undergoes a species of internal fermentation, and submits to temporary inquietude, looking forward with pleasure to its more than equivalent reward. Perhaps he endures some sleepless nights, and some anxious days, and almost denies himself the pleasures of social intercourse, in order that nothing may interfere with his reflections. Between the acting of a purpos'd thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream; The genius, and the mortal instruments Are then in council, and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection." SHAKS. But every hour is carrying him nearer and nearer to the point; his deliberations gradually assume more distinguishing features; one cloud and another is breaking away; and the matured state of his determinations is the happy result of the storm that was apparently frowning upon them. Now it is not at all unlikely, indeed it is generally the case, that many who have an opportunity of conversing with him whilst his thoughts have been passing through this process, and who themselves have never experienced any thing similar to it, have congratulated themselves on the shorter road they take, by either at once giving up their object, or rashly determining to obtain it, notwithstanding all the reasons that might be urged against their conduct, little knowing how to discriminate between the fluctuations of a little mind, and the deliberations of a great one. But let our supposed character arrive at last at his decision, let him once resolve and be acts, and let him but act, and he conquers. Nor let any of our readers be inclined to withdraw their tribute of admiration from the man of a firm and decisive character, when viewing him in the situation we have described, nor be disposed to question the equivalence of the result to the expense of thought that is bestowed upon it. It would not be a difficult task for us to convince them, that even this apparently unhappy state of mind was that, which of all others was the best calculated to secure the successful termination of his projects, and the complete triumph of his labors. There is nothing so chilling to the ardour of expectation and the pleasures of hope, as the opposition of unexpected difficulties. These often throw a gloom over our brightest prospects, and lead us to forsake that as impracticable, which before had ap peared most desirable. The great distinction between the man of a decisive and indecisive disposition is, that whilst the latter suffers these to subdue him, the former looks upon them only as the necessary accompaniments of every daring undertaking; and by this preparatory discipline of mind, this previous reflection on the probable impediments that he is to meet with, he goes prepared to the combat, suits bis weapon to his foes, and chooses such armour as is best calculated to repel their attacks. He has been sketching out a chart of his intended voyage, and marking down all the hidden rocks and quicksands that he must avoid. It is pleasing to see the manner in which he conquers every opposing circumstance, beats down opposition, and clears the way before him. And the mere display. of his weapons will often prevent many a premeditated attack. It is the ironical sneer of ridicule that effects more upon the man of a weak and wavering disposition than all the serious arguments of an apparently correct judg ment. "Ridiculum acri Fortuis et melius magnas plerumque secat res, and there is nothing which gives so great encouragement to the repetition of such effectual assaults, as their object yielding his purpose to them. But on him who is prepared to meet with such a despicable opponent, it has no other effect than that of warding off the shafts which may be aimed at him, and causing them to revert upon his assailant. Few will laugh when they find that it answers no end; few will sneer when it has no other effect than that of displaying their own weakness, and exposing their own folly. How vastly different is the firm and decisive man, to the slave of impulse, and the mere shuttlecock of indecision, which, before it has reached its apparent place of destination, comes into contact with a powerful opponent that compels it to return to the situation which it had lately left, only again to be diverted from its course by a new assault. He who possesses the determined courage which defies such opposition, saves himself a thousand anxieties to which the other is constantly exposed. Weak as we are by nature, and liable to so many casualties which, by affecting our bodily health, and checking our physical energies, render us the subjects of occasionally unavoidable imbecility; and meeting, as we necessarily must, with so many events which are above our controul, we stand in need of every available aid to incite us to activity, and support us under difficulties. We cannot afford that waste of exertion which is the cousequence of an unhappy state of undeterminedness; and which, though it should be ultimately overcome, and leave us to pursue our course as before, yet has cooled our ardour and abated our courage. The decisive man is by far the happiest man: if he fail in his exertions and is unable to accomplish his schemes, he has none of those bitter feelings of regret which are the result of a conscious neglect in not resolutely adopting such measures as were within his reach; and if he succeed, he derives an additional satisfaction from the recollection of the difficulties which had harassed, and the dangers which had threatened him. But the man of contrary character, is constantly tantalized with the distant prospect of advantages which he is never to obtain, and if he rouse himself sufficiently to make an effort, a new source of uneasiness is opened upon him, in that exhaustion of mental vigour which arises from his being perplexed by opposite motives, and contrary excitements. The highraised wish, succeeded by timid despondency, elevated hopes, followed by alarmed fears, cost him more than all the exertions requisite for obtaining his end would have done; and as often as he recurs to what he might have gained, and what another is now probably enjoying, he becomes the subject of a train of mortifying reflections that harass his mind, and break in upon his repose. It would be a source of no small gratification to the observer of the various distinguishing properties of the human mind, if it were in his power to ana lyze those of some of those celebrated characters who have been the means of raising themselves to the highest distinctions, and of benefiting those who have come within the sphere of their influence. What, for instance, must have been the constitution of that of such a man as Howard? Having resolved, by his exertions, to ameliorate the condition of his fellow creatures, and having proposed to himself the particular way in which this philanthro pic object was to be effected, he devotes himself to the accomplishment of his noble design. We may very well conceive the manner in which the impartation of his intentions to his friends may have been received, and we have the most convincing proofs of their inability to dissuade him from his pur pose. What a train of inducements must have offered themselves to shake his resolution. With a disposition feelingly alive to the happiness of man. kind at large, with a heart filled with affectionate regard for his fellow countrymen, who were united to him by no other bonds than those of a common nature, and extending its benevolence to the distant sufferer and foreign captive; can we believe that as the circle was compressed within a narrower compass, as the links of blood and ties of kindred claimed his affectionate remembrance, he was not susceptible of the most exquisite sensibilities of which man is the subject; and was indifferent to those tender sympathies which, as they insinuate themselves into the breast, are so calculated to soften down our more determined and rigorous resolves, and so eloquently plead a cause which has so much to support it? Yet even these did not prevent that selfdevotement which he had meditated, and which he carried so completely into execution. And for what was he about to relinquish them? Not in order to form new connexions still more tender in their nature-Not for uninterrupted ease and continued enjoyment, but for hourly privations and daily disappointments; for an untried course of difficulties, requiring all the d L |