The New Hampshire Gazette

From the Gentleman's Magazine for September last.

The TRIMMER.

A Paper written under this Character.

To the good People of England.

And really a good sort of people ye are, when ye are pleased.....The task is not difficult to bring ye into good humour, neither ; but I defy all the artists in Europe to keep you in.

Ye love to find fault, nay. to make faults ; and if you cannot quarrel with your neighbours, you will fall out with yourselves, like the grey hound, who used to be angry at his own tail.

You may say that the trimmer is guilty of injustice. and that ye are affable, humane, friendly, charitable, social, sweet temper'd, self denying beings : if every person was to draw his own picture,the pen and ink portrait would appear so. But I. who have looked upon life above twenty years, an unconcerned spectator of all the fantasticalness with which mankind have fatigued themselves.....to me ye appear selfish, stubborn, querulous,conceited,discontented existencies, most of whom enjoy more than they deserve, yet are always wishing for more enjoyments, and to do less to deserve them.

I dined yesterday at Mr. Fireer's. and his eldest son being introduced.according to ancient family custom. of shewing the visitors how much wit the heir has, one of the guests addressed his papa with... 'I suppose, Sir, you will bring master up to your own business... bring him up to a hangman rather, was the parent's answer. ' No. no, he shall never be brought up to work all his life time for nothing.as I have done.' And yet this person has gained, by his own industry and success in trade. upwards of four thousand pounds.

But thus it is, we covet to enjoy all more than we do. and want still to do less for it.

Epictetus says,mankind are dissatisfied: Seneca says they are discontented ; and this is what both before and since Seneca every person has been saying who could say any thing.

With your leave, good people, I will present you with a couple of characters; as it is common for those who suppose themselves to be artists, to exhibit specimens of their performances. I offer these, with submission; and tell me, if you please, how you like them:

They are sketches of a farmer, and a hop planter:

In the harvest season. that particular month of providence's bounty, when all the animal creation appears cheerfully industrious, and we may even fancy approaching winter to bear a smile on his weather worn wrinkler. when he views the store that is gathering in to comfort him. while he visits us, yet, even, then, congratulate the farmer on the noble prospect of his well covered acres.he will shake his head, and between a sigh and a grunt he will answer you with...'Ah ! but the straw's short.'

If the straw is long. then he will tell you there is no substance in the grain.

If there is but an indifferent crop, he laments it will not pay the expence of housing and threshing.

If a plentiful crop, then he grumbles, corn will be so cheap, it will not be worth carrying to market.

Just so the hop planter:...he rises, lifts up the sash, and looks over the horizon ; if the morning happens to be cloudy, be pulls down the window with an oath, saying. 'It will rain to day, and all the blossoms be washed off.'

If there should be a pleasant air abroad, then the poles will be all blown down.

If the sun shines,....O Lord ! then the plants must be burned up.

It it is a close, dry day, without much sun shine, or wind, then he wishes for rain to destroy the vermin, or else they will eat all the buds up.

The reader, who neither owns hopgrounds, nor rents corn lands will wonder how these persons can be so discontented. Yet it is an even bet. that those, who seem to be amazed at such grumblers, are as dissatisfied themselves ; the symptoms of the disease is the same in almost all.

Half the cure is supposed to be performed when the physician knows the patient's disorder. Indeed, my good people, neighbours, countrymen, and choice empirics, I do know, because, that you are disordered, I know what your disorder is, nay. would prescribe for you, but imagine my medicines would be thrown away,

Suppose I order you a few grains of self know-
ledge, half a drachm of patience, a scruple of self de-
nial, mix'd up with a tea spoonful of the syrup of humanity ; will any of you take such an electuary?

ye might taste it, indeed, for the novelty sake. but I will bet a handful of integrity against all court ceremonies, that ye spit it out again.

Folly has thrown your heads into hystericks, and