house in Dublin, alarmed the neighbourhood with a strange story of a ghost, dressed as a female in black robes, that opened the curtains of her bed, surrounded by an illumination like lightning, and, with a countenance labouring under some heavy burden, beckoned the woman to follow her. The person haunted called in two relations to sleep with her next night; but they were also equally frightened with groans and an uncommon noise, and left the house next day.

The occupier of the house still persisted that she was not only haunted, but threatened by the ghost; and to this she made the most solemn oaths, as well as imprecations, and accordingly took lodgings in a neighbouring street.

The story having gone abroad, hundreds were daily drawn by curiosity into the street where the haunted house was: and it becoming the subject of conversation every where, Mr. Nolan, so well known for his poetical and political abilities, took up a sporting bet, that he would suffer himself to be locked up in the house one whole night, without the company of any human being. About nine o'clock he went, and was shut up; but for the sake of defence against any improper practices, he took with him a dog and a case of loaded pistols, and

was not released till six o'clock next morning, when he was found by his companions-fast asleep.

The following elegant stanzas will best show the situation of his mind during the time of his vigils. Suffice it to say, he saw no ghost, though he heard a great deal of noise; and loudly threatened to shoot the first who should approach him, whether of this world or the other. This discreet ghost desisted, and the people got rid of their fears in that neighbourhood.

STANZAS,

WRITTEN IN A HAUNTED ROOM.

IF from the cerements of the silent dead
Our long departed friends could rise anew;
Why feel a horror, or conceive a dread,

To see again those friends whom once we knew?

Father of All! thou gav'st not to our ken,

To view beyond the ashes of our grave;

'Tis not the idle tales of busy men

That can the mind appal.-The truly brave,
Seated on reason's adamantine throne,
Can place the soul, and fears no ills unknown.

O! if the flinty prison of the grave

Could loose its doors, and let the spirit flee,
Why not return the wise, the just, the brave,
And set once more the pride of free?
ages

Why not restore a Socrates again?

Or give thee, Newton, as the first of men?

In this lone room where now I patient wait,
To try if souls departed can appear,
O could a Burgh escape his prison gate,

Or could I think Latouche's form was near!
Why fear to view the shades which long must be
Sacred to freedom and to charity?

A little onward in the path of life,

And all must stretch in death their mortal frame; A few short struggles end the weary strife,

And blot the frail memorial of our name.

Torn from the promontory's lofty brow,
In time the rooted oak itself lies low.

THE BEE, vol. xvii. p. 182, Oct. 2, 1793.

No. CLV.

Hoc juvenem egregium præstanti munere dono.

VIRGIL.

I present the " ingenious" youth with this distin-
guished mark of my regard and his merit.
PURSUITS OF LITERATURE

I AM

AM glad to find, that you are so keenly engaged in the study of history and the belles lettres; and I have no doubt but, if you persevere, you will soon make such proficiency as to furnish yourself with a very interesting amusement. But in this, as in every other pursuit, you must lay your account with meeting with disappointments. Here you will soon perceive, that all is not gold that glitters; and when you think you have acquired full information on one head, it will not be long before you will be obliged to unlearn what you have been taught, and to begin anew the laborious task of investi gation after you thought it had been completed. To assist you as much as in my power, I shall endeavour to give you some general notions of what you are to expect in the writings of some of our most celebrated authors. To know the general character of these writers, will put you on

your guard in reading their works, and will the better enable you to avoid their errors, and to benefit by their knowledge.

Hume is, with justice, accounted a writer of the first rank in this nation. He possessed great energy of mind, a strong nervous mode of expression, and a concise and perspicuous style. Few authors have written with greater perspicuity, and none knew better than he did how to place a favourite object in a conspicuous point of view, or to sink what did not serve his purpose in the shade, or to keep it entirely out of sight. Yet with all these talents he had great defects. Nature bestowed upon him strong mental powers; but he relied too much on their assistance. He was indolent in research; and wished to enjoy literary fame at as small an expense of this kind of literary drudgery as possible. Fond of metaphysical investigations, which gave full scope to his speculative ardour without much extraneous research, he attached himself to that mode of reasoning from his earliest infancy; and never could depart from it. Hence it has happened, that his reasoning, though specious and plausible, is often sophistical and erroneous. His notions of political economy, not being founded on facts, but on the imaginations of his own mind, are, in general, crude and imperfect; and his